no fear of falling. no sight the bottom.

Sliding down as casualty
across the bamboo bridge.
You hope your feet survive
if not - hold onto the lady at the ledge.

Sunshine a distant memory.
The mechanic hum so new and jarring.
Search the streets for smoke and coffee,
night time a dragon.
Wait for the queen of spades.

The bumps of the way back up,
mystery out in the fog.
Above and below feet sucking in.
Left alone no form or mercy.
Gift to me the sound of trees,
strung along across the border
where danger awaits.

An image in
a word.
Hold close until mists part
and all is smog again.

11/2/2011

mists encroaching

Boy sharpens a knife on the back
of a ceramic plate.
River running like wind through trees.
Wet drips like the anticipation of
coffee. And a towel on the line,
swaying in time with the back two
legs of my chair.

Toes grow cold but the smell of
woodfire reaches inside and tells the
body not to fret.

Timber smells of home and concrete is
easy on the arches.

All around is white, but as in
a cloud, a dream of malaria pills,
phantom itches and fish sauce.

There is a walk to come, but for
now, the sitting, rocking, en-opening to
feel the chill until it is warm, will pass
until the longest moment fades away.

Snapshots, scribbles, memory condensed
to one smell, one tiny frame, not
colour but texture, not size but
sense.

And then the tapping gets insistent,
the smoke smells of time-to-eat,
the TV flickers in Chinese under
Vietnamese, under local commentary,
and universal understanding of
shot composition and bad acting.

And stepping away but bringing some
indelible part, like a sliver of building
timber with you in your pocket.

11/2/2011

mandala

Hear the string-only version of a
song written by people who never
even knew this place could be.

Bicker between yourselves about the
best way to 'capture' the town,
not realising that you offend much
more than the small child strapped
to the back of his sister's arms.

Once upon a time a dragon invaded
but tried to leave a buffer around
these wood-choppers.

The mist falls, or is that, rises away,
and the unshrouded shows grey,
brown, slight stain of sweat and
plummeting body temperature.
No more birds now. Only man's
incense, the thing with the bees.

Invader folds towels in foreign turtleneck,
older people bury rice, stitching time,
watch the ghosts watching us
ride away all to that tune, a scent of
smoke you can't quite place.

10/2/2011

walk -->

Two apples sit beside each other
on a dining table set for three.
The fork points outwards,
your toes direct me.

And underneath unforgiven sun,
where burning tyres smell like hope
and progress is represented by
stone-terraced highways cut into mountainside,
we sit and haunt the scratching sounds of movement.

There is not enough time, but
you can make it if you just listen.
Birdsong, prosperity, one can only
assume, is in turn 'assumed' by
the sound of another town. A city of
rush and manic, where up at sunrise
means face the day with no more
than dirty dregs, tailored jacket
and a view of the roof on the
cafe behind you.

You hang your washing by the
diner, seeing mountains only in
mind's eye, while ignoring the
old lady shampooing her hair
beside the scooter, on a sidewalk
invaded by delayed action:
frustrated WANT.

10/2/2011

sleeper bunks

Longish train trip, comfy enough
sleeper bunks.
Card games
dirty socks
one toilet sink too much pressure
the other not enough.

'Windy' minibus ride up from
Lao Cai to Cat Cat.
Hotel switcheroo
man with t-shirt
squished into elevator, backpacks, all.
A restaurant on lvl 7
deliver baguettes.
Best impression-of-stunned-mullet
competition as lift opens onto
cloud carpet stretching around the
crowing roosters, pink and blue hotel facades,
bonsai trees and hills.

Cold, but not too cold.
Wet bathroom, interesting level of
water pressure, but then again,
we are:
on the roof.

Chimneys, sunrise, lethargy and crankiness
from bizarre train journey turning
into
something not unlike -

bird chirp. Green hedge in a pot
empty beer bottles, al fresco dining
sets, chairs scattered near to (not
around) tables, in upward-facing-
greet-the-sunshine glaring over
white cloud river.

The rooms face South and
East.

Cameras aren't big enough. Not wide
enough. Memory must suffice.
Hey, I'm not sleepy anymore.

10/2/2011