one night in bangkok

used to our sweat, the night
above the black foreheads of the skyscrapers
there are gigantic tropic moons provided
driven by tuk tuk-chauffeurs wherever you want to

like the hottest exotic odors, that
are offered for sale in plasticbags 
steaming meal by meal. (or: steaming by and by) saints, waiting
to massage stranger's feet. please

don't frenchkiss the monks. nice harmless
ghosts, leashed & goldalloyed hissing
all thirty minutes in the temple gardens
their breath as sweet as fresh pressed pineapples

little devils on designerdrugs beckon you
into air-conditioned caves, it's dim in there
clandestine & cool. the girls smile
out of dark woodwork fathomless

oldest woodstocks, from brighter spheres
beyond western imagination. threefour
halfshades of a bottle filled with mekong whiskey
clead in brown naked lightbulbs

they vanish into the ventilated air
shaking ashy leghairs under the table
coming up a bill with several zeros
added to something feigned, rolling into the street

tour de france: finistère

racing stars: their soul that turned into fabrics
glued with imprints from sponsorers escalating
irrestistably into the western skies

rising stars: in swelling news
thrusting their coordinates afloating
the airwaves, the airwave that is itself overfloating 

low tide & high tide remain silent at the arrival 
of the ever speed acumulating bagage
while the bretonic-crabby old salty sea salutes

undermined by parameters of believes
of the cycling stars, who ride with their gencultured 
legs unto the hole of eternity (shut)

the boxer

at the height of windfall they liked to settle him
the eternal know-it-alls at the ropes

while he was doing every possible thing he could
what he wanted apart from pushing through

was only known in god's secret diary
they had to tie a chop of meat around his neck

as a child, so at least the dogs would play with him
he once revealed on the late show

while his livery boxing gloves were
long time dangling round the neck of a silent admirer

gulls

it-s the same gulls whose ancestors served 
as fellow travellers under the nazis (like 
everybody) suffering under the big storm tide

it should not be overrated -
the same gulls glued to the air
when thrown into the gales

& if you press their bellies - screeching
not different from the old days
because the wide skies above them

only stand for a little cutout of what
they are rambling through without grasping 

poems by Stan Lafleur

tranlsations by sibyll kalff (some in collaboration with Dinesh Allirajah) 2006/2007
(further treatments: Lynda Crawford and the author)