by Mark Bibbins, Editor
Today the government talks about a mysterious octopus
which attacked civilians boning their hookers in the bushes by a lake.
Pox-colored piranhas nest inside a stupa, they ordain deathless figs.
I am fed up with spastic devas. There was another in my beans this morning.
I spend my day deleting vowels from my doctor’s prescription.
A group of journalists lines up to lick the gold off the city hall.
In a sleazy bar, a group of young tourists eats rhino balls from shot glasses.
The end of a year is not a string of pearls at all.
I download Depeche Mode & I download The Cure.
I download Rohingyas & the Battle of Marston Moor.
Failed crops glow in the dark. I talk on the periphery of sleep.
Skies over Yangon
Pterosaurs fly over the city, a soiled desire of 70 year old perverts.
Your six-shooter is your coral prick which is my oyster.
Street vendors address you as Sheitan. I run into you in my placenta.
I have nothing to do with the fireworks that burst inside the city’s mausoleum.
On building sites, brides are hypnotized & grooms milk water buffalos.
Everything that ticks has stopped to go back in time.
Slums are otherworldly. They collect pennies in their astral bowels.
Sweatshops are swinging. Lightnings are singing.
Dust means to be mean & you fuck samsara in the morning.
You are a sickle that bitches & a hammer that snitches.
Maybe you are right. Maybe you are wrong.
In a very strange way, your backswept horns are a bit too long.
Maung Day is a Burmese poet and artist living in Thailand. He has published three books of poetry in Burmese.
When nothing else works anymore, there’s always poetry. Give it a try. You may contact the editor at email@example.com.