A silent tour guide drives two hours out,
stops, hands us eight tickets.
we struggle to find who the others belong to.
Natasha buys me and my brother midget bananas,
each the size of my thumb.
“for elephants,” a eight year old girl hands me a bustle.
Circular footprints have sunken into mud,
elephants rock back and forth, their eyes roll wildly.
They kiss my check with mucus filled trunks.
Their taught to lift things, dance,
kick footballs at nets and even paint pictures of trees.
One grabs my whole bustle of bananas.
I climb a wooden stand, to mount one,
My brother gets on too.
He’s taking selfies on his phone as we plod round the jungle,
The elephants head drops five foot, it plunges into a river,
I sit central as possible,
The back of the elephant drops too,
After reaching the other side I drop down
with a wave of a trunk the heard walk off.
We follow the river to a waterfall by foot.
Ignoring the ‘no climbing, no swimming signs’
My brother and I jump from rock to rock,
Daring each other across wider ravens with higher falls,
I slip, struggling against smooth rocks I plunge into a pool,
slipping beneath the water, a rock punches air out of a lung.
I right myself,
swimming closer to the waterfall,
Cool water sprays off rocks
Sprinkling my face and shoulders.
We point at every lizard,
and are amazed five can fit on a motorbike.
Are skin moistens in humid air,
British prunes, we wither,
Locals cross roads without hesitation,
cars and to0k-to0ks charge,
The wilder-beasts that didn’t make the crocodiled river,
We tiptoe on the curb.
A small buss with no seat-belts stops,
we get in, joined a monk draped in orange
and arrive at the entrance to a temple.
Seven snake-like dragons spring out of another’s mouth
on either side of a staircase.
My brother runs up them.
I’m blinded by a billion mirrored scales,
As I follow the dragons tale to the top.
Stone soldiers, half human, bird and lizard,
protect a giant golden Buddha.
Every wall adorned with pictures;
Dragons, monkey gods, elephants, Jins,
Painted or tiled with
blues, yellows, reds, purples, oranges,
Each design a different colour,
Every statue a new shape.
Assorted bells chime deep and low,
A woman shakes fortune sticks,
I kneel beside her and take the pot,
shaking one out for myself,
20 – good fortune and prosperity.
my dad gets 7 – bad fortune,
‘you may fall out of a tree’
I smell candles and lotus;
Thick stemmed flowers with pumpkin heads,
brought as offerings.
All around are mango trees,
Bird of paradise flowers
and leaves as big as hammocks,
My brother checks his hair in a dragon’s scale.
We travel back by boat,
It lets out a low grunt,
I see a tiny blue acrobat balance
On a green stalk, she flies away
‘Good quality, cheap price! Take look.’
Markets bustle on either side,
Sticky rice and coconut ice cream,
Fruits with spikes and purple punk hairdos,
String instruments and puppets hang,
Along with haram pants and tie dye tops.
My brother checks his hair in his sunglasses
As I haggle for a green sequined dress.
Put the fridge in the milk will you?
Go on, give it at try!
I verbally zag zig,
That’s a cross between smear and merge.
In my opinion English is wank,
Why isn’t everything spelt things P-hon-e-tically,
People say that I get their, there and they’re mixed up,
But I argue that I can’t, cos their the same fuckin’ word!!!
and I think you’ll find that b’s and d’s are the same letter,
If I were chief of grammar,
I’d make J and J, I mean G and G and mean G and J the same letter,
It would look like this…..
Enough word dismay for one day,
I’m boing to ged,
I mean I’m going to bed
you knew what I meant.
His sole smelt of death long before it was burnt.
We couldn’t bear his bedside,
cowering in the corner,
behind the curtains,
Ignoring the two legged half-winged butterfly.
remembering him as he was,
Cancer’s not contagious,
but depression spread.
With our healthy wings
we fluttered away,
Which made him die,
long before he was dead.
A pink surfboard flutters,
on a lavender wave,
water circles my feet,
I fly into candy clouds,
before diving downwards.
The surface opens,
To hold me.
A grey skateboard,
peruses along black tarmac,
A large stone obstructs a wheel
Arms flung forwards,
my fleshy body,
Skin peals as i’m
Do you know Connie?
She’s a whore,
slept with everyone in town and more!
Takes it up the arse too,
heard she can squeeze in two!
Well that may all be true,
But I heard that she’s an art decor painter
and an expert illustrator.
I don’t think she sell’s her body,
I think sex for her is just a hobby.
If she does, Sex-worker’s more polite.
Wouldn’t want to leave a blight.
Whore is rude and archaic,
Not a word to use today, heck;
Prosie, tart, hooker, slut, slag, hoe.
The Victorian eras go to go,
is chastity still a virtue?
Don’t make woman the subordinate.
Time to make our own coordinates!
Connie may enjoy flirting,
One right that she’s exerting,
It doesn’t matter, fat or thin,
Cloths don’t have to cover skin,
When asking for ‘it’ she’ll say,
I’ll have sex right now if that’s ok?
Sex is fun,
She’s not a nun,
She can have sex and still be pure!
It’s no-one’s business who’s a whore.
There was a crash,
The doors flung open.
A scream fled my lips,
as a torrent of knowledge landed on my feet,
moving as a cubist river,
Lemony Snicket, Jacqueline Wilson and C.S Lewis,
had shaken off their dust and attacked,
reminding me I’d neglected them.