Symphony of the Unloved

Its like the `grande entrada
Billowing opening night curtain
Albeit French windows and curtain at quarter mast
Bedraggled, angular and undercut to length
Hitched, yet not wholly
Hotel window with the house top views
Dottings of washing, wires and windows
Sweet smells of fish sauce
Garnished with motorcycle noise
Bells, horns and throttleing
The hammering of cc's
Unseen spread of humidity
Muffling the sounds of children playing, laughing
Crescendos of high pitched excitement
Chattering, nattering, elaborating
Leader hands down judgement
Another peppering, of guffaws, shouts, highs and lows
Teasing each other, yet lacking pretense
Clapping of hands, horns blast like some acidic
Staccato beeps, ringing bells and mufflers purging
Language of passage, right of way
With no straight lines
Nothing like rigidity
Seamless like the paddy fields
Dodging, weaving, eternally beeping thoughts
Unseen obstacles appear, as if from cyberspace
Devoid of rules
A small bird interjects
Sings to us sweet Vietnamese melodies
As big as my thumb with the power of Pavo
Thats Aussie lingo for Mr Pavarotti
And there we go again
Lingo for language
That smorgasboard of sounds
The composition has begun
Revived synthesizer connects to motorbike horns
The unloveable symphony
Instead of seamless, heartless `bamboo flute'
Water is poured into a large aluminium pot
A chicken sounds
Calling himself to the dinner pot
The ambience of that one moment
Our bedroom window being opened
Has left the floodgate open
Son et lumiere with an olfactory support act
White light bouncing eternally
From overcast sky onto whitewashed walls
Succulent odour of mango
Still wet on my chin
Mind trying to make sense
Calmed is the tantric humm of our ceiling fan
Like some giant bass woomera
Softened sub bass on its four setting
Church bells audition and interlude
The crystalline purity of brass
A second bell conjures up thoughts
Of musty Chinese temples, incense and
White smoke catching minuets of daylight
I'm lying down.....the back has quit]
Put in for its own holiday pay, I muse
I've worked fifteen years
Never once recieved a brass razoo
Whatever that might be
Not one, point six five of an American dollar
Nor thirteen thousand nine hundred Vietnamese dong
Not once
So why should my back get
Such preferential treatment
I guessed it was to do with choice
Funny that....choice
I'm bedridden with back pain
Clouts of humidity pinning me to my bed
Yet I've already chosen to `love Vietnam'
And all I've seen is a bed, ceiling fan and a toilet
In a hotel on Nha Chung Street