trIlls of joy
       cresceNdos abound

        triumPh was immanent
       the soUl nearly released
             suBlime
  over nearLy as
             quIckly as it began
         a staCcato moment of pleasure

a body of ash meeting the future as smoke

and the nostrils of a lady

with a stick for a poker

devoted to ornament

telephone lines drape façades

connecting tropical vines to ambitious roots

The chalky grey whitewash on the temple

in the middle of the lake

makes the flushed cheeks of families on their annual holiday

look even rosier

rose on grey

This is not ‘whatever’ grey

it wants people in front

Nosey receptionist lazy-eyes a pink and plastic shopping-bag. Contents: a lonely man’s beer: two ‘Saigon’s, though Saigon is way, way south of here. In this rent room there are a number of choices regarding lighting:

1. A fluorescent strip mounted in an almost straight line high on the wall that you look at when you’re trying to sleep;

2. Spots romantic – two above the pillows and two above your feet; and

3. A lamp that won’t sit properly on sagging rosewood. It has a dimmer and a shade in silver, gold and white.

Whatever happened to Sister Mercia? And why did she show none? Where did she catch the Hepatitis that made her whites so yellow? Was she infected in the tropics? Was her mission accomplished?

I never wrote you a love poem because I thought it would turn out like a bad drawing and that the outline of your head, which I know best, would be skewed and your eyes would be in the wrong place looking in impossible directions – never at us – and that this misconception would not only not do our love justice but that it would also shame me forever. In short: that a bad love poem would be worse than no poem at all. I no longer agree with myself in the slightest as you read. And just as I have saved some of the notes – those dry domestic leaves, that we left each other about calls our comings and goings and unpaid bills, I wish I could now hold a bad drawing in my hands instead of nothing at all. The man-to-man couple next to me is acting suspicious. He is Gay-dad paying Mr. Vietnam 1974 way too much attention. Gay-dad knows when he can cut loose from his tour group: After he has given them a speech like always – horny Gay-dad preacher man. Mr. Vietnam 1974 is tapping the table to avoid the enamored 59-year-old stare. The conversation turns uneasy. Now it’s all about who gets to leave and who not and therefore who might get to come back and who has to wait and who not. (For Danh, Hanoi, February 2008)

Like they are out of our noses and cocks

Only to be processed and bottled

Like the genetically modified fluids

They are

Like some fresh pigeon’s shit or even a dove’s.

The way you smiled real nice and twinkled your eyes,

I could see you had ulterior motives.

Even if the kettle is black, or the house made of glass,

This act of ‘love’ was way out of line.

For if those flowers were to represent anything at all,

It is the falsity of your love, and surely not mine.

Therefore I counter not with chocolates nor champagne,

And you can just forget about coming home.

Because regardless of how ‘sweet’ you thought you were,

Roses just don’t write poems on their own.

Sex computer
Redwood climb i dare you

If i had arms
Legs you have enough

Roses don’t write poems on their own

Your perfume, sir

Is that the excrement of feline
I detect?

New drink booty

You lied to me.
But I forgive you becaue
You have the limbs of a leopard
And the smile of a pussy

Meow. Said the elephant
Standing blushed in the corner

If only the maid would find solace
In the length of her skirt

Lace is a drink not an ornament
And as you chest hairs knot (not)
I read the sentimental godless tapestry
Of your dreaming
And see the curl of your wit

Glasses more than half-empty

The Roast was a crisp

The Crisp more a crunch

If only the wine

Could have packed more of a punch

The talking was steady,

But grasping at straws

If her mouth was a wound,

We would run out of gauze.

Twas the night before Christmas

And all through the house

The only thing drowning 

My agony was Straus