I will not leave anything
So mean as a promise to you.
Nor with trifles, stand trembling
And suffer penance
Below your bastion box.

But I am now hard-put
And sweet meats the dearer to me for it.

The lamps in the parlour are doused;
She has emptied them of gas--
Critical, unforgiving crone!
And left me alone in the house.
Does she mean this be for good?

She has called me “disgraced”
And thinks that her going
Will “purge this taint”
From my soul.
But I shall go on as I have,
Doing the right things
At the wrong time,
As is my genius,
Until the chloral takes me,
You forgive me,
Or night falls.

Kalanchoë, finally you bloom!
Welcome little foreigner,
To the corner of my room.
With frangipani flame
And crocus-gold effulgent.
Strains past succulent skin
Joyous, ebullient!
Though your petals grow
Just to hold it in,
Fiery blood escapes
Past watery blocks of ester-swell
And you exult with me
In a wintry cell.

I have ever felt alone.
Marooned on a rock,
Surrounded by dead stock
Absent of mind or independent thought.
Idiocy is idealistic, ignorance bliss,
I envy this in them.
The burden of intellect is straining on the mind and once knowledge is gained escape, hard to find.

Walking thin lines between the mundane and mad,
A life drained of meaning,by the hand of definition.
Cornered by the finality of decisions I never made.
Alone.
Afraid.
Living in a time, after all has been said and all is being said.
After foundations laid and built up
into city states.
Now I’ll get to stand on its grave and watch as what makes us individual fades.
We’ve become slaves to lit pathways and the printed words on the back of meals that say
PUT ME IN THE MICROWAVE!
For one and a half minutes.
Then stir.
Going in circles with my spoon feeling a discontent bafoon because my life comes pre-prepared, easy to serve and consume.
These presumptions leave us no room, our creativity entombed.
But maybe one day when the worlds not so broke it will be exhumed.
I write to them from the world we broke.

Not so long ago we were made orphans                                                          ­                                                        Plucked form the family tree that grew us into a nation                                                           ­                                        Phobia struck us like cholera                                                          ­                                                                 ­          Religion armed us against our brothers                                                         ­                                                                Leaders occupied with zero point agenda.
.
Blood, our special kind of rain                                                             ­                                                                 ­           poverty, the only completed government project                                                          ­                                                                 ­                                                Corruption, our newly designed flag                                                             ­                                                                 ­  And breath, our only hope.
.
Empty caskets call silently for our body                                                             ­                                                             As we shoved old bones to make room for new ones                                                             ­                                         Our pain covered with GREEN and WHITE paints                                                           ­                                                          Pain, pain all over and over again.
.
We've found a new home                                                             ­                                                                 ­                           Back in the ruins, where we came from                                                             ­                                                                 ­ Let's mske our tents,and forget fishing traps                                                            ­                                              Because we might be here for an hundred while.

Drunkpoet

I was walking leisurely
one fine day
I found a shortcut
on the way
but it wasn't to be
I landed up under a tree
grazed my arm
and my knee
The root of the tree
I didn't see

A young lass lifted me
up from the grass
She was half my age
so I didn't mind
the fall
Shaking, she took me
home for tea
All because of the root
that I couldn't see