Hazy Mushroom Dreams
As I step off the boat into the crystal waters,
a thought crosses my mind of the money oiled machine.
Then I slip back into the flow of the tourist regime.
I stride across the sands glassy eyed as I watch the paper slip through my fingers.
The boat man can live another day, let’s put it that way.
The sun sets as the flies buzz at the sweatshop ‘hand made’ honey.
My tension rises as I fight the tides, I move towards the darker alleys,
in search of those with like minds and like faces.
I find those with little minds and fake faces.
I am an observer, unable to commit.
Always a thought touching my mind,
don’t scratch the shiny surface.
I wake up, the waters lap warmly around my new Armani flip-flops.
Where am I?