I’m tired of all the tedium,
the mediocre unctuous glum
of images fed through word-machines
from the barely serviced slum.

Word thoughts melt, fading, away in memory,
running like a sailor
late, after messing up on shore leave, left his uniform with the tailor

Hounds are at my door wanting to claw out my eyes
I say to myself “this must be it, this is how a poor man dies.”

The wind cuts like a stiletto, the flowers are starting to bloom
the soldiers lay down the dying, while daughters shoot up in their rooms

Nineteen years, nineteen lies
Nineteen lockups where justice dies
Nineteen children dragged away
by nineteen others, one fine day.

Who was it who killed poor George Floyd,
who made his life null and void?
“Not me” said the cop who stomped on his neck
“I was just tryin’ to keep the man in check.”

An’t no words, ain’t no actions,
ain’t no turgid explanations
Ain’t no thieves, ain’t no captains,
ain’t no dirty complications

​In Autumn, Spring, or both, write the leaves
that fall, bud, blossom or bloom
and children summoned after breakfast,
clean plates, wash hands, to tidy up their room

If only I’d had one moment
if only I’d had some time
if only you’d let me make some still small sense
of this imaginary rhyme

If I go down to the water I can see it,
momentarily –
It reveals itself in the ripples, as if it’s winking,
slyly, at me

Fires are burning, lines are bracing
Nights in silence, hearts are racing
Tongues are wagging, shelves are clearing
help arrives, for the hard of hearing

I’m no longer here –
I’ve been in the papers, they use the word “tragedy”, a tragedy of sorts –
no longer able to breathe, that crash, others thrown clear –

The mattress is comfortable, our neighbours are kind –
they gave us some spare clothes to wear –
our Father went over to the promised land –
he told us he’d wait for us there.

Why would you bother,
with any of it, with any of it at all,
with nowhere to lay your head,
it spinning like a ball.

I sat with my professors
philosophise as they teach
“be careful,” they said “clanging bells may drown out,
the conclusions that you reach.”

The road is filled with burning wood
people leaving, told they should
grab some clothes and hit the road
and hear the windows behind explode

My neighbour, with his driveway entrance,
hardwood double doors
and the multi-level rooms,
over gleaming, silk-screen shores

This freedom of speech, how do you defend it
is it so close to your heart that you need to befriend it
dignified silence, jettisoned, forgotten
views contrary, sullied, putrid and rotten

My days are numbered I know that well
it is why I’m stuck here in this living hell
the biscuits stale, the tinkle of tea
and the nurses told not to bother with me

It’s not our fault, we’re not to blame
we’re just trying to maintain our freedom
we mine our dark materials, this is not a game
because there are other poor people who need ‘em

I don’t do it for you , so your thoughts can rest easy
as you nod in your pleasant agreement
while you sip on your drink, peculiar and queasy
at my anticipated long due achievement

Sheep droop jaw and hooves split in the stumble for the hay,
eager teeth picking at the stubble and the crust
Knees buckle their hollow humble eyes stare down and absorb
what was mud is now unsullied deep red dust

There’s a sweet sweet sound moving across the settled ground
it whispers in my ear in the morning
like a solitary breeze that whistles through the trees
and summons all the birds to cease their yawning

What are we made of? asks the child who cries
who just wants a toy she can play with
or to ask most politely before she dies
“is there someone out there I can stay with.”

My, what a lovely place you have
you must be very proud
I love your modern furniture
and the space that you’ve allowed

The lifestyle you ordered is currently out of stock
our warehouse has been stripped of supplies
our people are working around the clock
be sure to remember your size

There’s a ghost selling memories down by the shore
as a jury decides its fate
there’s a man of religion knocking at my door
I need to lie down, he can wait.

Stooping down and listless still
the rain, the pavement scarried
the men they took my food and oil
and all that I had carried