Hong Kong Juxtaposition (a Poem in Three Parts)

In transit. We are vehicular and I’m wearing sunshine. One eye is leaking,
my knee; aching
in one of those purgatory moods which means
choosing to be bright or bowed
passing each building with their balconies
like groaning, fat and bandy-legged
men with their pregnant bellies
birthing small flower pots
and ugly railings

and it’s strange to me that
Hong Kong is my anchoring when
stepping into a long
white, sinking sense of nothing
from a building would be
easy. Believe me, it’s
something when I’m bussing that
I guess that I’ve been planning
in a noncommital way

– and my friend just left me typing and I never feel like smiling at a stranger when he’s driving on a bus that isn’t even
the right number for me
it’s taking me to TST

unconsciously, this is where I was heading all along
even before I wore the clothes I wore
all day, chosen from the floor or brushed my teeth
or more or more; I knew I’d draw
up behind a view, a place that panels
the sky into blue grey streaks
of metal meeting light
in the evening breathing in the same
romantic breathing of the city as
it scrapes from left to right

jerking a man who came from China from behind his age old camera
in his slack-jawed Putonghua
say my oh my oh my oh my

– a break
because I walked right off the bus and
limped with cigarette aloft to find a
quiet, contemplative spot
it’s hot and even TST has the stink of
high humidity and piss and
things gone off
no rolex watch for me, young man
with your curling brown and sweating skin
and Nepalese frontation, no
handbag, no top shelf imitation when
I’ve come to breathe out
my frustrations at this salty-smelling
brink of east and west
and avoiding you, the subway buskers and the
missing limbed sob story
tellers walk one two, each
sweating, swollen foot before the other
to my destination
boom bang

Warm, soothing warm concrete slapping
whiteness thighs, and sit
take in

this is MY place; nevermind
the sunburnt, guttural German-speaking
old men or pouchy, pushy
ladies with the Slavic faces, this is
MY space, I see the wide boats curving
through the mirrored water burning with the red-gold sunlight
slicing every hat-wearing infant into fours, reflecting in the pieces heat spots
that pulse and blur the edges of my
sunlit, hungry staring
into yellowness and metal shining

in truth I am describing
and learning very little of myself.
There are only so many times you can try to capture
the way the water heaves and fractures
the skyline into a million
hyperbolic broken bronze and silver pieces, or the

-wait, intended soul-searching suspended, let me
light this cigarette and wipe my perspiration. I want to wait until
the lights burn into pinpricks in a
night that never feels like
I hoped this’d alleviate the tightness
of my throat, that itchy unreliable
unhappiness that
walks behind a thousand other
foreigners, pretentious writers wallowing
in a metropolis inspiring aches instead of
next to me, a couple pose in wedding clothes, fingerless gloves and plastic faces
and I move against the barriers to absorb some more reminders that
I am dwarfed by other places
and in those places there’s the sameness

so I’ll go, my knee is aching.

About fiercemissc

Twenty-something Geordie girl living and working in Hong Kong. Young, free and single and making the most of it.
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