The boy on the bridge.

At the hospital, I woke up in the night
got up, walked into a hall I didn’t recognize
A nurse came and told me to go back to bed
“My father told me to stay here,” I said
I knew it was in a dream, a poem I had read
many years ago, when I could remember
with clarity what I read.
In the morning, waiting for breakfast,
coffee and a scone, a nurse was busy
sticking needles into me.
I tried to remember the title of the poem
“The boy on the burning bridge?.”

**** is real

I have an intimate connection with effluence
or **** of the animal kind.
I could, by aroma alone, which animal
had passed the track.
Most animal dung smell sweet, except for dogs
they have lived so long among us
they crap like us,
Dogs love their excrement and eat it.
A horse evacuation is like rare wine you promise
yourself to buy a horse when you have a garden
Vines that have been fertilized by a foals
morning *** is divine.
If your hands have been in the muck
nothing in the world can offend you.

The boy on the bridge.

At the hospital, I woke up in the night
got up, walked into a hall I didn’t recognize
A nurse came and told me to go back to bed
“My father told me to stay here,” I said
I knew it was in a dream, a poem I had read
many years ago, when I could remember
with clarity what I read.
In the morning, waiting for breakfast,
coffee and a scone, a nurse was busy
sticking needles into me.
I tried to remember the title of the poem
“The boy on the burning bridge?.”

The ship of ages
It was a hot afternoon when the big bulk carrier left a harbour
at the coast of Bengal bound for Sidney (Australia)
with a cargo of scrap iron from ships that once had ploughed
the many seas, alas too slow in our modern time.
Somewhere in the Indian ocean, the sea separated and
the bulk carrier fell into a timeless zone where life repeated
itself endlessly; the cook is making soup, the captain is
reading a map of the oceans’ great currents.
150 years passed convulsion in the time zone. and the ship
was back on the sea’s surface.
The cook served his soup, and the captain called the harbour
authorities in Sidney, he needed a birth for a ship no one
had heard of, but the manifest stated Sidney.
They let the ship birth on a disused pier far from the city
to the disappointment of the crew.
When the pilot left, he was pale and shaken as he
had navigated the ship through a layer of time.
The customs officials found cigarettes and whisky,
products that had been banned for over sixty years
only marijuana was legal if smoked in moderation.
The crew, the captain and the cook were arrested and sent to
an open camp for interrogation, it was there a nurse noticed
the tribulation was getting old by the day, and the crew could
no longer walk, many were incontinently suffered from senility
and chronic heart failure.
One day they had gone, what was left dust blowing in the wind.

The song of resignation

Memories are not crystal clear, a broken mirror on which the sun shines
The residue of the imagined, what ensued or will happen of equal interest
as time doesn’t, a time within does.
Past and future are the same pains me; I shall not see my savannah again.
No pictures, as a proof it existed, in the tall grass, see no wildebeest
my motorbike is sold, I can no longer pretend to be an adventurer.
What I do remember, through a haze, is my enduring remote happiness
perhaps that was an illusion too.
A vision of human disappointment, to try but never succeed.

The division

Here in this landscape of bushes and crippled trees
the grotesque peace of daylight ghosts, grey boughs
stretching upward appealing to a soundless god.
“Give us today a new life.” There is only one deity
the almighty one goes under the name of Silvanus.
Those who do not understand this are doomed to
a life of empty pursuit of pleasures.
Crowded nightclubs and casinos, people trying
not to be alone in the night and face the truth
we are mortals and infrequently remembered.
Faces in a black frame, seeing you seeing through
you and into an ever-expanding void.

When the time was a trial

Woke up, the bedroom was cold under the duvet snugness
I burrowed deeper enjoying the freedom of sleeping late.
Life was hard, getting up at five and preparing breakfasts for
grumpy seafarers smoking, the first cigarette of the day.
The breaking of the fast was endlessly tedious, something
with eggs and fatty meat.
Sometimes when there was a gap between feeding times,
say, dinner at twelve, I tried to write; my hands stank of chip fat.
On hundreds of pages, “I’m a life I’m a life”.
I pretended I was a robot, what the body was going through
the motion was not my concern; free to dream.
When peeling potatoes one morning, I was suddenly awake
Between fake brown gravy and spuds; there were no robots
me all along
the bed is warm, nothing can touch me now,
touch me now!!!!