Letter from Abroad

Singapore; a note to say I'm in the pink,
    in love, and imperatrix in what was
a general's house. His orchids, gorgeous, phallic,
   nod beneath my balcony; his pool
delivers me deliciously each morning prompt
   at eight. Then pay-paw breakfast with my Dane,
the paradigm of sugardads - leonine, troppo
  and devoted to my entertainment.
We climbed The Gap, and over Pimm's he pointed out
   Sumatra's breasty coast. The evening sea
behind Shell Island was a burning tray of ships;
   beyond - the Celebean pirates and
the island chain of bamboo alleys, bicycles,
   bazaars. His gaze, (he's been here twenty years,)
was almost native; I (of course) was most impressed,
   and vowed I'd not return to Hamilton
until I'd made each nook my own. This wet equator,
   I could lie and rub myself along it,
purr, and lick its sticky, slackly breathing length.
   On Orchard Road I'm ravenous for what
I haven't seen. The shops devour me, (I may soon
   require another cable - sorry,) and
the Sikhs who drive the cabs, so sleepy, cuddlesome,
   not very much unlike the Friday crowd
at Parker's. High rise flats are everywhere and beastly,
   but on Bukit Timah Road you still
can buy a python by the yard. O dearest sis,
   you can't imagine how I thrive up here,
draconian in my appetites. 'Luxuriance
   becomes me,' so I wrote on last night's banquet-
cloth - which quite put out the Dane. The foreign news
   of course, is sobering, and not three days
ago, we walked along the wharves; and saw them hook
   a night-club owner from the harbour's froth
and bandages. The sea itself appeared to sulk,
   and rumour speaks of tribes of millionaires,
of thugs and prostitutes … That night beneath the fan
   I did not sleep, and knew the gleaming sea
could lie. So hateful, hateful, yet it made me see
  my death's a chance I never will permit ...