Soaring towers all around, my feet are weary of the ground that punished them all morning long, the tuktuk drivers – how they thronged – enticing me to take a ride while just today the PM cried when high court rulings sent her sprawling, these mean streets may yet see brawling. I know not the creed or god of any pro-regime death squad that roams about this sweaty place, that waves its flags and yellow kerchief, here the mood is thick with mischief. Roadside stands serve the best food although the seating can be crude, broken stools and shaky tables but the cooks are quick and able, serving up thick beef-broth stew that dribbles down and stains my shoe. Bright possessions dot my room, my heart is clear of dross and gloom, for I now learn to love myself, which trumps dollar, yen, bhat – all wealth. A German maiden helped me hope, encouraged me back up the slope which I had slipped and skidded down, soon vagabond reclaims the crown that he'd abandoned long ago, with ruddiness his cheeks now glow. In Lombok she rejected me, her friendship now is all I see, but that is something I will cherish until such time as I shall perish, liberate of life's blood, face-down in cold and frozen mud. There is a blister on my toe, my pace it will not ever slow, for I shall wander, taking stock, of this great city, olde Bangkok. Maddening, her headlong pace, who shelters millions in her bosom, what a fierce but gentle race that sprawls from Bearing west to Chit Lom.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥
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