what are poets for
“His right nipple smells like his left nipple, which smells like his navel. Every hairless body smells the same in places like Cambodia,” the British tourist concludes. There’s no season, but one kind of weather here: the sun always copper, casting its colour onto the topless boys whose shoulders are crushed by the shrewd British pounds. Crushed not by armies, but arms of those who suck nothing but the third-world juice with their white lips, dancing tongue and whiter skin. Next year at this time, this boy will see the same daddy, same currency.He will be worshipped as David, but fondled again like a dildo in a cheap hotel bed, in which dignity is dust. With just a soft sudden blow, it disappears like a shadow in darkness. But would he open his eyes? Would he be able to see he’s rolled over by a hairy bear born to break bones? All eyes can be blinded by the dollar sign. Back home, the boy will wash his body, soapless and not sobbing, while his daddy will count the stamps in his wrinkled burgundy passport.