viernes, 13 de octubre de 2017

leader's lament


… as I fly over the South China Sea
leaving Ha Noi below
I don't look back
I don't want the small marihuana plastic bags
The cheap boom boom
Take me anywhere

… as I look out of the window and see the lake
and wish it would rain again
even on the brand new taxi
taking me to the airport
in the serious faces of the martyrs
and the empty bookstores
the skinless alleyways, the street beer
the pagodas that look like warm, tender, golden wounds in the mist of the tropical sunset,
in the clueless halls of the expensive malls in French town
the feet of the 4 meter tall Buddha are so chubby
and I would love to rest my boiling head between them
sleep over the dried up lotus flowers
the fake money and all those boxes for donations
echoes of the fishermen rain pools
postcards to far away
so far away that it seems impossible
even to imagine them
once that you get surrounded
parasited
wrapped
in this cotton-like heat
with all the songs coming out from the
karaokes and the crowed tin shops
and the ricksaws driver with a Vietcong helmet
that just wants to give you a ride anywhere
and some of his water tobacco pipe
nights coughing
barefoot kids playing on the street
dragon fruits
phoenix feathers
half-naked animal-headed goddesses
that dance in the middle of the fields
in their magic gasoline capsules that burn and then turn
to smoke and get to your lungs
right bellow the military controlled mausoleum of the old leader
who is now under 30 meters of stones
and marble
quiet
under the air conditioning
wishing nobody else was here

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