Skin Deep
No
blood ran in rivers
When
I was a child
Warm-beer-England
delivered
The
upper crust ran wild
Lining
up dominoes
Nineteen
sixty five
Nine
years old still feeling white
Just
glad to be alive
Real
lads played hero games
I
came to despise
Clint
Eastwood and Steve McQueen
Both
had Caucasian eyes
The
ones who looked like me
Were
Biggles' deadly foes
The
enemies of the state
The
cause of all our woes
And
Grandpa cheered for Powell
Though
he loved me dear
Cheer
up my chap you're English
He
said, and drew me near
Pictures
of my father
An
aristocratic Thai
Confounded
the illusion
All
slitty-eyes must die
T.V.
from Vietnam
Shootings
in the street
The
boy's check shirt just like mine
The
blood pooled at his feet
Before
the shot he stood
The
gun cold at his head
Bewildered,
unbelieving, scared
I
watched, I cried, I fled
And
millions there were
Neither
white nor black
Governed
by the rule of sword
The
subjects of attack
Western
Schools don't report
Eastern
Intellect
Half-casts
become invisible
Unless
in some dark sect
Father,
multilingual
Elegant
to boot
Stands
in grainy black and white
Wearing
a western suit
In
colour some years later
Shaven
head, orange robe
A
monk still on probation
Explores
a brave new globe
And
I too moved within
To
break my own success
Beginning
to believe that
To
have much more is less
Fast-forward
two decades
I
write to an old address
Perhaps
my father lives
I'm
nervous, I confess
Perhaps
he's dead or gone
In
spirit or in form
To
late to return
His
offspring to the norm
For
days and weeks I wait
For
e-mail or for post
Pictures
of my father
No
more real than a ghost
And
Asia basks in spillage
From
an American Dream
Village
girls sell cheap sex
And
quarter all esteem
Bangkok
canals are now roads
Thai
forests are logged out
yellow
skins have bought and sold
Their
culture for a shout
So
why should I care at all
About
my random genes
A
snap-shot angry mongrel
Posed
in some English scenes
Then,
one Saturday morning
A
Thai-stamped letter falls
Upon
my Devon doormat
Within
my English walls
A
greeting and a photograph
His
hair now white and proud
A
perhaps contented man
And
I cast off my shroud