Orange-clad monk beggar
Pot-in-hand winding
Through crowds, wailing
Complaining not of poverty
But of some existential trauma
Howling to the storm above
And foreigners pushing by
For some form of unknown
Mercy
His twisted foot sister
Purple headdress crying
Insanity and screaming
At feeding tourists
Drunk with madness
Barking, spitting
A sneeze, vocalized
“Ah…” she says – spits –
“choo!”
I realise as I watch this drama,
This procession of performers
On an all-too-real stage
Winding before
My hungry eyes
That there are no mountains
Only very large piles of rocks.
Typhoon season in KL’s
Chinatown
Sounds of coughing, rumbling
Sickness in the
Polluted air
Vagrants well dressed
Asking politely
For a break
Tourists seated outside, sipping
Beer, watching them,
Sober muslims
Working, wandering
Smell of something vaguely
spicy in the air
alongside incense
Alongside car fumes
Over shallow sewers
Roasting duck and chicken
Nuts burning
Too many colours to name
Kinds of fabrics
Boggles in the mind
Faces covered
Limbs hidden
Smells and sights combined
