Chinatown, KL

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