Debasing the Bird.

Her head is full of the sin,

And the fetish of Western men,

Where dancing Buddha's might once have been.

Strange pleasures locked in darkened rooms.

Feigning a smile to their exotic climax.

Each and every secretion staining her mind,

Forever.

Each sweaty palmed slap stinging the spot,

Eternal.

Visions of the village stamping on her heart like a psychotic elephant on the Mahout's sleeping head.

Provoked by bondage.

Simple pleasures, complex tastes, warm summer breeze.

Lazy river washing.

Chicken's fed.

Crops dug.

Primal existence.

True - existence.

Thrown to the city like a chicken to the chopping block.

Spiced with cheap perfume and even cheaper thongs.

Threaded on an upright skewer, mounted to a strobing stage.

Grilled over the throbbing eyes of hungry foreign men.

Tagged with a number.

Traded like cattle.

Aided by amphetamine.

Comforted by a balance sheet.

Subdued by a fist.

A profession as old as her village.

A place that still echoes her childish laughter,

Tickled by boys, only after a smile.