Death In the Tropics

it is heaven on earth, some say; a paradisical playground, peopled by bronzed angels in miniature and permeated by fragrant incense, by jasmine, by the toll of a temple bell. it is an eastern jungle, a tangled fairytale thicket of woven dreams and flimsy ecstasy - the land of milk and honey... a tantalising idyll, i do agree, but in my bullet-riddled heart i know the truth - i have penetrated the veil. alas, my darling, i hate to break it to you but that milk you sup is curdled... and the honey is mixed with blood... and those angels are devils hiding behind gaudy masks and heartless smiles turn your back for a moment, they'll rob you blind, leave you sprawled on your back in a dirty alley, a knife lodged in your spine ....not that it matters, because we love being led like naive lambs to the slaughter, we flock to paradise in droves, eager, thirsting, with zombie eyes, to have our purses drained, our hearts broken and the smiles torn, in cold blood, from our chapped and sunburned lips. masochistic to a fault, we thrive in a den of sin, in this turquoise sea of personal degradation, on the malicious glint behind the smile of a tropical queen ...but in the darkness before dawn, as we cushion our heads on tainted sand and gaze up at unfamiliar stars, we are forced to confront the yawning gulf inside, the hollow yearning that drove us here, wealthy waifs and strays dowsed in Chanel No5, to our spiritual deaths on this island paradise under the impassive stares of those wee iron-fisted angels, beneath this yellow oriental moon