There is no place like this

The new Singapore Tourism Board video (above) is all about hip people in pretty places. The average tourist will never see any of these people. And if they do go to these locations they certainly will not get these perspectives.

The feel is gritty, the soundtrack grooves to the refrain ‘this is the place’ and builds an anticipation to be blown away by the unseen. The sparse spoken word voice-over hints at a country of edgy, defiant possibilities.

The reality is that these human possibilities are colorfully engineered constructs of ideals. The entire video is a freeze frame homage to the mise en scene of social media. It’s guaranteed to get a lot of likes. And hopefully some package tours.

Yes, we have to sell Singapore. And perhaps it is true, Orchard Road is no longer current and the theme park has lost its thrill. But there are other things to feature beyond this slick selection of experiential moments that seem to comprise the passion of this country.

Passion also means suffering, and that word is indeed apt, as there are whole swathes of people who will never be cool enough for this country.

There is no place like this
with flattened ideas, hearts and hills
There is no place for those
who deny the whitewashed will

This is the place
where passion is a mod-sin word
raised up to be worshipped
by an undercut, lit shook herd

But passion is also suffering
stateless, disoriented
frustrated from raids
on dreams disappeared
A wish to have a full meal,
lights on at night
make good on impossible loans
no rats gnawing at toes

To love who you want to love

But this is a place
where you cannot love freely
So when people visit
what is it they really see?

They won’t hear about one people,
one nation, they don’t care for our songs
of celebration, they only see success
stories, buildings that clip the clouds,
shops full of bright baubles
trains that wear no frown

They don’t see the offerings
swept up by workers
with no minimum wage
behind maximum fences

When race is not about the finish line
but the colour of our skin,
all of the Others
are washed away by the spin
When the boxes that keep us apart
help to keep our nation smart
When the leaders that we need
are voted least likely to succeed

This is the place
with world-class education and
bad grammar littered everywhere,
where schools are processions of paperwork
real learning is after school tuition-care

This is where we live
amongst a splendour of trees
but insist on double-bagging
styro-foamed plastic wrapped packaging

This is where creativity becomes a hashtag
and then a graded course in five sessions
with a complimentary tote bag

This is the place
where gambling is never as bad
as honest questioning
Where we’re encouraged to spend
without worry, but the interest
on our lives grows daily

This is the place where we roll dice, leave on the red lights
patrol with swagger, check IDs to prevent terror.
where we claim to be secure, claim to endure,
but will not stop to ask if people are ok;
we’re messaging the monsters in our heads

Where backstreets are abandoned trolleys and non-existent homeless,
where graffiti is state-sanctioned, toe the line wholeness
where nostalgia is best sold with one story-line
where we’re told what to do, and do what we’re told
time after time
and any other way out needs a license
and any other opinion means silence

Where impossibilities lead to endless possibilities
and then censorship and then fewer possibilities,
until all that’s left is a national education lesson on harmony

Where who you were will not be who you will become,
not unless your name is Meritocracy

This is where compassion should be made compulsory,
but all we get is a country we love to hate, and passion
becomes just another word for never being sorry

The Poet of Unlove

 

I am a poet of unlove

 

I wear shades on blind dates,

I would hate to see what you really look like.

When you say let’s talk about love, I expound

on the reproductive habits of reptiles.

I quote stats and not the stars in your eyes.

I am into the shape of your assets, financial,

not physical.

Continue reading “The Poet of Unlove”