saut

   the tourist a snapshot here a snapshot there -- SAYONARA !!!

LOOKING FOR CHARLES BUKOWSKI IN K RD shit & death is everywhere except around K Rd retro paradise of alcoholic angels & prophets of semen redemption its skyline has the colour of Timothy Leary's rainbow guarded by clean-shaven Dunhill-smoking Tae Bo-practising Herculeses carefully assessing the initiates to the temples of Zeus the gods come down from the heavens every holy Friday night to K Rd & t-shirt-wearing gymnast-mortals dance for them the sacred dance of the ecstatic whirling dervishes 160 km/hour             obladi oblada life goes on, yeah… Friday is the holiest night of the week the most blessed & nobody talks

INDONESIA, SONG OF RED AND WHITE my country where my mother lived and died giving birth to five deaths, five silent deaths silence of little babies lying cold on the tears-stained sheet of the bed all the dreams, all the hopes of a noisy future cut off and sliced by five angels of death angels of envy, angels of burning crosses angels that only dared to scare five little new born babies my country the land where my mother lived and died forty eight years of cries and cries and still more cries, sad and accepting cries the silent cries that shamed the bright blue sky that shamed the sun and moon of the tropical sky that shamed the

such boredom – the goldfish swimming measuring the aquarium

THE LOVE SONG OF SAUT SPEEDY GONZALES love is a Burmese cat running across the road & was shot at by APEC leaders’ security members love is the tampon that you mistook for a Chinese herbal tea-bag love is red & fiery like a member of a Communist Party love is never boring except in a Hollywood movie love is in the air & like a fart it is always interesting & smelly love is a full course of Jacques Derrida, Michel Foucault with a sprinkle of Alfred Hitchcock love is used to be blind & childish & very Greek love is now multicultural & global with English as its medium of expression love is real like a cruise missile launched from

TONGUE IN YOUR EAR there’s a staircase which leads to the roof where pigeons build their nests tough enough to protect the soft underbelly made from lace and sinew hairspray and spit 20 feet above our heads far away like a boat adrift like soft tensile wires plump as an oyster garlands of feather and bone navigating by moon and stars in the hallucinating waters above the hill o death like Pinocchio doing kinky things with red tape for eloquence on alphabet walls not greenstone in a garbage truck do you read me? there’s a staircase which leads to the roof of a house of black windows where we bury your dirty la