I said snooker, not hooker.

Should we listen to the voices in our head.
Should we trust the images in our head.

Those yellow flowers, this welsh rarebit
covered in worcestershire sauce
and the snooker in Koh Chang.

I said snooker, not hooker.
But thinking of it, I remember the hookers now.
They were about ten, ageless.

I remember the smell of the flesh,
the number on their chest.
Perhaps there was no number.
Simply a tiny blue bikini
too loose on her hips.

And the smell,
the smell was terrible.
Even the beer tasted that smell
of decaying human flesh.

In the blink of an eye
I was outside the room.
I stared at my surroundings,
what looked like a motel
filled with decaying flesh.

This man, this man
was big and airy
wearing a striped shirt.
Where do you come from?

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