Playlist by the fire
as we drink tea
& roll one,
circa 1983.

The Cure & Talking Heads,
Big Youth & The Congos,
Killing Joke & Dennis Bovell,
Patti Smith & Misty in Roots,

Mike stroking his long
long beard,
Kim always up & down
like a yo-yo,
I hung loose as the guy
from next door put his
head round the door
to see if we had anything,

he was a laugher that one,
used to watch the snooker
on a small black & white
tv with the sound down
while he listened to Keith
Jarrett play his piano,

nice guy.

A convoy of trucks crossing the desert ...
dust ...
& a constant passing
in the moonlight,

dead parrots in a flowing stream,
jewels ...
in the palm of the hand,

white women
wearing long dresses,
whales ...
in the deepest, deepest
part of the ocean,

smooth fingers
caressing her thigh ...
dark hair ...
twisting in the wind.

Amidst the forest
& fields of lush, lush green
the ladies dance
in their red,
their yellow
& their blue,
while the studious men
watch from afar ...

what dreams!

Eating Cadbury's chocolate handed
to you by sultry Amazons as you
float gently down the river Seine
in Paris while accompanying Frenchmen
in berets gently play their harmonium
thingy as the younger Brigitte Bardot
lets her blond hair tumble gently over
your face as she softly hums in your
ear songs by Smokey Robinson,

& meanwhile Hendrix's long sweet jam
Voodoo Chile blasts from enormous
banks of speakers being towed alongside
by Viking longboats crewed by Republican
politicians & overseen by the ladies of
***** riot now free from the prison cells
of Siberia,

as Tommy Cooper performs magic tricks
& near extinct animals, birds & insects
mate freely among floating clouds of
vapoury spring dew,

while deliciously gorgeous Thai ladyboys
slowly peel grapes for me before setting
off in a fluttering cloud to use their wiles
& charms on Republican conventioneers,
as you relax & smoke ***** & share a
hot-tub with God.

Joy.

Subtle rhymes
are my forte,
raised on Pound
& Belafonte,

succoured on Yates
& then Bukowski,
slept with earphones
tuned to Count Brodski,

the other kids
they loved me so,
for all the places
my rhymin'
dared to go,

taunting teachers,
mocking dads,
laughing at those
silly fads,

& in the playground
I would rap,
my friend Nigel
doing taps,

& as I stepped down
from the bus,
boys would cheer
& shout & fuss,

Rhyme us!
Hit us!
1, 2, 3 ...

Martin's here
all fancy free.

There's more honesty
in the dance
of the
Hare Krishna's
than in the
whole recorded
unexpurgated
output
of that shallow
vicious
son of a gun
Rush Limbaugh.

There's more honesty
in the Indian practice
of cleaning
your ***
with water
than there is
in the fearful
paranoid
lunacies
of that *******
Wayne Lapierre.

There's more honesty
in the corridors
of the insane asylum
just west
of town
than from the chattering
smart suited
short-skirted
well combed
anchors
of that
infamous TV station
for 68 year old
and upward
aging
white men.

There's more honesty
in the chirrup
of a cricket
or the crows
caw
than in the
dismal distractions
of this
chattering culture,
which daily
deceive
&
distract
us,

oh yes.

We're told Trump supporters
too are a varied hew of rainbow
shades & various kinds of light
& dark,

but Trump Rallies & protests
& adorations are almost utterly
completely without a doubt
white folks.

White folks with head-scarves & t-shirts,
the plump middle-aged,
some bitter young boys,
'Build that Wall' & 'Deport" signs
carried by stocky menacing
biker lookalikes
with wrap-around shades.

lots of blondes,
chubby rural mamas,
Confederates, Supremacists,
the lady from the bank,
Mrs. Blow from San Antonio,

White folks ...
they just a keep a comin'
carryin' those signs,
wearing that awful red hat,
waving very small
US flags
in their hopeful
loyal & foolish
hands.

Broken ...
vital parts not working
too well,
running o.k. to keep going
but missing ...
just missing ...
a certain something,

everyone else has it,
being born you should
have it,
wheeled straight out
into the world
all shiny & new
& its there,
its there,

but damage affects,
wears down natural
turning of cogs &
wheels,
what should be normal
turns to left
or right,
smooth-running
& all & such,

broken ...
& in the end
some just cannot,
come what may,
try how hard,
be fixed,

returned to vitality
& the identity
of those first innocent
& natural days.

Broken.