A story teller,
from where else but Argentina
was ready to tell me a tale
about a man, a person
who walked past a synagogue
with the taste of blood and mud on his tongue,
after eating half a kilo of cockles.
***
I mean, who else would I want to listen to now?
But yet, I have to wait for a translation -
voices from reality do not include subtitles.
***
Thought of Hepatitis,
the Star of David,
behind the gate,
a gentile security stared back.
***
From this end,
the long street seems tapered.
But it would stretch, the width will expand
when he starts walking towards the Chinese temple,
after the Hindu temple, at the other end.
***
The smoke from the cigarette
dangling from the corner of his mouth
won't irritate his eyes.
The smoke from his cigarette will blend
with the smoke from the burning incense.
The words the Argentinian spoke are confused with
the prayers,
the mumbling or whispers
of prostitutes,
hostesses,
lounge singers,
office ladies,
worried housewives
and weak men like us.
***
As a foreigner here,
he shall not make a fuss about the heat
but sure he looks like a madman.
***
Now I prayed only for a bank robbery to end it all,
since there's no war,
but to buy a shotgun or pistol...
I wasn't sure if that's a question.
I walked into a convenience store,
one bullet is enough,
but only noticed condoms and lubricant gels next to the counter,
I noticed the flavours.
I walked out and turned right
towards Bencoolen St
and was reminded of colonization and barricades
all over again.
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