Fate

Fate.

In the summer of 1927 when I met Eva
Braun, I was a car mechanic in Hamburg,
and with over-time I had a good wage;

we were going to get married, but during
the October beer festival, she met Adolf,
a budding painter and she left him for me;

but he stopped painting, went into politics;
and in a fit of madness shot her. Had Eva
married me she could have lived to be 104.

the coasline of memories

The coast of Memories

Late summer, it lasted well into September, when I walked along
the pebbled beach in the bay, and saw my uncle and aunt sat on
an air-mattress soaking up the last of the summer light as the sea
gently slapped around their feet. I walked passed them slowly in
the hope they would turn around, see me and give me coins for
ice cream; they didn’t and I was too shy to say halloo.

My aunt looked more or less like my mother, uncle though had
big shoulders and muscular arms, something to tell the boys in
the street, but since he drove the town’s beer truck, I had to invent
a story; he had been a boxer in Chicago, but had to come home
‘cause his mother was sick, if not he would have been the heavy
weight champion of the world now.

Mother says that I mustn’t be alone so much, but I’m here to look
at the shiny pebbles just under the surface of the sea, I used to take them home but they lost their lustre when dry. I also like to listen
to the sea, it sighs mostly as being fed up of being so old and alone; often it whispers stories I repeat when going home. I can’t bring
the boys here they will only be noisy and throw pebbles about.

a quiet smoke

A Quit Smoke

The train stopped at a small station on a bleak plateau,
I stepped on to the terminus to smoke a cigarette which
I deeply inhaled and enjoyed; so intensely I didn’t see
the train leaving. I ran but my feet wouldn’t move,
at the back of the last carriage my doctor stood, “help,
my feet won’t move, I shouted.” “It’s your own fault,
The doctor said, “For eating so much chocolate.”
At the kiosk- inside the station house- I asked the lady,
selling newspaper, if she could help, but she needed
the number of the train and whether I traveled first class
or not. I didn’t know what number train, but said 112,
and yes, first class, thinking that would help. Since I was
dressed, like an Eskimo, from head to toe in sealskin,
and it was seal hunting season in Canada, people gave
me dark looks and when “Guardian” readers folded their
papers into truncheons I fled, got into a car that was just
standing there, drown down the road in the hope of
getting on the train at the next station, but made a wrong
turn and ended up inside a kaleidoscope, where doctors
and people, who like plastic tables, dare not enter.

Birthday Greetings

Birthday Greetings.

He rings me once a year- on my birthday- the old man
I went to school with hundred years ago, after there
had been a long war and our town looked as unpainted
as down town Havana, when no one had cars except
spivs and the police and there weren’t carbon foot print
in the sky; he rings to remind me how old I’m.

Childhood resentment never dies, his mother worked
in a cake shop, mine was putting sardines in tins, so
if I wanted cakes I had to let him win when we played;
now he rings and goes on about our banal illnesses, we
old men have to endure, and when he finally hangs up
I feel depressed and in a need of a drink.

Shore Leave

Shore Leave.


It’s afternoon when we dock at a port that
looks like so many others; there is little time,
our ship will be leaving tomorrow at noon.

There is a dancehall up town, we are told
but our sea legs are not fit for waltzing;
beside, we’re shy and there is little time.

So we go to a place where the beer is cold
and women warm, got to be back onboard
at dawn. Short time, you said? Yes, indeed.

Versifiers and Wine

At the poetry meeting it was decided that all poets were equal
and should wear red plastic noses, of the same size, no longer
should one poet be called great, while another was called minor.
I looked out of the window, the busy world outside was utterly
unaware of this momentous decision. Also poets would now be
able to recognize one another in streets, at the supermarkets and
in cafés, meet and talk about ungrateful Europeans, who don’t
care to know or read about our sagacity.

Coming home workmen had cemented over the garden and were
playing table tennis, I told them to leave but they refused and
began making holes in the cement and planting lemon trees
while accusing me for writing about nature but not understanding it;
“for you,” one of them said looking like a TLS editor, nature is
a nice view on a terrace while enjoying a brawn sandwich and
a cool glass of white wine.” Saddened I walked in to town went
into a bar frequented by unhappy, red nosed poets.

when freedom calls

When Freedom Calls


Tibet today is a modern place, the people no longer
live under the monks’ tyranny, yak butter in the tea
and unwashed poverty. The young are well educated
smartly dressed and Lhasa has nightclubs and cafés’;
so why are they demonstrating against the Chinese?

Because they regard Tibet as occupied by china, their
tongue and culture, which is nation’s soul, under attack;
no, they don’t want the bad old days back, but they do
want their independence back. Occupiers are vampires
that absorbs a nation’s blood and thus, must be slain.

The rejected

The Rejected

I awoke early again and with a sense of unease,
mangled dreams, slamming of doors, contorted
faces, uncontrollable rages, ingratiating voices:
“Come here boy, what sweet a boy you’re”

A Christmas tree thrown out of a window, hoarse
hilarity and the sound of sirens. Fragments of
dreams consigned to the dungeon of rejected
memories, from a time before colours were invented

So why does, a half remembered past haunts me?
I don’t want to look back and fill my heart with
sorrow, from the time I lived with one eyed trolls
and their laughter was shrieks of powerless hate.

The enemy who loved me.

The Enemy Who Loved Me.

I was six years old the enemy soldiers lived in a camp
nearby, they had sweets and I was free to walk
everywhere; yes I cooperated readily, for a bar of
chocolate I was willing to commit treason, I could even
speak few words of their guttural, yet very cultural
language. And then there were those women in a house,
next to the camp, a friendly lot, spoilt me they did when
not busy in locked rooms, teaching, as they said, young
soldiers the art of darning socks. Then peace broke out
and the camp’s gate shut; the women where marched out
of the house, spat on and humiliated for given the foe
comfort. Later in life it struck me as odd that those who
had helped the enemy to built airports and roads, supplied
material and food went on to become the local elite.

The Intinerant

The Itinerant


When I came to the supermarket the guard was outside
telling the begging gypsies by its door to move away, they
did move but not far they sensed his kindness and would
soon be back; a younger guard is needed to get them off
the premises, one who hasn’t suffered any hardship and
is, by nature, a bit dim. There used to be e skeletal woman
amongst them, she’s dead now, a bit of human fluff that
blew in the wind, I suppose she laughed and smiled once,
when a child, but then she had a baby herself when still
a girl, the newborn was taken away and she became distant,
her eyes seeing a future that had nothing to offer. I used to
buy her a fried chicken and chips; she ate it all and was
thankful for that. Perhaps the kind, but ineffective guard
thinks it is good for us to see that poverty is not eradicated.

Senryu

Senryu

If one truth is deep
Is there a hidden one too
Dressed up as a lie?




Senryu

My unborn brother
Stalks me with his absence
And invades my dreams

April Love

April Love


Now that it is spring I remember Lucy Lee
once upon a time, when the old people died,
we promised each other an eternity of love.

Then you had to go to France and in April
Paris is a perilous place, but I had to plough
the soil, sow grain and think of you

When you came back you said merci and oui,
there was a loss of innocence about you;
somehow the love between had gone stale

So I married another woman then, one who
could milk and feed cows, bend her knees
and pull up weed that strangulate carrots.

But it is spring Lucy Lee and I think of you,
and wonder where you are, perhaps you are
A dream because you are forever young.

The good sleep

The Good Sleep


She was late coming home from work, wanted to rest
a bit before dinner, at nine I ate in the kitchen, didn’t
like to wake her yet she was so tired.
I had a drink and watched telly till eleven, then worried,
the silence in the bedroom ominous, what would I do if
she had slipped into the deepest sleep of all?
I knocked softly on the bedroom’s door; “Are you ok
darling?” No answer. I switched on the light came nearer
to the bed, her face was smooth and free of worries,
a smile on her Marilyn Monroe lips, and she was breathing
easily. Relieved I grumpily woke her and asked if she
wasn’t going to eat anything.

The Tax Avoider

The Tax Payer


The old lady, so small she almost disappears in the tall spring
grass, is 104 today. Quick on her feet this early morning she’s
letting the goats out of the barn, in her youth wolves roamed,
now there are people in vans trying to steal a goat or two.
Never married, looked after her parents who lived long, and
the few suitable men around here where of the lazy drinking
types, so there are no children to send her flowers and wish her
well, the goats don’t care as long as she’s there to let them in
at night. Her face has the colour of the brown rich soil around
here, where potatoes grow big and are suitable for baking; her
blue eyes are hazy by age and hold eternities peace; she never
asked for anything and now she has got it all. At a tax office in
The town an inspector looks up from his screen and says: “There
Is a lady in the valley, she 104 today and has never paid any tax.”

epigram

Epigram



Wherever people go they bring cameras
And they don’t see where they have been
Before they are back home, but then they
See it second hand

offspreing of sedition

Offspring of Sedition

In narrow streets between factories that had
never been adorned by paint, as out of grey
walls they came silent children of a different
and darker world.

Don’t speak to them my brother said they are
foreigners and enemies of the country, a by
product of a lost army and treasonous women
who are forever outcasts.

Where the street widened to a square, near
The clear blue, unpolluted sea, there was
sunlight and the unspeakable children slunk
back into damp walls and not seen again.

The Iris

The Iris

In my garden I saw the biggest rainbow ever seen
and it had a shadow too, I bathed in its glare, and
was the original multi coloured raincoat man.
Dug with my bare hands to find the crock of gold,
a big diamond found gave it to my distant brother
for safe keeping, while I dug but found no more.
My brother fled to Rotterdam where he sold my gem
to men with beards and black suites, where it was
cut into pieces, each one worth the price of a statelet.
My brother lives in Swiss, he hate me because I’m
his bad consciences talks bad about me and send me
letters that oozes of bitter resentment. I don’t care
now that I live inside kaleidoscope, and wear a multi
coloured raincoat, I need not precious stones.

Shaving cream

Shaving Cream

On the day that yet another car bomb exploded
in Baghdad, I forgot to buy shaving cream and
had to go back to the shop, there is weariness
about bad news from Iraq. I also forgot to buy
a litre of milk and a goat cheese.

Four thousand US troops killed, which, after
five years of war, as an amazing small number;
but then, this is a war where civilians get to do
the dying .Six hundred thousand or near a million
dead, no one knows or cares, but it might end up
as being as great a crime as the holocaust:

Was it five or six million Jews who perished?
This is a number that concerns deniers greatly,
who are of the opinion that only about 2oo Jews
died, regrettably of typhus, on a train journey
between Poland and Russia.

What we do know, is that the holocaust was
worst criminal act known to man; it is therefore
an eternal shame that Israel uses this tragedy to
silence us when they continue to unlawfully take
more of Palestinian land

It is much easier to take up Tibet’s cause, isn’t
strange that the riots it happens know as
the Olympic in Beijing looms? Forget Iraq and
the Gaza strip, where our hands are bloodied;
this new cause will make us feel morally superior

The roman soldier

The Roman Soldier


It was late evening, when walking along the walls of
the ancient city of Chester, I saw him, the old centurion,
he stood alone dreaming of retirement, the land and
slaves he had been promised when he joined the army.
He and his kind was hated here, in his own beloved land
the almond tree stood in ornate regalia whishing spring
welcome by strewing a carpet of flowers on its path.

He didn’t see the two terrorists sneak up on him, when
he did it was too late, and slowed by age he was knifed
repeatedly. I think they must have sensed my presence,
looking my way they stopped, jumped over the parapet
and vanished. I held the centurion’s hands, he opened
his brown eyes, a brave little smile, and said: “Guess
I shan’t see the flowering of the almond tree this year.”

A magic moment

A Magic Moment


Full moon in the Caribbean Sea, flakes
of silver on black water, and the sea’s
calm heaves is that of a giant’s at sleep.

The ship’s engine heightens silence, that
is only interrupted when someone opens
and slam shut the engine room’s door.

On starboard I see the brilliant light of
a cruise ship, it really is a floating hotel,
I’m glad not to work on a ship like that.

My breath as easy as the giant’s, I think
of nothing and no one; weightless now
I join the seascape of my dreams.

French Lessons

French Lessons


The baguette on kitchen table, is
still warm and emits an aroma of
a Parisian boulangerie.

I put a bottle of red wine beside
it, a piece of moist Roquefort too,
and said: O, la, la.

The New road

The New Road (Modern Algarve)


The lane up to the village- from the main road-
begins where the old olive tree stands, and
now it has got street lights and been asphalted
and tries to look like a suburban road.

The lane, in the old days, was strewn with
white sea sand, was easy to walk on and only
needed a few stars to shine; asphalt eats light
and the lane only shines when it rains.

Lower Road, it’s called to it ends in a natural
square that has no name, after that it’s called
Upper Road till it makes a turn and ends back
on the main road again.

The “upper roaders” tend to be a bit snotty,
it’s the “upper” thing you see, and the bread
van stops there -‘cause it comes in the wrong
way- ; and one of them has got a Mercedes.

We at the lower end, laughs at their snobbery,
the square belongs to us, the fish van stops
there too, as do tourists who take pictures of us
as we sit along stone walls looking rustic.

Evening mood onboard a tankship

Evening Mood (onboard a tankship))


The crew has had their evening meal
now they smoke and play cards in
the mess hall, the cook and his helper
have more work to do, their day is long.

The bright light in the galley keeps
the night at bay, the cook stands in
the doorway, a mug of coffee in hand
and smoking a small cigar;

He has to go down to the store room
take out the food needed for tomorrow;
the sea is calm, the sea breeze a caress,
and he’s glad to be far from shore.

settling of scores

Settling of Scores


My house had been empty for a long time no one came
here and that suited me fine I’ve got everything I need,
by looking out of the windows I can see life passing by.
Then it all changed a youngish couple moved in, totally
ignoring me, after all I’m the owner of this house, but
what could I do, I’m ancient and no one listens to us old
people any longer unless we are royalty or presidents
As my irritation grew I took to screaming, till the woman
said; “Did you hear that Fred? “What?” “That voice, like
someone is trying to speak to us. “Nonsense,” the taciturn
Fred said. In the night pictures took to falling on the floor,
Fred blamed it on tiny earthquakes. I got angry and threw
objects hard across the room when they were out… and
they blamed their little dog, which was my secret friend.
But the night when I stroked Linda’s hair till she woke up
screaming telling her husband that she wouldn’t stay in this
house a minute more, I had won. No one lives here now
save for me, locals say the home is haunted, suits me fine.
There are children outside they are here to feel deliciously
scared by knocking on my door, it amuses me think how
shocked they will be if I, one day, opened up and said Hi!

the sage

The Sage

Oran, Algeria I stood on deck as the ship docked,
on the pier an old man, tall and thin, dressed in
what appeared to be pajamas kept looking straight
at me. So penetrating was his eyes that I had to look
into the sea. I knew he was a holy man a guru, but
why was he looking at me? Was he trying to send
me a message; when I dared to look up and at him
he had vanished and I felt a sense of deep loss, had
I held out my hands met his eyes unafraid, he would
have given me his wisdom, but for my fear I spent
years in the wasteland before finding my own bitter
insight: In the sand of time all footsteps are erased,
but the hum of the seas tell me of a deep harmony,
I need not fear the tomorrow.

Circus Performer

Circus Performer

The fat lady had a whispery blond beard
her eyes were coal black and from her body
the odour of pee arose and her silence was
full of unfulfilled hate against her destiny

She smiled and waved when carried into
the circus ring, not a care in the world, and
the public laughed and laughed; horse piss
and sawdust no circus can be without it.

The waiting

The Waiting

I ought to write a novel, if I only could come up
With a beginning that doesn’t sound like Reader’s
Digest. “It was a blustery October day when…”

Once upon a time I wrote verses, laid my soul bare
Ready to be trampled on; I wrestled with my
Conscience and tried no to cry.

On the poetry carpet that shines so bright, most of
The sheen is crows silver, narcissism and cynical
Manipulation of peoples’ emotion

Poetry is a childish occupation, an endless game,
Diligent poets are like a dog with a ball that never
Tires of the same old game

I ought to write a novel which is longer than
Eighteen meager lines, something romantic or sexy
I just need an opening line.

There is no such thing as a writer’s block, only
Writers with little to say and that is ok, silence
And reflections never did hurt anyone

Norwegian travel

Norwegian Travel

No restaurant car
and the train journey was long.
A girl, with a trolley,
sold sweet cakes and soft drinks,
I mixed whisky in my coke
to lessen the ennui.
A scowling conductor came,
red face and stern voice,
against the regulation.
Train stopped on the flatland
and I had a long walk home.

3 haiku

Haiku.

An April zephyr
Met the breath of winter
And hailstones fell.

Senryu

The rusty tractor
Abandoned in the field
Has gulls’ dropping on

Senryu

Tropical holiday
Breadfruit and green bananas
And utter boredom

The quislings

The Quislings

In Florida live many Iraqis they were helpful
And gave us vital information before the war
Against Saddam started. America knows that
If they go back they might be called traitors
And killed, so USA gives them a good pension
So they can live in comfort till Iraq is totally
Subdued and Democratic; and the people that
Helped us will be Iraq’s new leaders

The thoughtful

The Thoughtful.

I, an Afghan, looked up to the cold blue sky and
saw a gleaming US bomber plane, it dropped
its load on a village nearby. Smoke, flames and
dust, many people killed… non where Taliban.
My uncle and his two sons were killed and that
was sad, but I do understand, the war America
wedges is for us so we can be democratic and
free, have dollars in our pockets, drive big cars
and play basket balls. But lately I have been
asking myself, will I be able to avoid being hit
by bombs and rockets, to enjoy their democracy?

senryu

Senryu

Poland, member of
EU, behaves like a client
State of US.

Cannibal

I can remember, when in mother’s womb, the foul
smell of digesting meat, swore that as soon as got
out I would become a vegan. Then when six years
old I met Maria she was a year younger, love had
entered my young life. We sat under the old bridge
when I asked her to marry me, she laughed, said no
and I bit her soft arm, which left a dark blue mark,
nowadays called a love bite; and yes, it tasted lovely.
I have been eating a lot of animal meat since, but it
is human flesh I’m really lusting after.

the cuddly one

The cuddly one

I sat in a café minding my own business trying not
to order a second chocolate éclair when she entered,
a cuddly woman of a race that are the children of
the wind, her I gave an éclair.

She invited me home, she lived in a house where
the forest begins and on her duvet sat 35 teddy
bears which she lovingly removed putting them in
the hall for the night

When I awoke a big teddy bear was sleeping next
to me, and as bear, so I’m told, tend to be grumpy,
I silently dressed and tip toed down to the kitchen,
but the cuddly woman wasn’t there.

I ate breakfast alone, rice pudding with honey,
but when I heard the big bear getting out of bed
I hurriedly left not wanting an argument about
the empty jar of honey on the table

Greek holiday

Greek Holiday

At church in Piraeus, where priests have generous
bodies hidden under long, black dresses, wear long,
black beards around meaty lips and look like they
have sensually eaten a cow each, washed down with
alter wine, I queued in a line and was given a paper
bag of yesterday’s cakes, outside I gave my bag to
an old woman too poor to buy bread.
When she had eaten all she blew up the bags and
slammed them against a tree, it sounded as rifle shot
and the traffic stopped. Said I was reincarnation of
Mozart, me, who used to attack jukes boxes with an
axe and am forever trying to find the perfect bar
where silence reign, and clinking ice in a glass, sounds
as musical as tinkling silver bells in Lhasa.

the long tumble

The Long Tumble

Can you imagine
what it must
be like,
fifty story up
a burning building
the only escape
from the fire is
the window
and as you fall
you hope
it will not take
too long,
but it takes
forever
so long in fact
that a hope begins
to form,
you know you’re
going to land
on a bed of feathers
or on a pile of
empty boxes,
it’s a huge joke
to tell a friend
one day

Cracks in The Mirror

Cracks In The mirror


The ship’s gone, sailed without me,
alone in a hotel room I sweat and try
to stop my hands from trembling;

they threw me ashore, the bastards,
I looked nonchalant walking down
the gangway, two fingers in the air;

now I have to leave, must walk tall,
I’m a real tough guy- get that right-
but first I need a little drink or two.

Walking home

Walking Home

Going home from the tavern, it’s gone non smoking
and for once I don’t smell like a walking ashtray, it’s
very late it has been snowing and I’m an unsteady
the wine was strong and I’m old, only a few stars out,
the rest have gone to a late A. A. meeting.

I listen to strange sounds, night is the day dreaming
muffled echoes of past’s voices and deep sighs, and
deep within me a sense of guilt I ought not go out so
much the tavern is not your place, I firmly tell myself
better than watching telly, my meek defense.

No streetlights, a temporary power failure; I thank
the sober stars reflecting light on snow. Near the house
my dog barks, but only once, greets me by the door
runs back to her mat on the floor, know she has slept
on the sofa, but I smile grateful for her fidelity.

the end of working days

The end of working Days

Lazy, they said I was, the old hands ‘cause I didn’t
want to sit in a foul bus at seven going to work at
a noisy factory, eight hours of recurring boredom

“Work makes you free!” Words written in blood on
an iron gate. “Labor is healthy,” the slaves say, men
whose will is broken, have no dreams only the pub.

A photo in the paper, my contemporaries has
retired from the factory, a golden, a handshake from
the boss they got, and didn’t expect anymore

I’m out if it I simply ran away, my life has been
abundantly spent doing as little work as possible;
yes know I’ll have to forego the golden watch.

the feeding

The Feeding

The sky is pale, white clouds have eaten
all the blue, then diminish into fading mist

Bright sun pales as the sky gets deep azure
when the day darkens into a mature afternoon.

peace in our time

Peace in our Time


I have no fear standing by the open window
where I live there are no snipers around and
no tank shells punch big holes in my house,
and I can drive into town buy an evening
paper without being shamed at a checkpoint
by soldiers who take glee in doing that since
I’m not like them

I heard the rifle shot that killed a twelve year
in her home, a bullet in her chest, it took her
three hours to die, the sniper must be proud
of himself, he’ll surely be suitable promoted.
The Middle East is not that far from here, and
for each time we look away in silence the war
is coming nearer our shores.

what love can do

What Love Did.


Coming out of the grocer’s I had bought a tin of beans,
mainly because it can be eaten cold, and a banana, easy
to peel, when caught and drowned in the greenness of
her eyes. Day and nights of intense pleasure no time to
think of the future, this lasted till her dream ended.

I found myself on a mile long beach that had nothing
but cold, wet sand; I dug a deep hole buried myself and
cried till the island flooded and I was rescued by a cutter
crewed by bearded men who make a living killing baby
seals that will make into coats for those with sex in eyes

I became a great hunter clubbed little seals my bloody
footsteps across the ice could be seen from the space.
a suitcase full to make the finest fur-coat seen, but alas,
when we met she had gone blind and lost her allure,
now I feel regret for the baby seals so needlessly killed.

the weight

The Weight

Guilt is a heavy burden
it makes you hate those
you trespassed against;

the urge is to erase them,
bodily and historically, so
there will be no trace;

of the grand larceny you
committed when robbing
a people of their land

the homogenous sky

A Homogeneous Sky

I wore a blue uniform once, guarded red tractors
from midnight till dawn, I had wanted a green
uniform, as the German police officers wear, but
a tractor went missing and I was dismissed.

It would have been much more fun if the British
police had worn, say, burgundy uniforms, that
would have made them less grim now that they
can arrest anyone on the suspicion of terrorism,

The khaki is a practical colour too for uniforms,
look at the US soldiers in Iraq, alien sand dunes
amongst the striped pajamas dressed multitude;
and they even went and won the war for Iran.

the way home

The Way Home

I could see my home it was afar but the landscape
was flat, in front of me a thousand of sand dunes
with silvery grass, that had to be crossed; when
the wind blew it looked like a petrified sea forever
going westward. I was on an unpaved wide road
used by everyone, walkers, cars, dogs, cats, tractors
and cyclists, here even the blind could walk without
fear, a highway of humanity unregulated by traffic
experts, but, alas, they were not going my way

Climbing each wave was hard work and I was tired
when reaching shore a landscape of rich soil and
endless potato fields and one flat boulder I climbed
to get my bearing, I couldn’t see my home , not any
home for that matter, but did see smoke far away at
the edge of the horizon. Exhausted I rolled out my
sleeping bag, I still had miles to walk, but it didn’t
worry me, now that I could boil, fry or bake delicious
tubers, there was no hurry getting home anymore.

patience

Patience

Spindrift at sea I can understand, it blinds.
My ship ran aground on a strand of pebbles,
coarse grass inland and goats, the frictions
of sea surge had made every tiny shingle
round; soon here will be a beach of golden
sand, hotels, restaurant and pocket thieves.
Oh, yes I had great plans, but ashore I met
a peculiar type of spindrift, it’s called love,
and she didn’t want to wait. When I could
see again I lived in small flat with a woman
and her noisy children, whom, she says, are
mine and working in a factory. The pebbled
beach has soft, yellow sand now where old,
rich men play with their second wife; and it
ain’t fair ‘cause it should have been me.

epigram

Epigram

Only when a black politician speaks and
Behaves as a whitey, can the middle classes
Vote for him; beat their common chest and
say: “There is no racism in The USA”

westerly landscape

Westerly Landscape

The wind blows here, over the flat landscape,
storm come in from the sea, tastes salt on lips
when bluster stills for a few days in the summer
voices carry long and people look up surprised
by their own clarity, as they are not used to
whisper their words here where wind screams
like women betrayed to a life of drudgery; only
the women stops hollering when their backs are
bent, but the wind never ceases its blaring
Winter here is full of hailstones and christianity,
traveling preachers rule this harsh landscape till
it softens in May when the fiddlers come around
and there is dance and moonshine made in barns.
The men of god stay away then, but they have
collected enough money to live in comfort, till
it is time, when autumnal wind freezes the loins,
preach from one cold hall to the next and in
the name of god keep sinners subdued till spring
comes around again and crude sex is made and
euphemistically called love