Dear State Counsellor.

Once I saw you as an icon of morality.
A bastion of hope.
A ‘dancing peacock’ in a troubled world.
Some called you the ‘midwife of democracy’.
Others an ‘Oxford housewife’,
a peacock ready to show its eyes.

But now….

The Children, babies, women and men of the Rohingya
are butchered, ***** and murdered by your
soldiers as you read poetry to children.

And the rest of the world stands by waiting for
the Norwegians to take away your Nobel Peace Prize.
Another sense of justice, lost again.

The working hands of the Muslim men in Rakhine
are tied by the Buddhists, the lovers of peace.

Their guns gleaming and your army standing by.

“It wasn’t us” say the Generals
“It was the Buddhists”.

But of course we have seen this before.
At Srebrenica, Nanking, My Lai and Auschwitz,
until the gas came.

And the world stands by.
Another failure, another genocide.

Now, as your military load the death carts
and bury mothers next to their children.
The Buddhists place flowers on the mass graves.
And I call for you and your ‘men’
to be accountable for those burnt by the sun.

They were not interested in the forests.
Or how many Asians died?
Nam Viet was a restaurant
Open from 8am-11pm each day.
And summertime in Hue,
means cheap ***** and handmade suits.

All around the girls in golden tight dresses,
who can hardly walk in their six inch heels.
Sell cheap cigarettes from table to table.
Always with a smile and a look at their *******.

On trips to Hanoi and Hoi An,
the code to Vietnam's  literary treasure.
They asked thin questions with no light
“What about the Women Andrew”
“What about the nightlife and the girls”
“Do you think they’re ****?”
"How expensive are they?"

Someone in ** Chi Minh City asked me
"Why do people think like this?"

I guess it is easy, if ugly is all you know
Calling to nothing, and the fall of the future.

The two young lovers looked at me

'' What are you writing"?

" A rhythm of pounding words" I told them.

Bustling in this sticky season.
Tormented by a deep longing.
And nights of making love
in still life silence.

There was a time in Xinxiang
when you you could find good coffee and solitude.

The place was 'Jumping Bean' Cafe
At a crossroads of the sick and those who drank their first glass of Baijiu before 8am.

I would go when the clouds parted
and the sun first appeared through the curtains.

It was the best time to go.
No banging or rat telling stories.
Or fat hands and bright red noses, crawling home
after another business lunch with the young girls.

Once I met a tall slim woman, almost as tall as me. She wore high heels and high spirits.
And yet walked alone on the hot pathways of summer.

Another time, I met an old man
Who told me he had the power to ****** any woman in China.
I thought he must have the power of the Gods.
And wanted to know his secrets.

Now, Jumping Bean is closed.
And the dregs walk past.
A hurrying dust, looking for a perfect blackness.

When alone, I think
I've lived half a life.
A small corner of the noise.
Half a fish.
Half, come winter.
A small white canvas, unfinished.
Smaller, and more smaller.

This grey that stares.
A self-portrait.
Rebel mouth,
harsh of tongue
and love of words.
Blue eyes,
with ghost stories
that speak too loudly.
A smile, that flutters
its wings to a hearts
deep core.
Me inside of me.
Each haunted twilight.

There’s fire outside, fire in my apartment.
Swelling in this humidity.
More uncomfortable than Vietnam.
It is not easy to hide.
Even sitting on the roof writing poems,
there is fire.

A thousand words yet to write,
a thousand words yet to write.
Thoughtful girls with their umbrellas.
Dancing dragonflies,
ascending and descending.
Like a madness of Sisyphus.

And then the sounds of this fire.
The bedroom sounds, a taste that will last forever.
The sounds of the late night Baijiu drinkers,
trying to find the garden of love.
And the unrequited who cry alone at 2a.m
Endless, embracing with a glad sadness.

That is the fire in this city.