benjamin smith | Cộng hoà Xã hội Chủ nghĩa Việt Nam

Dead in trenches

The trenches in Hue,
Where men once died,
Now grow daisies and
Lizards trip out
In the dragon fruit vines.

While the soldiers
Hear this same poesy bullshit
Day in and day out
While they wait patiently
For female German tourists
In yellow dresses.

Blonde hair cascading
Over their soft,
Warm,
Deeply tanned
Tits.

Haiku, Kinda

A featherless chicken
pecks in the dirt as
Yuen pulls a bamboo pipe
beside me.

The heat
and the small cups
of green tea
lock the steam.

I feel the chicken
mirrors me quite
appropriately

Then, like a
Haiku from God
D’Arne says

I wish
I wore my
Sports bra.

Cowgirl

She sits on my face
and straddles around
while streets
I don’t know the name of
do the same
out side
with Tuk Tuk
and motorbikes.

Fake flowers sit in a pot,
I mistake a twig for
a lizard and the feather
of a hen
flips and flops
in a spider web.

I read this aloud
And she says
I don’t get it.

I say
Neither do
I.

Viet damn

Bright red nipples,
like the glowing wet shine
in the eye of a femur.

They stare at the sky;
Tipped and angled,
shampoo suds still
popping
on the soft of her skin

There is no more proof
needed that God is a
simple man.

Just watch the way
a woman wiggles her panties
from her thighs.

Hands snaking at her ass,
swinging softly
as the material leaves her hips
and gently
cascades down her
thick
meaty
legs.

Like a
Houdini
race horse.

God wasn’t a gambler.
Just a little boy
with an itchy dick.

Ha Noi Sweat Box

Moving my dick around
with the bottom of a pen
like a doctor examining
the lifeless arm of a
sick, white and gaunt patient;

she packs her bags in a room
with a ceiling fan that
makes this sound

“fffffffatatatatafffffffff”

Every time she turns
her pretty head
I pretend im asleep
and she sighs and continues
to pack
with the fan the
deafens everything
with it presence.

Making sounds and
Doing shit, always
Spinning around and
Around;

Even when we are sleeping
And no one notices it
Anyways.

Conversations in mute

Thong is my driver
But he speaks no English,
Not a word.

We sit on the motor cycle
In silence
As we snake though
The mountains.

Some times he whistles,
Or points his finger and
Spins it around to
Show the water rapids
In the dirty water bellow.

Pointing to a cliff
He whistles and
Makes he sound of
An exploding bomb.

Some times he giggles
But usually he whistles.

On our last ride
I pretend to bang
My head against his
But it was just a diversion
To get close enough
So my lips could kiss his
Helmet.

I whispered thank you

He pretended he didn’t
Understand and I acted like
I did.

In a rice paddy
Two water buffalo lock horns
And thrash their heads
Together.

A pale bone coloured horn
Stuck in each others neck.
The tough skin preventing
The ultimate goring.

Darne video tapes,
I light a smoke,
The guides laugh.

Eventually the buffalo
Turn to us and stare.

Yuen says

“they tired of fighting now”

And at last
I think some one
Is speaking
My language.

Papaya Juice

A pretty woman cooks
From a wide wok
In a small
Bum fuck restraint
Near the Chinese and Vietnamese
Boarder.

To pass time I watch a
Small ginger kitten chase
A roach across the linoleum floor.

But when I squat over the
Drop toilet, I imagine
The pretty woman’s piss flaps
Squirting an exquisite
Asian nectar
Into the porcine bowls
As it runs over the shit stains
And into the bowls of the beast.

From what I imagine to be heaven,
And what I imagine
To be hell.

Stuck in this purgatory,
I wipe my ass
And rejoin the cat.

He is disgusted with me.

Over the edge

Maybe a few years ago
We would have killed each other.
Murdered and dead
In the thick green and
Humid jungle;

But now we play
Under a waterfall.
Holding each others hand
As we traverse mossy stones.

The white water a-roar
And our skins shiny wet
With the cool mountain rain fall.

Two butterflys
Orange and white
Dance in the air,
Making love;
Fucking.

A drunk man
Crashes his motor cycle
And bows down to darne
On the street below.

A constant reminder
Of the frailty and
Confusion we share
And the silly mistakes
Man kind are destined
To make, and repeat.

But now the butterflys fly
All around and settle on the moss
That we avoid.

Wrapped in that fragile
Embrace, like a kiss –
Or something less gay but
Equally
Beautiful.

Nothing important

A silent lightning cascades
With that camera flash boom.

The road under foot rolls
As we flail drink
Across stony floors.

I wake up asleep
On the floor of a restaurant
And they carry me home
Like a compatriot.

We roll away laughing
Him saying

“don’t worry about the
Lightning, its just a passing
Thing. Its not important.”

I fall asleep again.

Not worried,
Not rushed,

Just adjoined
And drunk
And in love
With nothing.

Heavenly anal beads

From the clouds they emerge;
Like anal beads from the heavens.

Water buffalo in single file
Dirty and slow.

One by one the ass of the mist
Flares open and pops out these
Wild black beasts.

Followed lazily behind
By a small boy
Whipping the calf’s of the
Big dumb animals
With a reed of bamboo