Pinot this and pinot that
This young Grenache is a trifle flat
Better to try and get along
With a slightly older Sauvignon

I sometimes get a trifle low
When dabbling in a cheap Merlot
And so to scare the blues away
Will sip a spendy Chardonnay

But to avoid real ennui
Drink super Oregon Pinot Gris
And let’s be quite awfully frank
That’s much better than Chenin Blanc

But while you sort out your Pinot
Give a break to Grignolino
It’s good, but not the same as
A bold and cheeky Oz Shiraz

And if you want to go very far
Don’t ignore local Pinot Noir
It always sells well on the block
And I wonder who likes Marechal Foch

As I was supping a cute Barbera
At a certain State affaira
Things got quickly very highbrow
When someone mentioned Muller Thurgau

It is no lack of vinous respect
That makes us scorn the best Malbec
And can you find me a single fan
Of that very odd vine, Carignan?

If one must go to a grapey hell
There’s good company in Zinfandel
But if we really must go
Could we have some Nebbiolo?

In the end we all agree
Any wine is better free
But if not free we’ll surely call
Any wine beats none at all!

The coca-******* parties
The weekend spews at 10
The cycle of sleeping and *******
Repeats itself again
The brown, the crack, the ****, the smack
Fuel her replica world
It’s a far off cry from the glamorous life
Promised to the matchstick girl

A head of hair thatched upon
Walls of weak foundation
The chic new style to fill the aisles
And sweep entire nations.
She’s Bambi on ice in a dress so tight
It would make your mother hurl
But we live in a time where all women pine
For the look of the matchstick girl

The big old Pappa Razzi
Guard her every step
From the same hold-hand fanatics
That crave her vinous breath
The punks, the queens, the teenage dreams
Who buy their love with pearls
Stick close to her side and somewhat abide
They’re friends with the matchstick girl.

The Sunday evening voicemails
The daily text of pain
From a desolated mother
Who begs to see her again.
The pleas, the cries, the tears don’t dry
While apologies unfurl
For the sins, the aches and major mistakes
Made by the matchstick girl.

Ten butterflies
flew out of her stomach,
they were like lilies
in the sun,
yet they were of all colours,
burst in havoc,
wings spluttered,
sparkles splashed,
undone;

one butterfly
was fiery and red,
she was off
to see honey and bread
with brave speckles of
yellow and black and orange -
in passion was her courage;

the second
was a blinding yellow and green,
fluorescent, painful almost,
a colour explosion
sharp and keen -
looking for juicy freshness
she flew, head foremost;

the third
was skinny
and long,
her skeleton
stood out,
her form
transparent,
yet strong,
with huge eyes
shining pale blue
and silver -
all around
the wings' edges
rippled a shimmering
shiver;

the fourth,
the fifth,
and the sixth
were all giddy and silly,
one could not make them out distinctly,
really;
their colour was jolly,
akin to a bubbling folly,
a heady array
of purple, and vinous, and gray,
and a sparkle of red and brown -
they fled in glee
to adorn somebody's crown;

the seventh
was the wisest and the fairest,
a wisdom fountain in the very form
of deep green
and the palest,
the palest yellow,
and a storm
of snow-white silver on its wings,
her eyes reflected ancient winds,
old woods and meadows,
restless seas and mountains' shadows -
she fluttered near
to chase away fear;

the eighth
was slippery and wet,
shining dark blue in one's eyes -
a still night, black rainy skies -
there was almost no light
and her sisters would fret
but in vain, for at the very bottom
her edges were tender,
the colour of cotton -
she'd be seeked for in despair,
as a token of hope
found in prayer;

the ninth
radiated pulsing pastel purple -
it glowed from within,
spreading out subtle light -
white veins adorned her wings
as spikes of wheels,
out of her center,
like a sizzling reel,
shone Tenderness - her teaching -
placid and bright -
she lingered about
her Mistress' kirtle
vibrating notes of peace
and of lucid bliss;

the tenth
was the Butterfly Lady of the Springs,
with bright and searching eyes,
and multi-coloured rings,
she was a mirror rainbow
of her fair sisters,
the most beloved daughter
of The Mistress -
flying about the world
with livelihood
she cried,
"Stand up and fight
for Love and Good!",
she spread the healing colour
round the Earth
so it be filled
with loud and needed mirth.

Ten butterflies
flew out of her stomach
and burst in havoc
round the world;

their Mistress no one ever sees -
she's the Forest Queen,
the unseen lass,
Aras of the trees, of the skies, of the grass -
whenever one thinks, "I got her", she flees;
the butterflies
will flicker her glimpse,
but only for a second
and maybe in one's dreams.

(c)kRu, 29.01.04-28.03.04

I was drowned in the forest,
So deep and dull.
Where filtered no light that was blessed from the sun
And yet I was on the run.
Flowers there don’t blossom
Nor did my pale heart drum.
For no different was I than Mephistopheles
And was a beast that bore no feelings.

Memory had deceived me of my spring,
A time that time had timed away from my rhyme.
A little a dull dream I no often had
Of light and flies and lies and cries.
Cries, Oh! Cries! Ah! Cries!
Had I not cried would the forest have died?
Reason would tell it all but no sharp mind had I.

Walk had moved me onto the rocks,
And then to the river of smoke had I gone.
The vinous smell of which
Lumbered me into a deep slumber.

In sleep I saw Dante the man
At whose side stood Beatrice for whom he was mad.
I who knew nothing of groom and bride,
Glared my pearls onto the Anglophile that then did land.
Pierced he his mighty hands into the air;
Who under his command turned dust to there.
At him I screamed to know it all,
And answered he to ‘Speak low if you speak love’.
Pointed he his silhouette to the deity and uttered:
‘She’s beautiful, and therefore to be wooed,
She’s a woman, and therefore to be won’.

What sorcery had I witnessed!
For I heard my heart to bump and drum!
Sweet was the stream that filled my canals,
Where the fiery fluid of life now flows.
Fresh became the air that I drew there,
And a soothe deep blessed was in me.


Baptised was I then as human
Invited me then merry men to their den.
Oh! The smile I bore on my lips
For would witness I the kind to which I belonged.
Eagerness sprung out o’ my spirit
For soon with my tribe I will be with.

A *******’s son, born in the Five Grains Field
he first learned to crawl on the yellow earth
where mint and sorghum thrived side by side
then he learned to walk on ancient dikes
learned to run among wild southern geese
he learned to rein his granduncle's mule
       (it leads him through those trackless fields)
But he always loved running on millet stalks
       (when grass bends under his weight) and
through and through the mountains until
his feet scraped by uneven stones until
they bleed through the earth he stumps until
his mother lured him with supper's warmth:
        —until life was siphoned by rattles and snarls
of brutish machines and a confusing tongue
and men chanting to the flags of the Rising Sun
"One question is all I ask, lusterless swain,
where do the men sleep when the sun sets?"
No words were spoken, and no more shall
when the bayonet pierced between his lips
—a soft tongue dropped with untethered flesh
When invaders aimed at his thatched hut
—where he first cried and searched for his father
where his grandfather died and his mother born—
he turned around and ran (no matter shelling
or the swooshing bullets- nor the callous fire!)
to find that old mule brayed for his master
they ran into the sorghums, the blue mist--
vanished in silence and mint's vinous scent
I never learned that child who loved running
was also me: in ten-thousand kinds of winds
that blew through the endless yellow earth
my great grandmother's mother loved a bandit
and gave him a place by her bedside hearth
Many years later a swain will roam the same fields
to see that unmarked grave, and blossoming sorghums.