A cluster of white tile balconies blossom

from jungle canopies, the slopes swallow the rest of the buildings.

White concrete boxes punctuate the high volcanic slopes

and populate the valleys.

It's hard to find the right color palette

for debauchery. As the saying in the pubs

Has it, “6000 horny drunks clinging to a rock”

It is true but it is a broken song.

On the dark side of the island,

So Kwu Wan and beyond Mo Tat, Tung O

Make a triangle on the map

Of the southern part of the island.

The island owns itself beyond the family trail

And when snakes or wild pigs and dogs come

Or the ghosts of otters and pygmy deer come,

It is their island, and you can feel it

when there is only moonlight

The distinct sensation of being a visitor.

The Alpha of the pack of dogs by Mo Tat Old Village

is the man who sweeps the path each morning.

I don't know what he curses at them in Cantonese,

but they obey. Every twist of trail opens a new story.

Whether the technicolors come from drugs or sports,

adventure, art, or days spent in the main street bars

the many nights of moonlit dancing on the many unofficial beaches,

The mad-disco beat is counterpoint to slow and sweet living.

The concentrated frowns of writers, the mad laughter of children

or the many second childhoods of expats over thirty

the technicolor island is a re-imagining,

each of us a unique twist of trail, a motley color palette.

On a local artist’s poster: the many faces of Lamma

Are represented in an advent calendar, different hues of crazy.

The similarities are clear and queer,

Each of us in a wild place of our own projection,

Unregulated by the expectations that broke our old lives,

Or whatever caused out self-sought exile.

Verdant green treefalls, 

Boats cluttered unmarked harbors,

Gatherings on jungle beaches,

Wet suits and paddle board seascapes,

Drunks building campfires,

New friends chill with Bacchus on a Sunday rooftop,

this is our island

we can only become this here.

___