Like

the trunks of the sawo trees, the cold black sand, the old burnt palace, the dark pendopo, the watermarked angels and goddesses, the white eyes, a brazier of glowing charcoal, pretty shop attendants, brief obi like an afterthought, you would believe in anything, a lake under the midday sun,  

Speed of Lite

but i stop, my hands clasped tight on the back of a plastic chair, my feet burning criss-cross dunlop pattern into the wet earth, and my mind takes overexposed pictures of a man asleep, or is he dying?, on a kerb with the smell of dead rats and yesterday’s bananas, a girl vomiting just-digested friedContinue reading “Speed of Lite”