Rouge burns up the skyline tapestry consuming Tokyo with dusty colours at six am.

I had a dream last night with Dad and traveling to Tokyo with him. It was strange because I pictured him much younger. It fits with the poem.


Rouge burns up the skyline tapestry consuming Tokyo with dusty colours at six am.

I'm a moth diving from the sky,
crash-landing on the lamp-posts below.
The lights fade like dim constellations --
Orion's belt tightens around my mouth
and my round eyes are like spotted targets,
perfect for the arrows of Sagittarius.

My father is always back to the hotel
when the clock give in and traffic begins,
but he counts his blessings.
Having faith that Jesus will meet me
at the noodle shop down the road
and let me star in the world's radio show.

He sighs --, laughing polietly
well puffing smog and cancer sticks,
stumbling over something to say.
The butt-end is thrown and the embers spiral down,
fizzling out when it joins the cigarette choir
of phone call girls below.

Downing midori sours with the work-boys
makes him fade into the morning --
the air is like television static,
"The wings are flames" he said
and I said, "Let them weave us in."