Roy T threw a pro-Sukarno dice in 1965
after a tit-wank in a Kuala Lumpur fence-bar
and an assured half-share in a batik back-door
business covering 2kg of disc-jockey grade H.
long-ruddered all the way to Amsterdam.
He forgot the deal in a post-sampling
and Mekong Whiskey flypast and by Op.-1
forgot even that he’d turned to Jakarta.
Playing three-card brag, muzzle-buffing,
he ear-smooched The Hollies on VOA,
got up and kissed his rifle,
‘I miss my fucking wife,’ he said,
and Dave the redeemer flicked
open a sharp one he’d haggled
early summer in a Singapore bazaar.