They show me vast expanse of virginal lands.
They tell me words like breathtaking and lush.
They gaze at dusty trees and sprawling sands.
They point and gasp and they hum and they hush.
They show me all of Uganda at once,
Holding the globe in their palm and their whim;
They capture it with their drones, blazing guns,
Riding jeeps that cut jungles to a trim.
Their mirrors shine brighter than all the suns
They show me with praise and awe to the brim.
They rant about how clean, and how unbound,
How pure, as they yell and laugh and drop their
Trash, but not their attitudes, to the ground.
They cut through grass and leave cracks in their wake.
They screen their footage and their findings on
Flat-screens and talk of wonder and splendour,
Five-stars in forests and lights blinding on,
Massacring on hot days in December.
People who don their hypocritical explorers' hats, and gush about new places while destroying them.
I hold glass bottles to the sky
I go home and shelf them for light.
I crawl up and back into you
and wrap in warmth till I can't breathe.
Hold my head down inside your veins.
Your goosebumps hug me to you, snug,
When I find asylum under
I love you again. Just for a while,
While my mind pours columns of cold,
That hang over my head and haunt
Me with self-doubt till I stress out.
I watch the rain drip down my brain
And cut through ice and chloroform.
Everything looks whitewashed
----Against the rain on panes---
---Of glass. Every smile looks--
----Painted on, and stuck in-----
-----Place, fitting in perfect------
----Squares of frozen 4 by 4.-----
I have had ideas, many times;
I have had anger at all the world
And its plates and cups and knives and forks
And pots and pans.
I have used coffee scrub, up
To my elbows
And sugar scrub on my face.
I have stood over rose beds
With my legs far apart
And bled colour to the world below,
Trailing my hell along behind me.
I have had bitter blandness
Blanch the back
Of my throat and the roof of my mouth
Until all that was left was bleach.
I have held glass bottles to the sky
Waiting for thunderstorms.
I have whispered my love to the palm of your hand,
Then watched it drain out through the cracks into sand.
But still I will eat
All my meals out of teacups/
I will let my blemished body be/
I will smell every flower
Growing along the side of a drain/
I will gargle before bed
With pinecone and cherry grain/
I will watch
Outside my window for hail/
I will whisper other things to you
Until the end
Or tomorrow --
Whichever comes first
-- and hope that inspiration strikes.