Having removed my shoes,
how different!
as I enter the temple.

                                                     By the bank of the river,
                                                     pointing to God,
                                                     - the washer-man.

The young prostitutes
laughing
as they bought new shoes.

                                                      Smo­king,  
                                                      with an old man,
                                                      I cannot pretend to be otherwise.

Just one fresh salad
would lead
to twenty-one days sickness.

                                                      ­ Night-time has fallen,
                                                       hundreds of thousands of bodies,
                                                       lying draped in the streets.

Tied to a coconut tree,
drying in the sun,
the tail of a manta ray.

                                                       Believing he was Kali,
                                                       he chopped off a head,
                                                       yet his smile was so gentle.

Twilight on the hotel verandah,
witnessing huge black fruit-bats,
cascading from the trees.

                                                       That cloudy afternoon,
                                                      ­ a boy & I chased a rat,
                                                       our shorts & sandals dancing.

From the fog by the bridge,
softly the transvestite would call,
each winter's moon.

                                                       As I wander the temple
                                                       swallows dart to & fro,
                                                       - the cool stone!

The beautiful children
holding lengths of thread
with large hornets
attached,

tied by one leg
and flying again
& again
around
their heads.

Freshly bathed & shivering
in the cool weak sunlight
of the early morning
the boy returns
to his bed,

the quiet young couple
who sleep gently nearby,
prepare their first
sweet smoke
of the morning
as a string is drawn
back & forth inside
the chillum pipe
to clean it,

& then the hashish is warmed
so as to soften it before  
it's crumbled & mixed
with the tobacco from
a broken cigarette
kneaded in the
palm of the hand,

a small stone is placed inside
to anchor the mix yet
leave room for air
to flow & then
a damp rag is
wrapped around
the narrow end
to cool the smoke,

the woman holds the pipe
quite intricately it seems
to you at first but it's just
to create a space
so as to draw the
mix deep into
her lungs,

"Bom Siva Shankar"
intones the man as
she places her mouth
upon the joined hands
and draws that first
fiery draught
of purest black
Afghani hashish.

The chillum circulates
& the day has begun
as the youth of a
rejected Western World
envelop themselves
in the smell of dung
fires, incense, &
the Krishna chant
from the small
idol at the
corner
nearby.

As the fingerless *****
grasps my hand
in a gesture of friendship,

persistent groups
of ***** children
tug at my sleeves,

whilst pink-eyed in the sun
the lone albino
stumbles
in the gutter,

in which the starving dog
furiously devours
fresh human waste;

& the helpless young man
withe the twisted limbs
lies gazing at the pitiless sky,

where the red & blue
paper kite
sways slowly in the breeze,

above the huge white cow,
sitting placidly
in the middle of the road,

beside which
the family of five
begin their evening meal.

Can a pretty girl
in a short red dress
take away
this emptiness?

Hold me close
squeeze me tight
fill my soul
with rays of light?

Used to be that
the prettiest girls
were actually boys
but no more,
for nowadays
there's a whole mess
of the most gorgeous women
in heels & short tight dresses,
standing on the corners
as offerings to the ways
of men,

some so youthful
that their long sweet legs
totter & tremble
in their fancy shoes
as do the steps
of a new-born
upon the vast
plains of Africa,

& strutting jazzily
their tender flesh
to catch an eye
& then lean
in provocative geometry
into car windows
to state terms
& size customers,

with small handbags
squeezed tight
to their sides,

as they gather in groups
emanating an ****** power
seemingly enhanced
by numbers,

& yet to stroll by
& listen in
reveals nothing more
than simple gossip
& observation,

for after all these
are only working girls
not goddesses at
their ease.

The Great Negotiator
likes to play golf actually
likes to play a lot of golf
even though he touted
from the podium that he'd
be too busy to play golf
unlike that lazy Obama
who couldn't get enough
golf time it appeared didn't it,

& The Great Negotiator has
visited his golf clubs 13 times
in 100 days but his staff
like to kind of not talk about
it too much really do they,
it actually being kind of a
sensitive topic,

& the Master Deal Maker
would be winning so much
you'd be tired of him winning
& then maybe just perhaps
he might find time for a round
of golf in between the many
deals he'd be pulling off
left, right, & centre & winning,
winning, winning in his first
100 days as the Great Negotiator
who could make a deal & get
things done,

& all that other stuff he endlessly
spouted forth in that vapid earnest
New York deal making whisper of his,

oh yes ... The Great Negotiator.

So frightful beautiful harridan
your extended & startling tongue
red rapturous rolling eyes
dark, dark skin,

sword, sickle & trident
already stained,
dripping ...
& lapped by the dogs
at your Divine feet.

Around your neck
glazed eyed
silent,
threaded, beaded
blank faced,
your victims skulls,

surprised no doubt,
at your swiftness,
caught in mid-flight
in activities bold
& terrible.

Lieutenant William Calley,
Captain Ernest Medina,
Lieutenant Frank Barker,
So, so many from Charlie Company
guilty on that fateful day
in My Lai 4
South Vietnam
March 16
1968.