Singapore sling




The mah-jong players

slap and clack

into the humid night

aflame with scented foods

laid out on green banana skins,

and you ply your trade

in the shade, of a jasmine

scented fan;

with your high wild sex

riding on the dolphin’s fin

as you fish

the cherished sea of men

pull them in,

with your black sloe eyes

and your cheekbones high

on a coffee skin

in this land of false taboo

and a strangers taste

in your greedy mouth.


His wallet opened wide

to greet your dusty thighs

and you danced on in the eyes

of his dying libido,

while your mother weaves

your marriage net

rectifies your virginity

for the shy young man

she’s picked to seed you.


The mah-jong players cry

and the fruit bats whining high

out of sight

beyond the ripe red mangoes;

you’re sweating in your sleep

tossed by the greedy faces

cloying hands, and the

sticky trace of massage oil

clinging to your fingers.


The shy boy at your side

reaches out to nudge

his perfect bride

and the mosquitoes hunger.

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