by Horror Sleaze Trash on February 28, 2014




Drinking with the group of Swedes from next door,
all want to retire early for their flight in the morning
except for a red-faced, chubby one, who wants to go
to “King’s Cross, mate!” he yells in the worst fake
Australian accent. The drunk Swede wanted women
—dammit—and he was going to get them.

A free taxi ride to the whore show encourages my 
attendance, as the Swede seeks imagined pleasures.
Dropped off just down the street, we walk in
and move frenetically from one club to the next.
The restless Swede, searching for his ideal, spends
only ten minutes in each spot before wanting to leave.
This is boring me, and clearing out my wallet—

thoroughly pissing me off—time and money wasted.

Two hookers approach us on the sidewalk between 
stints, and he slurs interest to one, but becomes
noncommittal; the girls, knowing bullshit, walk off.
The idiot throws them an insult, and one reaches
under her skirt and flicks out a fluid that hits me
in the face, missing her belligerent target. Now
I’m really pissed—not at the strung-out whores, 

but the little boy I’m with. So I drag him into a massage
parlor, past the dimmed entry corridor, into the red
velvets and burgundy leathers of the waiting room,
and go up to the box window at the booking counter—
the old Chinese woman’s face illuminated by white
light, surprise on her face. “So this is what you want?!?”
I say to him in a confrontational tone, holding his collar.

The sorry fool bows his head and blushes—so I pull
him outside, make him pay for the taxi
back to Bondi, and get the fuck out of King’s Cross.
In the somewhat clean environ of my hostel’s bathroom
I wash the heroine junky street prostitute piss
off of my face and the next day scrub down my shirt.



Internationally known as a place where tall, buxom Aussie girls
tan topless, Bondi in March, what is the beginning of their winter,
has lots of tourists, Chinese boys in speedos, and the only girls
are English strippers; thong bikinis look good from afar—tattoos
and thick Cockney accents make them far from good, and a little,
well, cocky. So I take a photo of the sad image of this beach
for future memory, Chinese boy spread legged tanning on his
back in the foreground, a testament that the tour brochures are
as honest as a photo advertisement of a hamburger for a fast food chain.

Addendum: While attending a friend’s wedding with my girlfriend
months after my return home, an old Aussie guy who is a mutual
acquaintance, and a perpetual smart ass, upon my mentioning
having been to Bondi, says loudly, right next to aforementioned
girlfriend, “Oh, Bondi! Yes, that’s where all the girls tan topless!”



Strolling Sydney Harbor’s Tourist Information Center
there are city and relief maps detailing the building’s
the historical significance—well over a century old
and just below Sydney Bay Bridge, its south windows
look out toward the ferry station and opera house.

A clerk indicates a preserved room from the whaling days 
is open for viewing—I eagerly climb to the top floor 
and peep into the roped-off 8x8 room: a simple wood desk, 
chair and cot leave me envious of bygone sailors quarters
as the travel lifestyle of youth hostels is nothing luxurious. 

A placard notes the windows once overlooked a cathedral 
to influence shore-rested sailors toward good behavior; 
Though an uphill walk to the bars and brothels of “The Rocks,”
an uphill effort to the easy downhill stroll of the church, 
would have been a preference for most men in from sea, 

if not for anything but the easy walk back to one’s bed the next day.



Before dusk a group of Aussie surfers
and local men head out to a field to watch cocks fight.
The furious tossing of money ensues—
princes have lost dynasties to this vice.
The pamasang taji fixes a single blade to the spur
of each cock’s strongest leg.
This patient process involves wrapping 
by kite string-thin-vine 15 centimeters of razor-sharp steel
until it is attached like an artificial bone.
The two cocks are then set face-to-face
five yards apart as men crowd in and the birds are thrown
toward each other, flying like dragons:
wings spread out, legs forward and kicking at adversary.
Exchanging fluttering passes    one kicks    a leg back
while in mid-air over the other.    The knife does its job.
The winning cock’s owner holds it in his palms,
proudly lifting his trained killer
to the crowd for a better view and to boast.
Money is redistributed and the groups walk off
on different paths. The defeated cock’s insides
break through the wound as its body expands
and contracts on hard-earned breaths.
Its eyes cloud, then glaze over.



Poppies Lane is knee-deep flood waters.
Blisters fester on my big toe—bring images
of lung flukes burrowing under toe nail
or angry bacteria swelling it to peach meat.

Turning off the alley that is Poppies Lane,
I cautiously rise from a rank brown lake
to walk through the gates of Taman Ayu,
a gloomy two-dollar-a-night homestay.

My room is simple, but the washroom filthy—
a bucket flushing system for the Asian toilet
that is linked up to the dull-tiled shower area—
miss the toilet, the whole bathroom gets wet.

The courtyard is overrun with malachite,
like a horror movie mansion. As night falls
the lane is dark, unable to conjure shadow,
a compound ensnared by its own metal gates.

I sit on my patio’s dirty concrete unable to sleep, 
the shadows of two stuck-up American girls
leaving late to fuck Australian guys blends 
into stagnant water, break the moon’s reflection

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