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.