Two expats, brothers in mind, swarming with unsavoury esthetics for those whom surround. Nevertheless, luminescent hearts –as god might have it- adopted by these two fellows: Ho and Jo.
“Hardly any shine would leak” they would say, if it was up to them.
Deprived of customers.
There are some seekers; respectively unrespectable, tagged as a “No! customer” –as god might have it- Ho is one of them. His lushly confidence is enough to irritate any self-respected half naked lady in the business.
Reluctantly obsessive at mind, happy with his heart, Ho swings the air with a cry;
“I shall not care, for the poor man’s world.”
Obvious drunk narrative suggests their own poor.
That we are
A rarefied gem in a foreign land.
Yet pride slithers away,
Through the river lands.
,Minority, they become, in a homeland.
On a stool, smoking
Jo reflects on the view;
Mannequins of leisure occupied, necks bent on cell phones. Motorbikes tangled in an irreversible norm, scattered at every nook of the street. Stuck himself in an irreversible nostalgia, Jo doses off with the occasional passing of a bicycle through the prostitutes’ street.
Mostly an old lady with a proper reed hat, sundries attached on various parts of the bicycle
riding slow paced with a distinct dignity;
as if all the contemporary indulgences are just a fast blown mirage soon to be flying away.
Jo recalls the blasphemous statement that Ho has just spat out.
“By definition, world is the sphere which surrounds all. Poor aren’t indulged to have their own”
Obvious high narrative suggests their own equilibrium.
Whether we are
A dual eyed in a foreign life.
Yet spite spreads over,
Through the dim lights.
,Perceptivity, they become, in a parallel-verse.
Ho glazes on the wet street, stooled on a narrowed sidewalk;
“Brother, listen. Aren’t we on stools, smoking coal, shrimps grilling? On a lousy harlots street?”
Jo is clear;
“yeah…be suure of it, babygirl!”
“And, isn’t that little boy riding the bike, crossing? With a younger girl bare feet running after him?”
“what is it doing here?”
“came out of the movie…”
“the one on the tv, back inside”
Not a furnished establishment yet, once fully running shall be having at least some tables inside, now has a stand with a tv on top, at the corner.
Indeed, the movie 1900 is running on the tv. As both Ho and Jo’s gazes turn on the movie, tv metamorphoses into a dualist poem;
A withered vagabond finds
Himself, rather not in place
Nor time. Collar raised hat dripping;
Indulged by a soothing music
Upon his entry.
Ebony bar stretching
Bubbling, off beat
A proud beast delivers
Himself, rather in place
And time. Back raised, hands dripping;
Engraved a natural order
Upon his leave.
Gold barley stretching
Blooming, on beat
Blessed are the just
Blessed are the just
Pulse sinks back, his arm loose, Jo seems settled to his stool. Wondering where did the kids with the bike went to. In a similar state, Ho is content.
“I shall bare, the poor man’s world.”
“continuity of the sphere which surrounds all. You aren’t indulged to bare anyone.”
Any of the doors into any one of the bars might reveal what is needed, yet juxtaposition implies a heavier aroma which the expat brothers carry. The possibility of ever-changing phenomena,
Little girl with 4 years above her shoulders, walks out from one of the bars, dragging a bowl of noodle with her. She settles on a stool side by the prostitutes.
Wrinkled man with 40 years below his shoulders, drags through the street, carrying a glass of beer with him. He settles his eyes on the little girl, side by the prostitutes.
Prostitutes with 44 years between their shoulders, carry on the street avoiding a care for the wrinkled man, side by the little girl.
Barely dressed women opposed to a little girl in her pyjamas. Choice is never the obvious.
Nevertheless, Jo states the obvious;
“lower the sails! Ocean, no more… upstream the rivers, we must row.”
Bargaining for an answer, might seems undermining Ho’s pride.
Yet pride already slithered away…
“above the skirts, towards the hills we shall conquer.”
Glossy puddles of the street rattles, murky waters rush in, stools chatter.
She-warriors(barely dressed) wailing war cries,
puffed breasts anointed with sensual herbs,
grip on spears tight.
Neon signs crumble under the sprouting jungle.
Trade colonists anchor, entourage of expats plunder the fertile shores. Disease mongering customs slither into veins, virgin tribes degenerate.
However, Ho states the obscure;
“raise the lights! Business, no more… dark forests, we must enroll.”
Bargaining for a question, might seems overwhelming Jo’s spite.
Yet spite already spread over…
“below the ground within the caverns, should we give in?”
Plunders wearing thin, colonists start forcing labour, natives get accustomed.
Jungle shrinks back into alleys,
Unsecure housings greased with –ism’s
Relentless puddles glossing stains of society,
Basement floor, lousy circulation
Two expats, brothers in mind, swarming with unsavoury ethics for those whom surround. Evermore luminescent minds –as god might have it- adopted by these two fellows: Ho and Jo.
“hardly any profit would build” they would say, if it was up to them.
No natural light source,
With almost unlimited working hours
Kids of all age,
Working by counters
On bare feet,
Shit, they won’t need
Ever, in Far East.