Hashish to hashish,
monk to monkey,
Sherpa Tenzing was no flunkey,
but I wish he was here to offer me a rope
and a yak burger. They’re
splendiferous creatures, I’ve seen them
in the town shuffling past internet cafés
like kerb-crawling armoured cars in sweaters, but
Christ, they make me hungry.
A camera swings across
a freckled cleavage.
Above it, a smile hello
like a birthday banner,
sandcastles,
framed photographs and normality,
disappears into the clouds forever.
On the roof of the world, in the
abyss of my life,
damp-faced, cloud-cloaked,
disoccidented,
I can only make out the bottom half
of mighty Machhapuchhre, Shiva’s fish-tail
behind which Chinese guns
wait and wait for their moment,
so I trudge back down the mountain
with no health insurance
in the white trainers I’d found
in Gay Wayne next door’s dustbin,
back to the Maoist-postered town
where Gurkhas hold hands
and teenagers taunt cows
(is this their sacrilegious rebellion?),
where bearded apes and bald holy men
bound around temples
and tourists ease their stomach pains
with strong-smelling, paranoia-triggering cigarettes.
