Ya-Wen Ho

Hyperventilating on the threshold of it-hood

Hyperventilating on the threshold of it-hood, almost toppling /over/whelming odds crash down, a palace of /card/inal robins flash through her thoughts, pinpricks of red/nosed reindeer prance in shop /(W)indows/8 looms on the tech horizon, full of prom-/(Mrs.)/ Higgin’s Cookies comfort only the way sugar /can/nonballs of logic demolish your meta-/(f)or/bidden boundaries are trespassed /the fastest/ fish in the world is the Indo-Pacific sailfish at speeds in excess of 110 km/h over short /periods/ indicate a complete pause at /(“the end” )/ floats across the screen in a gothic type-/face/off against your /fears/ that the Millennium Bug would wreck havoc on our digital structures seem silly in hindsight, but only because it is in /hind/s with golden hooves transform into maidens with golden /tongues/ of flame dine on a buffet of inner-city hou-/(S)ing/er sewing machines were one of the four must-haves in a Chinese woman’s dow-/r(e)/imburse reimport reimpression reinfection reinforce reinforcement re-in-/state/ the obvious and call a politician /a (lyre)/bird is so named because the male displays a lyrate tail during court-/ship/ments of child-flesh are exported and imported daily. The thing is, what are we doing about /it/sy bitsy teeny weeny yellow polka dot/(B)ikini/ Atolls wear her nuclear test crater like an overstretched ear-/lobe/s of glass grapes glint kitschy grins in the show-/hom/ing in on a nervous stutter, the children passed judgment against the new co-/mer/curial mood swings swung in centrifugal circles spun our common sense /out/door living is a thing to en-/(J)oy/ Division reminds me of Glasgow. When we left the screening of Control, it was snowing. My first, real /(S)now/ White and the Seven Dwarves. Guess a soft drink: Seven-/(u)p/cycle is the new re-/cycle/ lanes planned for the Panmure intersection are due to be completed by the end of 2014-/teen/age years postpone inevitable adult-/hood/winking your loved ones, you slip in and out of amoral rip-/tides/ of opinion lap at traditions, a slow resha-/ping/pong played by vaginas, refereed by /whom/, the objective case of /(Hu)/dini-esque escapes from the hyper-simulated hyper-stimulated hyper-erotic hyper-neurotic hyper/ventilating on the threshold of it-hood, almost toppling over.



By Ya-Wen Ho

(Wellington/Auckland, NZ) has many writing goals; she is learning how to achieve them. Her work has been published in The Deformed, Bravado, JAAM, and Poetry NZ. Her first book of two long poems last edited [inserted time here] is available from the publisher TinFish Press.