by Shane Jesse Christmass
Out of the car park. The car even got a special bullet. Which is much-cubed eye down the south end of the town. Hath given up into the hand of tourist-watchers, a big fuss, free-for-all, a furore. Sky like it was midday.
The plane such a ruckus, just a quiet meal of ex-pats, a pandemonium of touts
In addition, that the place – Imperialists EVERYWHERE!
“You don’t know much about it?”
“I know the other day in Denver I was in a suburban McDonalds’ car park.”
Say if I give a token, a clutch of money, the water’s temperature is then controlled. Scar watery joy has come in and flooded beers, finishing off with a Hennessey. Then our town, and, agreeably poor, fevered heard this, it had been told.
A warm day it has been.
Gates taps and the plastic box did the tiny baby, the baby’s behind. Its taxi driver darted, shopfront after shopfront, hanging that laundry in the heavy air. The fate and fortunes of the croupier! The honest croupier’s wife. I discovered, surprisingly, that the hotel was comfortable, pleasant enough. The driver peeled into Pakombor Avenue. I bought a Coca-Cola, lay orange juice, and an apple.
So here’s how it was: “Yes Sir, U.S. dollars, yes, yes…”
Reason for it was defiance or an act ambrosial, toothsome. I swished it all down – Vive l’anarchie.
Flung by sobs heard thoughtfully; sorrow could not exude out of the restaurant. A hair’s breath from the kingdom of Angkor. Bootlegged anything, it’s meant to close at dusk.
I was lying on the living room … they might talk about right angles. At one stage, I could see he was a scuttling term. A Western-style, asymmetrical, longish haircut. The brash sun. He jumped in the trailer, wasn’t much in the airport, a little drunk. The shoulder blades, fire-imprinting ferns. Interrogating I couldn’t convert the Kip into U.S. That t-shirt stand at the end, in my mind as I watched the lunatic, their mouths against us.
3:47am yet, by inward his back facing the oncoming traffic
“Tell your people about this place?”
“I will.”
By this time, a smallish crowd had gathered. Khmer Tribes, bread, and no man breakout. The rest of you lie down again, the plane via the rear door, it was over. The scry of Khmer. A black mirror.

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