It’s a revolt.
A revolution.

And in the name of God, they are building schools,

Delivering doctors, door to door.

They are conveying the message that people care,

And that no one is forgotten,
But,

Cameras are not allowed in some places.

People hoist burning American Flags which melt and,

Scar children with big brown eyes.

Women will not talk about this;
Allah is a man in uniform.

They talk a lot of *******.

They don’t clear the streets quick enough when it snows,
And get out of hand if you are not in it.

Short, fat, bald, and smoking a pipe,
Under a street lamp,

After-hours,
They lie.

I wear orange trousers and plastic,
Blue glasses,

And I think I have the answers to poor
******* collection.

The Indian before me has,
Wooden beads around his neck,

And thick toes
Sticking out from open leather sandals.

The other has greasy hair,
Dark skin,
And is very hairy,
In a turban.

They may have better ideas.

Devolve yourself,
From yourself,
To lead.

None of them are women.

I.

A guy was sent from East Germany to work in Siberia.

He knew his mail would be read by censors, so he told his friends,
Lets establish a code.

If the letter you get from me is written in blue ink,
it is true what I say,

if it is written in red ink,
it is false.

After a month his friends got the first letter.

It says, this letter: Everything is wonderful here,
Stores are full of good food,

Movie theaters show good films from the west,
Apartments are large and luxurious but,

The only thing you can not buy is,
Red ink.

This is how we live.

We have all the freedoms we want,
But what we are missing is red ink -

- the language to articulate our non-freedom.

II.

So then I was moved.

The pink and yellow bundle in the mothers arms,
Cuts three figures though the barren concrete landscape,

Son and wife and finally mother,
United in South Korea.

Frost in every breath,
A tight escape.

Warm soup around the table because,
Only mother know the pain of birth.

The raft did not fail this time and she showed up in a,
Yellow scarf.

Mother will be happy to learn the new ways,
Of feeding children soup.

And so, health.

And the discussion with mum’s friend,
Who has survived beyond her,

Turns to the evolution of mattresses,

Goose down,
Luxurious but bad for your back,

Foam,

Sometimes current but initially,
Uncomfortable,

Has silver hair that frames,
Her ice blue eyes perfectly,

And deep wrinkles around her mouth,
That light any room she’s in.

Ripe fruit can be determined by the smell of it.

A mango,
At the right time,

Will flood a kitchen with aromas that colour,
The entire house,

Dispersed into cupboards and,
Dispensed across living room sofas,

They can make you forget what you are doing as you,
Iron sheets,

Raising smiles in every nook and cranny…

If we live long enough,
Aliens may bring fruit,

That excites Amygdalas,
And titilates glands,

Caressing more than nasal passages,
Creating new sensations.

Out walking this morning,
Healthy and feeling good,

I remembered my sister and her fight with cancer,

And the frustration she expressed,
Not with the pain,

But with the body that would not allow her,
To spend time the way she wanted,

Time with her mother,
Her lover,
Her brother…

Out walking I was thinking,
A million dollars can change everything,

I feel now though that,
I’d be happier with health.

So.
Health.

The place I used to visit,
On bad days,
With yoghurt and spoon,
Is vacant.

The leaves are raked,
Into a neat pile,
By the bench,

And except for the newspaper,
Blowing about in the wind,
There is no-one here.

The river beyond,
Is a murky brown,
Same as it’s always been,

But,

Over the concrete wall,
On the sandy bank,
Is a briefcase.

Is it yours?

My name is Henry,
And I’ve been disappearing for years.

I can’t seem to find my way home.

Do you remember
the climb?

short or not,
shall we not?

Remember the trip up,
Longonot

can we not, did we not?

Remember fooling around,
In that old farmhouse,

will we not, **** tot,
love my hot
**** ***?

Let him have the car keys dear,
Let him go to Longonot.

I squashed a cockroach the other day.

A big, Fat, Cockroach.

It was trying to get away and I squashed it.

Not that I had anything against that, Particular cockroach but, I was bare-foot.

I had tea, And biscuits, And was bare-foot when he made his dash across the corridor.

It took some time to calm down and, Fetch another tray.

When I returned, The cockroach had moved.

A thick, white streak, Of substantial viscosity, Ran right across the floor and, Straight under my door.

Her gartered leg was up on the table.

She removed a delicate silver pistol and, With his back turned, Fired a single shot.

I used a shoe this time, Like a maniac,

And then, Framed by a single, Swinging light-bulb, Waited for the detective.