Friday, May 10, 2019


we bow our heads in unison & listen

to benisons in latin as we

sit on satin cushions

in silence

with violent visions

of serpents & surplices &

sacred bullocks & cassocks & castration

casting lustral pearls

at lugubrious swine

that wallow in goodswill

on the dunghill of time

popping corn & copping porn

pages from hoary wisdom torn:






from the foulpit to the pulpit

of the chosen pew

we send forth solemn nostrums from the rostrum

to our beloved token jew




oh we think we know we see

whom & how & whatsoever we should be

for all is ultimately

part & parson of


(so help me)

wherefore this common porridge:

this grim & gruelling gravy

in which organisms sink or swim

suspended in acute & minute animation

doomed to drink & be drunk &

perchance be merry or to suffer

indigestion &/or




we bow our heads

over supper sipping soup

but does it really matter

if tablemanners are observed

or if slurping sounds delicious?

after all the tiny whiny citizens

aswoon or aswirl in their own dire mansions

in our soupy microcosm

are also busy bowing pious little heads

over teeny weeny bowls of

perfect beans...

And be it so.

Antares © 1969/1985


[First posted 24 March 2009, reposted 4 December 2014 & 27 May 2016]

Wednesday, May 8, 2019

Altantuya's Murder: The Orang Asli Factor (reprise)

It should have been the perfect cover-up. Troublesome Mongolian woman is "arrested" by plainclothes policemen outside the gates of Abdul Razak Baginda's residence where she had been causing embarrassment to the political analyst, defence consultant, speechwriter and personal friend of Najib Razak, Malaysia's defence minister and deputy PM. The Mongolian woman believes the Malaysian police will take her to the station, interrogate and intimidate her, and then forcibly deport her.

Nobody knows exactly what happened to Altantuya Shaariibuu between the time she was seen entering the Unit Tindakan Khas (Special Action Squad) officer's car and the time her body was blasted to tiny fragments with C4 explosives. Was she taken to Bukit Aman? Or driven to a secret location and toyed with before getting shot twice in the head (according to some reports)? Did her police abductors treat her with courtesy - or was she humiliated, tortured and raped before they killed her? Will we ever find out? The two UTK officers who have been charged with the hideous crime - Corporal Sirul Azhar Umar and Chief Inspector Azilah Hadri - were personal bodyguards to defence minister Najib Razak. So under whose specific orders were they acting?

In any case, the only reason Altantuya's body was blown up in the jungle was so that it would never be found - at least not in one piece. Somebody extremely powerful had instructed an immigration officer to delete all computer records of Altantuya Shaariibuu's arrivals and departures from Malaysia. When her cousin lodged a police report that Altantuya had disappeared, a massive search would have been initiated. After which a government spokesman would have told the media that the immigration department had no record of the Mongolian woman arriving in Malaysia. There would be insinuations that Altantuya Shaariibuu did not, in fact, exist - and that her "cousin" was perhaps mentally unsound, possibly paranoiac, and had concocted the story of Altantuya's vanishing act in order to attract attention.

So why did the gruesome story make the front pages on local dailies nearly three weeks after the fictitious Mongolian woman was murdered? Who would have known about the jungle explosion in the middle of the night in the middle of literally nowhere?

I was told by a friend with connections to the legal fraternity that it was an Orang Asli family that reported the blast between October 19 and 20. Altantuya's killers must have killed her and then taken her body to a spot well-known to Chief Inspector Azilah Hadri (who had boasted to Abdul Razak Baginda that he had terminated at least six people "in the line of duty"). Nobody was supposed to hear the explosion that would remove all evidence of Altantuya Shaariibuu's earthly existence. Apparently, unbeknownst to the killers, a few Orang Asli were encamped in the vicinity and were startled by the blast. They investigated the next morning and, realizing that a crime had been committed, lodged a report at the nearest Balai Polis. Thus far I have found no way to confirm this detail. After Googling the case for hours, not one single reference to the Orang Asli factor. If anybody can confirm this, will you please contact me or leave a comment below this post?

I would like to know for certain that it was indeed the Orang Asli who blew the lid on this macabre and malevolent affair. It would be the ultimate irony, if this was true, that the "highest and mightiest" in the land would ultimately be brought down by the humblest of the humble.

[First published 26 April 2008. Reposted 23 August 2013, 17 October 2014 & 22 January 2015]

Tuesday, May 7, 2019

Contemplating Eternity (reprise)

A Rabelaisian Discourse on Swiss Timekeeping, Scientific Orthodoxy, Satyriasis, and Saturdays


She read aloud from the glossy magazine on her silky lap: “’It’s the first time such a complicated timepiece will be on the market, so it’s difficult to put a figure on it. Certainly five million dollars…’”

“U.S.?” I asked, as if it made a difference.

She nodded and continued: “’Certainly five million dollars. But it could be much more.’”

“That’s insane.”

She glanced at me with mild disdain. “How typical! You’re only interested in the price!”

“But why on earth would anyone make something like that?”

“It’s to mark their 150th anniversary…”

“Oh well, in that case it’s perfectly all right. However, I’m afwaid we can’t afford it, m’dear. Teddibly sowwy.”

I was rewarded with a faint smile. “Look, if I showed you a picture of a Rembrandt in an art book, does it mean I’m thinking of acquiring it? There are so many beautiful things to enjoy in this world. Masterpieces! For me it is a pleasure merely to know about them. Contemplating these priceless objects is like… well, like an experience of higher consciousness. It’s almost spiritual.”

“Well put! And as for me, whenever I feel the onset of Despair, I need only focus my thoughts on the Hope Diamond…”

The cushion missed me and landed with a fat plop near the kitchen door. She pouted in feigned petulance: “Bogus peasant!”

“My love, your beauty alone is enough for me.”

Another cushion – one she had been lying on – tossed, not hurled. I caught it and nuzzled it with mock Italian ardor: “Inamorata! O sole mio!” I breathed. “I worship the miraculous spot where you have sat!”

“Kees my ass,” she said. So I leapt on her and did precisely that.

* * * * * * *

“THIS IS INSANE,” I found myself saying an hour later. I had retrieved the magazine from the floor and was reading the feature on the multi-million-dollar timepiece from Patek Philippe, the Geneva watchmakers: “’Nine years in the making… 1,728 parts, 33 functions, weighs over a kilo…’ and dig this… ‘Every 400 years a special mechanism reinstates the Leap Year!’ ¡Caramba!”

“Isn’t that amazing?” she said, with no trace of cynicism. “And they say it will be the most complicated portable timepiece in the whole world.”

“Portable? Yeah… for Arnold Schwarzenegger, maybe.” I tossed away the magazine and mimed a well-dressed gorilla with an enormous load on his left arm: “Duhhh… mmmph… ooof…” I gasped. “Please, please, please, whatever you do… DON’T ask me the time!”


Oh, she says it so delightfully. I decided to try for an encore. “Er, ‘scuse me, what time is it?” I grunted and heaved and hauled up my left arm up to consult my imaginary 1.1 kilo timepiece. “Wait… I need time to figure it out, it’s the world’s most complicated watch, you see… 24 hands! Er… could you come back in half an hour?”

“Stupido!” she giggled.

“Who, me? Or the gorilla with the five-million-dollar watch?”

“You! You belong to the Casio crowd.”

“Mine’s a Xonix, see! You know I’m not the good Citizen type – and I certainly can’t picture myself going into a Patek Philippe showroom and asking to see the cheapest thing they’ve got.”

“Which you couldn’t afford, anyway,” she laughed. “Do you know how much the cheapest one costs?”

“Haven’t the foggiest,” I said truthfully. “An arm and a leg?”

“TWO arms and a leg!” she retorted. “You’d have to wear it around your scrawny neck.”

I sat down and murmured into her ear: “I can think of much more interesting places…”

“Jesumaria, you are insatiable!” she breathed, surrendering to the luxury of a lazy Saturday afternoon.

I AWOKE FIRST, feeling hot and sweaty. When I had showered away the sleep I came downstairs to find her groping for her cigarettes in the mellow half-darkness of twilight.

“What time is it, do you know?” she ventured, husky-voiced, mussy-haired, but divinely beautiful as ever.

“7:23,” I said, having long adapted myself to digital timekeeping.

She groaned and yawned, then lit a cigarette: “I had such a weird dream.”

“What was it?”

“Can’t remember…”

“That’s funny,” I scratched my head. “I had a pretty weird dream myself. But all I can remember is the bit about the monster watch… god, it was a pretty complicated dream!”

“What watch? You mean the Calibre by Patek Philippe?”

“Is that what it’s called, the five-million-dollar watch?” I shifted her legs and plonked myself down on the sofa beside her, reaching for the cigarettes. “Well, yeah. It was quite vivid. I was somewhere in the future, you know – somehow I knew it was the year 2400. Something about the date… February 28th.”

“Hmmmm,” she said, snuggling closer.

“You want to hear this?”

“Mmmmm,” she affirmed.

“There was a great deal of anticipation, it was in the air. Everyone was watching the same live telecast; we were glued to the holovision set. It was great: I could see this perfectly realistic 3-D image of that monster watch just dangling in mid-air… actually, I think it might have been some sort of vacuum column. Anyway, it seemed like the entire planet was eagerly awaiting the stroke of midnight. Everyone wanted to witness the miraculous Reinstatement of the Leap Year by means of that wonderful mechanism built into the watch movement. Mainly, we were extremely curious to see if the damned thing was still ticking after so many centuries.”

She reached out and borrowed my cigarette. Exhaling slowly, she sighed: “I know you’re making this up.”

“But why should I?”

“Perhaps to tease me?” she purred.

“Hey, it’s hardly unusual to dream about clocks and watches,” I countered, retrieving the cigarette. “Salvador Dali did it daily – or nightly at any rate.”

The languorous hint of complaint in her voice was quite exquisite: “You’re a very naughty man. I never know when you’re telling me facts and when it’s pure fiction.”

“So what? It’s of no significance.”

“You haven’t finished telling me your dream. What happens?”

I laughed and kissed her. “Okay… we’re sitting around watching this great event on HV…”

“Who’s WE and what’s HV?”

“You and me and a few friends… nobody specific, just a few good friends. And HV is holovision, dum-dum.”

She pinched me: “Don’t call me dum-dum!”

“Who started it? You called me stupido… look, let me finish telling you the dream before I forget it completely. Er… where was I?”

“We were watching the mostruoso watch on HV.”

“Ah yes. The announcer was saying it was now more than 400 years, or sixteen generations since the original owner bought the watch back in the 1990s. Then the midnight chime began: doong… doong… tooong…”

“And??” She was hooked. Her voice betrayed it.

“Well, the suspense was getting too much to bear. I was sweating like a pig in a sauna…”

“Pigs don’t sweat. I read an article the other day…”

“Please don’t interrupt, my dear. The monster watch chimed three times… four times… five times… six times… then I woke up.”

“Stronso!” she snorted, “that’s bloody cheating!” Shoving me off the sofa, she jumped to her feet and danced upstairs to shower for dinner.

The Universe according to Count Antoine de Patek and Monsieur Adrien Philippe.

THE FIVE-MILLION-DOLLAR WATCH popped up again a few days later during a ‘heavy’ discussion concerning Time and Timelessness. We were watching a popular science documentary on TV about the serious research going on at some gargantuan cyclotron complex in Switzerland. A Carl Sagan look-alike was leading us on a guided tour of the exciting new frontiers of quantum physics.

“What’s so funny?” she demanded after my third or fourth quiet chuckle. “Would you be kind enough to tell me why you find this program so amusing?”

“I was reminded of something Dane Rudhyar once said.”

“Dane who? And what did he say?”

“Rudhyar. You probably won’t have heard of him. He’s only one of the most remarkable renaissance geniuses of the 20th century.”

“So what does this Dane fellow do for a living?” she said drily.

“Nothing whatsoever, he died a few years ago. But he was a philosopher, painter, esoteric scholar and astrologer; a true visionary and a highly articulate holistic thinker. And what he said was: ‘It’s really all so simple! One should not have to talk about it, which is like trying to catch atoms with a butterfly net.’ I think he might have been referring to our Brave New Scientists’ desperate attempts to crack the Mystery once and for all.”

She yawned: ”Atoms are not my specialty, but don’t you think this is a good documentary?”

“See that particle accelerator? You realize how massive that goddamned thing is? And how much it costs to operate? And do you know how extremely tiny sub-atomic particles are? Well, they’re so small they only exist in the realm of possibility. They might as well be purely mythical.”

She shrugged, not quite warming to the subject. “None of my business what they do with their equipment. But I’m sure all that research will prove useful some day.”

“Where would Big Science be without you?” I said, licking her left earlobe. Whereupon Time took a quantum leap into Timelessness. The Wild-Quark-Chase science doco was long over when we re-entered consensual time and turned off the 7 o’clock news.

At some point during the cigarette break our conversation drifted back to metaphysics. “It’s a complete waste of time,” I remember saying, “like smashing a clock against the wall and then examining the broken bits to try and grasp the nature of Time.”

“You mean a complete waste of timekeeping devices," she said drolly. "But what else do you expect scientists to do? Meditate and write haikus?”

My laughter set her off and we ended up farting in unison. It was an entirely ridiculous situation. “That was pretty good” I said at last.

“What was good? Our synchronized farts or my joke about haikus?”


“I can just imagine Albert Einstein in haiku heaven,” she giggled.

“Now old Bert was no grant-grubbing High Priest of Science. His was perhaps the most brilliant mind after Nikola Tesla and Niels Bohr, and he managed to keep it open to a remarkable degree. However, most of your professional scientists are just overpaid technicians, faceless data-gatherers in white smocks caught up in their own myopic specializations.”

“You are, as they say, waxing lyrical.” She popped a peeled grape in my mouth and rested her magnificent head in my lap.

I was unstoppable: “So what do they do all day long? Chasing shadows with their high-tech measuring instruments trying to get a statistical fix on everchanging forms. ‘It’s a trick of the Light!’ the smarter ones conclude. And then, when night falls, they hold anxious conferences hoping to determine precisely why their data has suddenly become invalid.”

“You make them sound so stupid…”

“’Extreme cleverness is as bad as stupidity’ – Lao-tze said that, I believe.”

“But you must admit the scientific method has produced some very useful results. I mean, when I think of video and airplanes and washing machines and computers… I’m impressed. You’re prejudiced – because you don’t have any engineering or mathematical skills, isn’t that so?”

I was silent for a moment. “You’re right to a certain extent, but I’m not saying we ought to eliminate scientists. I just don’t want them to eliminate us.”

“Don’t you agree, science can work together with art to produce functional beauty? Take the mostruoso watch for example. God, the skill that goes into something like that, the dedicated craftsmanship!”

“You seem to have taken a real fancy to that overpriced watch, haven’t you?”

“Why not? To me it represents something unique and exquisite. It’s a celebration of human ingenuity and… at least it’s a form of attainable fantasy.”

“Oh, you terminal case of intellectual materialism.”

“Stop calling me names!”


“Bobble?” She glared at me. “What do you mean, bobble?”

“Bauble… B-A-U-B-L-E… a pretty little useless thing,” I said helpfully. “The sort of precious junk you’re so fond of admiring and collecting. Thank goodness you haven’t got unlimited credit.”

“If something makes you happy you don’t call it useless.”

“It’s that simple for you, is it? Buy a bauble and be happy. Just keep buying and live happily ever after…”

“You know I am NOT like that, Mister!” She sounded genuinely peeved.

“Hey, hey… relax! I was only trying to ruffle your feathers. I’m sorry I succeeded. Anyway, all I wanted to point out was this: not knowing what Time is all about, humans become obsessed with measuring it. They invent clocks and calendars, and then spend the rest of their lives trying to escape the Time Continuum. No wonder human affairs have become nearly impossible.”

“Who’s trying to escape from Time? Not me! And I love human affairs!”

“That’s splendid! You don’t even know you’re doing it!”

“Can you explain, please?” She started stroking my calves.

I lit a couple of cigarettes and handed her one. “All right… why do you pay so much for skin creams and Royal Jelly and extract of reindeer horn and that yucky seaweed stuff? To keep yourself looking young, right? What is age, after all? Merely a demonstrable effect of Time. We’re always seeking the Elixir of Eternal Youth – some secret passage to Immortality. Wait, wait, please don’t interrupt…”

She interrupted all the same: “I need a drink. You want some tea?”

“Brilliant idea. I need to use the loo, anyhow.”

* * * * * * *

MY THOUGHTS WERE SUBLIME as I sat on the pot. The tea was invigorating. We settled on the sofa to contemplate Eternity.

“Past, present, future – they’re mental constructs,” I informed her, feeling like some schoolboy iconoclast who’s just spilled the beans about Santa Claus to his chum.

Tea makes her attentive, so I charged on: “At certain levels of consciousness, Time spirals upon itself and nothing exists except the Moment… the Eternal Now.”

“I love it when you talk like a Buddha. Your face looks so calm.” She touched it gently.

I gazed at her with severe serenity: “The rivers of Time flow into Eternity, where the illusion of Time itself dissolves. So… why should anyone waste five million U.S. dollars on an overblown dress watch?”

“It’s an investment, darling. See what the Eiffel Tower has done for Paris.”

“Ah, but don’t you see? It’s this gnomish Newtonian notion about Law and Order in a Clockwork Cosmos. The Swiss have been obsessed with precise timekeeping for generations.”

“Don’t blame the Swiss. Blame the Chinese, they started this nonsense… as usual.”

“I’m afraid the habit began long before that, sweetheart. Timekeeping is one of the unfortunate and unnecessary by-products of higher intelligence.”

“Okay, why are you wearing that cheap watch of yours? Why talk all this high-brow stuff about Eternity? You use a desk diary, you look at calendars…”

“True, true… but I’m different, you see. I’ve managed to escape the Timestream and no longer take the passage of Time as seriously as other humans do.”

She chuckled: “Ah, my beloved Chronos, how I adore you – you are so marvelously arrogant!”

“Are you feeling peckish, Titania?” I asked, caressing her auburn locks. “I can run downtown and pick up some edibles.”

She tweaked my nose. “Hey, I’m not Titania… I’m Rhea,” she corrected me with no apparent umbrage.

“Of course!” I whacked myself on the forehead. “How could I be so forgetful? Mea culpa.”

“Anyway, I’m not very hungry… but this conversation is making me really homesick.” She sat up and looked me straight in the eye. “What do you think? Shall we take a break from playing humans? Just a quick little vacation, the two of us, hmmm?” Her painted fingernails traced a subtle pattern along my thighs.

I performed a swift mental calculation. “Okay,” I said with brow thoughtfully furrowed. “If we do it discreetly, nobody will get alarmed. We can use the new Antarean Gateway. It will take us right through Arcturus to Andromeda. But let’s set the Zuvuya beam to return in 16 gene cycles.”

“Why 16 gene cycles?”

“Well, that will spiral us back into this Reality Game just before Gregorian Year 2400, give or take a lunar phase.”

“Yes, but what’s the mission objective for that specific coordinate?”

“Don’t you want to watch our monster timepiece perform the miraculous Reinstatement of the Leap Year?”

“Perfect timing!” She winked and gave me the most sensational kiss I have had in aeons.

Or at least since Saturday.

Text & Illustrations by Antares © 1989
Painting: "The Children of Cronos" by Victor Hagea
First posted 27 May 2007

LOMEO & JURIET (Act II, Scene 2) ~ Terangslated from the Shakespeare into Proper Manglish by Antares

The Story So Far

There has been little peace in the new township of Jinjang Utara ever since the long-drawn and gruesome War of the Seafood Palaces caused a serious rift between two influential clans – the Ngs and the Chans. At a lavish Chap Goh Meh party hosted by Datuk Chan, trouble brews when a bunch of rowdies from the Ng clan decide to gatecrash and are immediately spotted. Not wishing to ruin the festivities, Datuk Chan orders his hotheaded nephew and his gang to ignore the intruders. And so, while the rest of the guests are merrily lambadaing the night away, Lomeo Ng (youngest son of Towkay Ng) encounters the lovely Juriet Chan (favorite daughter of Datuk Chan) and Fate (or Biochemistry and/or Electromagnetism) takes over. They fall desperately (or rise ecstatically) in love; and after the party Lomeo finds himself drawn to the luxurious Chan Villa where, as our hero lurks libidinously in the shadows, he sees the moonstruck Juriet on her second floor balcony, sighing and calling for her true love…

                               Shakespearean                                                      Manglish

JUL:  O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name; or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, and I'll no longer be a Capulet.
JUR:  Aiya Lomeo, Lomeo! Where are you ah, Lomeo? Donkair your farder lah, simply chain your name olidi can; udderwise ah, you plomise to love me orways and I will tlade in my surname Chan.
ROM:  [Aside] Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?
LOM: [Aside] Watudu ah, keep quiet and rissen summore, or say hurro to her now?
JUL: 'Tis but thy name that is my enemy: thou art thyself, though not a Montague. What's Montague? It is nor hand, nor foot, nor arm, nor face, nor any other part belonging to a man. O, be some other name. What's in a name? That which we call a rose  by any other name would smell as sweet; so Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd, retain that dear perfection which he owes without that title. Romeo, doff thy name, and for that name, which is no part of thee, take all myself.
JUR: Your name oni got ploblem one; you yourself okay, so what your family name called Ng. Arfter all, what is Ng? Not your finger, or your foot, or your nose, or your toes, or any udder part of you called Ng wat. Aiya, why notchew call yourself some udder name? Name is name oni wat. Loh’s frower we call sumting else steel smelling nice wat; so Lomeo oso nice, sahpose he not called Lomeo Ng, evelyting about him ngam-ngam oni. Lomeo, cancer your name lah; your name not rike gum to your body wat. Give up the Ng and take me lah.
ROM: I take thee at thy word. Call me but love, and I'll be new baptis'd; henceforth I never will be Romeo.
LOM: Orait lah, I take , I take! You oni have to call me sayang, and olidi I got new name; Lomeo Ng habis!
JUL: What man art thou that, thus bescreened in night, so stumblest on my counsel?
JUR: Alamak! Got olang minyak or wat? Who de hell are you ah, and why you spy on me one?
ROM: By a name I know not how to tell thee who I am: my name, dear saint, is hateful to myself, because it is an enemy to thee. Had I it written, I would tear the word.
LOM: My name I skad to tell you, bekos now I oso hate my name: arfturds you ting I am your anneemee, dear moon goddess. Sahpose my name wlite on piece of paper, better I tear it up.
JUL: My ears have yet not drunk a hundred words of thy tongue's uttering, yet I know the sound. Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague?
JUR: Oni a few words flom your mouf enter my ear, but olidi I know your voice: you are Lomeo, your farder Towkay Ng, istlu ornot?
ROM: Neither, fair saint, if either thee dislike.
LOM: Not tlue, cantik, if you doan rike my farder name or mais one.
JUL:  How cam'st thou hither, tell me, and wherefore? The orchard walls are high and hard to climb, and the place death, considering who thou art, if any of my kinsmen find thee here.
JUR: How you kum here and waffor, yutelme? Got high-high wall outside, summore bubwire and 24-hour sikhulity; dailah, sahpose my family catch you.
ROM: With love's light wings did I o'erperch these walls, for stony limits cannot hold love out, and what love can do, that dares love attempt: therefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me.
LOM: My hut feeling so right one, can fry olidi; so hauken stonewall stop me? Bekos of love lah I bekum helo, and helo kennot die one.
JUL:  If they do see thee, they will murder thee.
JUR: Aiyo, eef my brudders see you ah, dey weel hantam you kau-kau.
ROM: Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye than twenty of their swords. Look thou but sweet and I am proof against their enmity.
LOM: Adoi, your rooks arone enuf to kill, no nid twenty palangs and bearing sclaper; you rook so sweet, hauken anyone fill beetter?
JUL:  I would not for the world they saw thee here.
JUR: Better dey doan see you here, udderwise mampus lah.
ROM: I have night's cloak to hide me from their eyes, and, but thou love me, let them find me here; my life were better ended by their hate than death prorogued, wanting of thy love.
LOM: So dark one, how dey can see me? And eef you doan love me, better dey catch me; better to die flom their hate dan leeve widout your love.
JUL:  By whose direction found'st thou out this place?
JUR: Who show you de way here?
ROM: By love, that first did prompt me to enquire. He lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes. I am no pilot, yet, wert thou as far as that vast shore wash'd with the furthest sea, I should adventure for such merchandise.
LOM: Love lah, love orways find a way, izzenit? I kennot dlive Ploton or sail boat or fry aeloplane, but even eef you leeve overseas, steel I weel find you; how far oso nevermain, I doan brarf you.
JUL:  Thou knowest the mask of night is on my face, else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek for that which thou hast heard me speak tonight. Fain would I dwell on form; fain, fain deny what I have spoke. But farewell compliment.

Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say 'Ay', and I will take thy word. Yet, if thou swear'st, thou mayst prove false. At lovers' perjuries, they say, Jove laughs. O gentle Romeo, if thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully: or if thou thinkest I am too quickly won, I'll frown, and be perverse, and say thee nay, so thou wilt woo: but else, not for the world. In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond; and therefore thou mayst think my 'haviour light: but trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true than those that have more cunning to be strange. I should have been more strange, I must confess, but that thou overheard'st, ere I was 'ware, my true-love passion: therefore pardon me; and not impute this yielding to light love which the dark night hath so discovered.
JUR: Lucky tonight vely dark, so you kennot see my chik turn led-led one olidi. Aiya, shy oni lah wat you hear me spik just now! But wat I said you olidi hear, so nemmain lah; no nid to pletend anymore, too rate to save face.

You love me ornot? Sure lah, you say yes; can sumpah summore, but mebbe tipu oni. The God oso he orways raughing at peeple’s plomises of love. Aiya Lomeo, tell me tluly one lah: you love me ornot? Sahpose yuting I am too easy to get? Mebbe I better talik harga and say dowan! Den you weel chase a bit lah; but I oso dowan to lun too fast. Ackchwurly, my dear Mr Ng, I feel vely geli lah: plis doan ting I am phooling alaun wid you, I am vely stletford one, my hut kennot chit people one, not rike dose womans wid swit-swit tongues. Mebbe sum people weel say I am too flenly to you, a stlanger summore, but olidi you heard me saying all kind of tings, so nemmain lah. Solly ah, I kennot acting one: I give myself to you, even doh I kennot see you one, so gelap tonight.
ROM: Lady, by yonder blessed moon I vow, that tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops…
LOM: Chah Bor, I sumpah by the silver moon which makes all de tlees in your garden shiny
JUL: O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon, that monthly changes in her circled orb, lest that thy love prove likewise variable.
JUR: Cheh, doan sumpah by the moon, he not vely steady one, evely week chain size and shape. Arfturds your love rike dat oso, den how?
ROM: What shall I swear by?
LOM: Den how to swear?
JUL: Do not swear at all. Or if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self, which is the god of my idolatry, and I'll believe thee.
JUR: Better not to swear at all; or else you sumpah on your own hut, which is the awltar where I can pray; like dat I can belif lah.
ROM: If my heart's dear love...
LOM: Sahpose my hut pumping too hard…
JUL: Well, do not swear: although I joy in thee, I have no joy of this contract to-night: it is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden; too like the lightning, which doth cease to be ere one can say 'It lightens.' Sweet, good night! This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, may prove a beauteous flower when next we meet. Good night, good night! as sweet repose and rest come to thy heart as that within my breast!
JUR: Aiyah, den doan swear lah. I am vely happy to see you, but not so happy to see you rike dis: hauken so fast, so culi-culi one, rike rightning which doan last more dan a few seckands. Let us meet again later lah, and see eef dis tender fluit of love is masak ornot. Now our lomance rike frower bud oni, not open foolly yet. So I say goonight; go home and sreep first, okay?
ROM: O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?
LOM: Aiyo, I nochet satisfied.
JUL: What satisfaction canst thou have tonight?
JUR: How you wan me to satisfy you?
ROM: The exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine.
LOM: I wan to hear you sumpah your love for me.
JUL: I gave thee mine before thou didst request it: and yet I would it were to give again.
JUR: Podah, oridi swear wat, even before you arsk. But you wan, I can swear again, no ploblem. I take back my plomise.
ROM: Wouldst thou withdraw it? for what purpose, love?
LOM: Oi, doan take back lah; waffor you take back?
JUL: But to be frank, and give it thee again. And yet I wish but for the thing I have: my bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite. [Nurse calls within] I hear some noise within; dear love, adieu! Anon, good nurse! Sweet Montague, be true. Stay but a little, I will come again. [Exit]
JUR: So I can geeve you again lah, bodoh. But you got olidi wat. Arfterall I filling open rike the sea, and my love vely deep one you know: I geeve and geeve you, steel kennot habis, just rike sea orways got water one. [Amah calls from insideSomeone bising olidi. Okay lah, sayang, goodbye! - Ah Soh, why you shouting? – Mr Ng, manis, you wait reetle while ah, I come out again. [Exit]
ROM: O blessed, blessed night! I am afeard. Being in night, all this is but a dream, too flattering-sweet to be substantial.
LOM: Wah, shiok oni lah! Hope I am not dleaming oni; why I so rucky bugger one?
[Re-enter JULIET, above]
JUL: Three words, dear Romeo, and good night indeed. If that thy bent of love be honourable, thy purpose marriage, send me word tomorrow, by one that I'll procure to come to thee, where and what time thou wilt perform the rite; and all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay and follow thee my lord throughout the world.

NURSE [Within]: Madam!

JUL:  I come, anon. -- But if thou mean'st not well, I do beseech thee --

NURSE [Within]: Madam!

JUL: By and by, I come: -- To cease thy suit, and leave me to my grief: to-morrow will I send.
[Re-enter JURIET on 3rd floor of Chan Villa]
JUR: Tlee words more, Lomeo sayang, or mebbe tlee hundled; den distaim really goonight oridi. Eef you love me enuf to marry me ah, tomollow you must pass me message  showing orspeeshus date and which lestoran we can have beeg dinner; and my holaif I weel put infrun of you lah, and all alaun de world I weel forrow you.

AMAH [Within]: Meees!

JUR: Kahming, kahming – But eef you are not really selious one, aitelyu –

AMAH [Within]: Meees Juriiiiet!

JUR: Okay, okay lah!stop praying dis game and let me suffer hut pain by myself. Tomollow I contact you ah.
ROM: So thrive my soul --
LOM: Hweeyoh, my hut so happy can die one --
JUL: A thousand times good night! [Exit, above]
JUR: Goonight, goonight, lepeat one tausend taims goonight! [Closing 3rd floor window]
ROM: A thousand times the worse, to want thy light. Love goes toward love, as schoolboys from their books, but love from love, toward school with heavy looks.
LOM: One tausend taims more susah to see you go away. Love ah, going near love orways rike rong weekend coming up; but when love reaving love ah, just rike must go for extla tuition.
Antares © 1995-2019

Antares now heads the Department of Advanced Manglish at the University of Pertak. He has initiated a RM42 million program to "terangslate" the World's Great Books into Manglish - which has yet to be formally acknowledged as Malaysia's de facto national language, even though many have actively campaigned for this since 1989. 

The infamous balcony scene in Manglish from Lomeo & Juriet has twice been staged in Kuala Lumpur. It also inspired a full-scale Malaysian adaptation in 2005 by Gavin Yap, titled Romi & Joo Lee (dan lain-lain)

Thanks to Sheryll Stodhart (glowingly described by an Umno rightwing dickhead as a "diehard socialist, Anwar Ibrahim apologist, and rabid anti-government writer") and Men's Review for being the first to publish my Manglish-Lit series in 1995.

[First posted 2 October 2012, reposted 11 August 2016]