Thursday, October 2, 2014


Is this really a home of frauds and their believers -
An escape from the realms of fickle justice
And bureaucrats with hands on flimsy levers?
It seems so – with its ashen eyes-down gents -
And it offends my senses.
It prods my prejudices,
And it stimulates my craving for vengeance.

Is that you?
Why do you worry about my riveted eyes?
It actually looks like you.
Are they your cover – daughter and wife?
Or are you an innocent?
Then why do you look so guilty
And did you profit from my scabbed life?

But on to the street made for walking -
Chinese tourists marching behind flags
And Arab men are smoking and watching,
Their hookahs bubbling and their eyes bouncing
From bottom to bottom and breast to breast.
The ballerinas across the asphalt gap are barely clad
And the reasons they’re there are mainly sad.
But all the men sit and gaze amazed
As if they’re waiting for cherubim –
Perhaps they’ve read the scriptures
And they know there are angels in hell.
The lady boys loiter and sip coke and rum,
So big they'd be handy in a rugby scrum.

Russian tourists abound in the city -
Tee shirts stretched across obesity,
And the women with their flaxen hair
Restraining their children’s fitful flair.
They push and elbow their way
To board the tuk-tuks first and last,
Reminding me that the last time I saw them
They were champions at the buffet breakfast.

But there are sights of glad delight
And beaches made for strolls and paddles.
The sun sets each day to display godly provenances
And shadows stretch across each hot street’s dances.
The beer is cold and the food is spicy and crisp –
Shellfish cracked fresh and laced with bracing zest -
My heart throbbing happy as drums in my old chest.

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