Singapore sling

  The mah-jong playersslap and clackinto the humid nightaflame with scented foodslaid out on green banana skins,and you ply your tradein the shade, of a jasminescented fan;with your high wild sexriding on the dolphin’s finas you fish the cherished sea of menpull them in,with your black sloe eyesand your cheekbones highon a coffee skinin this land of false tabooand a strangers tastein your greedy mouth. His wallet opened wideto greet your dusty thighsand you danced on in the eyesof his dying libido,while your mother weavesyour marriage netrectifies your virginityfor the shy young manshe’s picked to seed you. The mah-jong players cryand the fruit bats whining highout of sightbeyond the ripe red mangoes;you’re sweating in your sleeptossed by the greedy facescloying hands, and the sticky trace of massage oilclinging to your fingers. The shy boy at your sidereaches out to nudgehis perfect brideand the mosquitoes hunger.