Pandemonium and rot of the city:
Sweating nightwalker rummaging the moon’s juju market
For treasures I cannot keep,
I breathe the river’s green putrescence
With melancholy relish.
Lust-grief is my one true bedmate.
No Buddhist am I, for all my bullshit.
Too prone to the 108 known passions of mankind.
Ugly beauty, beautiful ugliness-
City of the self-exiled, the abandoned!
Insidious languor takes me over,
And a wheedling voice in my head:
I am not a pervert, I am not a pervert…
This is love, whatever the experts say,
Amphetamine compassion of skin and bone,
Offered in witness and hope.
The preserved corpses of serial killers,
In the Forensics Museum
Float along the fetid canals of my mind;
The condemned man stands,
A flower placed between his bound hands,
And a single bullet directed
Through a hole cut in a length of silk
Transverberates his heart.
Has a tiger sympathy?
Has a gecko loving-kindness?
To be happy in unhappiness,
Neither this nor that,
Content with mere pleasure-
That is the trick.
Like the dogs that hang around the river temples at night.
All these houses and yards in ruins,
Waves breaking underneath,
And the reek of sex,food and decay.
The mysterious ritual with hookers,
Always the same, yet different,
Simple, fantastical and sad.
A self without a self.
Alone but never alone.
A mind that only exists
In connection with other minds.
Suffering, all suffering.
I will look to my own salvation, as the Buddha said,
And try not to live as a puppet any more.
Amuse yourself, amuse yourself among the sham.
Drink down the scorpion wine.
At the beginning of the world
There was a man, a woman
And a hermaphrodite,
And the hermaphrodite slew the man
Out of jealousy
When he saw the woman loved him.
All of us, having been the three sexes,
In different bodies, different times.
Your pride,your confusion…
The sucker at the table.
At the stadium you watch
Two Muay Thai fighters
Batter each other bloody,
Preferring death to defeat.
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