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Ho Cheung Peter Lee

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Ho Cheung Peter Lee

Coffee

by Ho Cheung (Peter) Lee

 

New shop opens downstairs.

His affair with caffeine wakes

him punctually against every medical

advice. Acting some forty odd years

he enters the shop being a Frenchman

with the slangs and winks and all.

The coffee today as dark as ever.

He thins it with water and honey

for that differs it from the coffee

perceived by him as toxic.

He takes one sip after another;

each sigh a chronic suicide.

What matters now

is not the days in his pocket, but

the forbidden cups in which he still

manages to find his flesh and guts.

First day we meet though.

A pat on the back of my head and

he leaves with glints of gold

in the majestic storm he carries.

 

 

 

 

 

Without

 

Whose good heart —

cursed as he bears his face

poisonously elaborated by this

monstrous bulge of growth.

Other than his right eye,

he gave up every facial feature

in this complex of meat and

feral veins doubling his head now.

I tried to visit him again today.

The Internet inference brought

me to the decapitated victim

of some Israeli governmental

acts though; and in that prismatic

mass, I saw myself kissed by the

Pope as he mistakenly took

me as the disabled boy from

Rhode Island. And why not?

I was inevitably reinvented

from my sacred obstinacy

against you;

your shampooed hair

still murmured the weight of

your sockless feet.

 

 

 

 

 

2700 fps

 

The sag swelled with fluid crystal,

waiting patiently

 

for the inviting tip of the lean silver

to pierce its impermissible membrane.

 

A chosen sperm motionless, it

ruptures the wall of life for life.

 

The pink layer fractured and

shrunk to set off the hungry fireworks.

 

A translucent orb uncovered in mid-air,

emitting sparks and mist of diamonds.

 

Her face wrinkled and wavy

like melting glass.

 

She gushed downstream naked

breaking into an abstract splash.

 

Left behind her a galactic brook;

A burning tail of a formless comet

 

to commemorate the ever-ephemeral climax

of a soundless blast.

 

 

 

 

 

Eaden

 

Term breaks. I was a kid back then only

summered by him returning from Baden-

Württemberg. Five years older this ex-neighbour

under whom I was put ―

the only right thing my parents ever did.

My cell windowed every Wednesday as I

could go. This chamber never had light with

the two crumbling vine-encumbered

trees blackening every vitality. He brought me out

from the water of the pitcher-plant,

washed me with his radiance. His room my

wonderland. We read and gamed. He taught

me how to slice like Graf and counted my

new-formed pack. He lifted the shirtless me

during my brittle chin-ups. Our sweat took

most of the dirt from the carpeted floor

as we wrestled like in the movie

we came back from. Two damp vests

dangled from the corner of that tall

cabinet in the whispers of the air-con.

He combed my bare back that night when

I had my first wet dream.

There was a time when I looked up

the cobwebbed ceiling every night just

to find that stone-blocked opening

through which I last breathed

in the outer sky.

 

 

 

 

BIO

LeeHo Cheung (Peter) Lee, Ed.D., resides in Hong Kong where he teaches and writes. He earned his doctorate from The University of Hong Kong with a thesis on teaching reading. His poetry has appeared in aaduna, FIVE Poetry Magazine, Poetry Pacific, Red Booth Review, The Chaffey Review, The Interpreter’s House and elsewhere. His short stories have also been published in Eastlit, Miracle Magazine, River Poets Journal and The Oddville Press. He is the founder and Editor-in-Chief of BALLOONS Lit. Journal (www.balloons-lit-journal.com).

The Writing Disorder is a quarterly literary journal. We publish exceptional new works of fiction, poetry, nonfiction and art. We also feature interviews with writers and artists, as well as reviews.

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