I'm in the East writing, but it seems all wrong.
My experience is not the oriental experience a hip-cat wants
to hear told loudly.
There are the bright Ronald McDonald punching bag
drums outside my office, the rhythm is born of clean sports,
predictable it's the students dumb cry for extended monotony on
a Saturday morning, with the listening workers and I hung over
the rail hung-over, barfing on the off-beat.
Are there pipes? Only in one centrally located
air-conditioned room in Seoul where the piper pipes with
ambivalent intended squeaking, willing the rhythm not to be
passed Y through his limbs to the next generation rendering his
sons also unmarriageable.
Are there comely boys on the walkways winking?
No, they dance in a tight witchy kang-kang-sollae round, and
lavish favours internally while the disappointed pedophiles
circle and clutch.
I'm a timid western writer timid in a western bar
while some of the chicken-asshole restaurant table tents in
front of the hospital are lacking patrons. I love Korea
but there's nothing oriental in a coward's experience of
it. A frigid foreigner who, after many months, still
doesn't know how to get fucked.
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