Diary of a man lost in Amsterdam

1.

I haven’t been able to
write since I got here and I
can’t remember when that was
my brain – fogged up
with early morning steam from
canals in which I see a
version of myself projected
onto a bridge and on the
next and on the next

a foreign snarl breaks the infinity-me
I wonder why I’m here
and not some place else –
with you? You're laughing,
I know you are.

2.

Twenty euros per ticket.
The man looks at me sideways
pockets of acne mark his skin
teenage angst squeezed
into the barrel of a gun
and I wonder whether his life
is worse than mine.

I take my seat amongst boys
half my age, fingers rest on
bellies for now. The music
starts, a man and a woman
– enter stage

I wasn’t alone the first time.
Pills and powder and European
beer placated our fear of
being too close or looking at
the wrong thing, we sat two rows
back. I’ve sat at the front, just
once, nostrils fuming onto
damp wood.

Her thighs claw his waist
distorted jungle
drums loop between my
ears, walls reverberate
a crimson hue, hungry
faces spasm and
sometimes I feel like
this is all a mis –
understanding as
the performer’s minds
paint the wholesome scenes
that we never could

3.

Today: a date but the girl
never shows, I try not to
care. Click, Click, Click – acrylic
nails on glass, I walk past
fast with head down low:
ignore blank eyes
ignore blond hair

I picture their Amazonian
skulls sky rocketing into space, a thrill
far better than hers

4.

I attempt to translate
curious phrases but pain
won’t allow room for thought
every breath – a bony ache
my head rests on a paper
bag

crunch

Amsterdam lies on its side
I wonder if I’ll ever
leave these

feverish reflections
swaying to and fro
only

to be washed away.