PATTAYA

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.