He's a tall streak of piss, ang moh sounding the bar's name
over, tossing it like gum from wall to wet wall. His mouth
the perfect O of a choirboy's as he realises the posters over
the yellow neon signage are for soft porn. He almost forgets
himself, his pallor, about singing, turns somewhat vacantly
in my direction. The lens of my eye views him -- smeared in
vaseline: shirt off, top button of his jeans popped revealing
a tuft of hair -- a lick of black paint -- against the white wall
of an otherwise nondescript room. We engage and disengage,
engage and disengage, never becoming erect, or decisive:
simulating the wilted foliage of a potted plant, the relinquished
weave of a high backed cane chair, the paucity of the score.
Minimalists: he hums a few bars of indifference, I steel myself
for the lights -- the next set-up -- blaming a lack of passion on
direction. We did not come here to fuck ourselves -- literally.
Chinatown prepares for the new-year, roosters line the streets.