It may help to know that Geylang is the red light district in Singapore.
A man unleashed in sterile mud sees the trees, darkly,
For the wood.
Bright red Satanic Mills. Grist between the roundstone brain
The earth is poor, the people rich, the poetry is barren
Sing if you’re glad to be afraid, sing safely in your bed,
A seagull hovers, lands and sniffs the air, cries right and left,
Searching, defecates. Triumphant rises, soars and cries her victory.
A sweet small plastic bag is lost and tossed away to join the swirl,
Together at last. In union blessed, and on the winded wing, exults.
The comfort of strangers, splashed in wide expensive strokes on canvas,
Hearts ripped out quietly, efficiently, oolong anaesthetic bare,
To sleep. And in those dreams the fading purple clouds are angry now,
The coil shrugged. Ill-lit. By lamplight drugged. Each step a loss, each kiss,