Bangkok Stories, Part 4: Revelations

Place

The art on my walls are falling
down, one by one
the glue that held them up
through last winter
is letting go—

they say
it's the humidity of this place
that makes things, people,
never wanting to stay too close,
too long, together.



Sacrificial

Lying
between two bodies, one big
bestial, hairy-heaving, and one
cherubic small;
I sensed holy.
The fear of
doom—to be eaten, my lust
to be consumed
did not move me, but the motions—
the creaking of the bed, my slow forfeit
to their hands, and my cleansing
by their tongues inducing a high
that can only be described as ascension,
to be brought closer
to god, ready
for sacrifice.



Purpose

The other day I saw an iced coffee
placed in a poor excuse of
a plastic bag, cut out and
shaped only to fit a cup—

imagine life like that,
one purpose, regardless
how insignificant,
and nothing else matters;

I can’t

help but stare
at those ornamental
ceiling lamps, softy glowing
in your already luminous room
every time we fuck.



Sober

When you grasped my hand
and slyly grazed my fingers
on your soft facial hair

your face was still
warm in that cold room filled
with drunken indifference;
that alcohol in your breath
has yet to steal heat
from your body—

You know,

I long for those moments
when you're sober,
your eyes
conscious and aware
of the love, pain,
you give me.



A Child’s Poem (Beautifully)

I like to leave my balcony window open at night for
my neighbors, and their apartment
with all their lights on, and everything. Not that
it matters what they do— dinner
tv, magazine? I can’t see without my glasses
anyway. But it’s the movement, the bodies and their
breathing shapes moving in light that remind me
if one can look from outer space, far far away,
we all blend in
no matter the colours, or what we do.