I'm in the East writing, but it seems all wrong.
My experience is not the oriental experience a hip-cat
wants to hear told loudly. 

There are the bright Ronald McDonald punching bag
drums outside my office, the rhythm is born of clean
sports, predictable it's the students dumb cry for
extended monotony on a Saturday morning, with the
listening workers and I hung over the rail hung-over,
barfing on the off-beat. 

Are there pipes?  Only in one centrally located
air-conditioned room in Seoul where the piper pipes
with ambivalent intended squeaking, willing the rhythm
not to be passed Y through his limbs to the next
generation rendering his sons also unmarriageable. 

Are there comely boys on the walkways winking?  No,
they dance in a tight witchy kang-kang-sollae round,
and lavish favours internally while the disappointed
pedophiles circle and clutch. 

I'm a timid western writer timid in a western bar
while some of the chicken-asshole restaurant table
tents in front of the hospital are lacking patrons. 
I love Korea but there's nothing oriental in a
coward's experience of it. 
A frigid foreigner who, after many months, still 
doesn't know how to get fucked.