Ex Pat

The tiger bursts in grots.
Hunting is more fun this way.
Smoke hangs lacy, toffee sweet.
My gun is an ear trumpet.

There are clots of glistening pink
Guts on the banyan.
There is shit on the rock.
Insects blur like static.

Traps can be snatches of home.
Tripwires become skipping ropes.
Landmines wait like currant cakes
Left cooling on a sill.

We are bullied by humidity.
Bank notes spoil.
Cushions compost on the veranda.
Club chairs rupture and stink.

I remember when the gramophone broke.
The dumb mouth;
The scalpel wit of a silent stylus;
The delicious spin.