Demon

short poetry, God, felony, criminals, death, purgatory

You would walk into a quiet house,
In a quiet neighbourhood and,
Take a young girl,

Into the woods,
And rape her,
Leaving a father disfigured,

You would,
Take a husband,
In the middle of the night,

And break his legs,
And electrocute him,
Because he will not salute your
Blown up image,

You would,
Empty bank accounts,
Nurtured for years,

By elderly couples who,
Just want rest,
And something leftover for grandchildren,

You would dismantle life this way,
And bear no burden?

I tell you,

There were angels in the courtroom,
And in the playground,
And on the plane,

But I was not one of them.

I will find you and,
Eat you up.

Root Canal

short poetry, words move, coral, diversity, environment, kindness,

There’s a starfish in my tooth he says,
A golden starfish nestling in the reef,
Infecting the coral and,

I’m in the deep blue ocean,
Among sea creatures,
Yellow and purple jellyfish,
Undulating in the current,
Stingrays swooping by,

Luminescent seaweed hanging over caves,
Like electric blue curtains,
At a tatoo parlour.

An octopus rakes the sea floor with a puff-adder,
And shoals of Zebra fish stop,
Long streams of impatient shark traffic,
For boisterous packs of anemone in school uniforms.

My dentist wields a wand.

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Morning Come

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Your thoughts are on pink.

Pink elephants with floppy ears,
Pink polcadot pillows,

Pink rabbit-eared flip-flops with,
Non-slip soles,
Pink cereal,
Pink hair bobbins, and
The bright pink coffee shop,
You would take her to,
To apologise and review,
Her new pink shoes.

Why must everything be so loud?

Bedraggled mops slop over,
Tired hospital tiles,
The mobile phone on the bed-side table,
Won’t stop vibrating and the,
Bed-springs squeal,
Each time you move.

The smell of antiseptic will not overcome,
The stench of sweat on soiled sheets or,
Iron in new blood,

Hush,

Nine months of nausea,
Nine months of chocolate,
Will come your way again,

Hush.

Morning come,
Morning come.

Keep me out of this one

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the lone yellow pebble
bore witness to the
abduction that took place at midnight

the man was bound
and gagged
and led away as women wept

keep me out of this one

did you know that a bear needs
twenty seven square miles
of forest
to live?

keep me out of this one

the woman cut the balls off
the man who raped her

keep me out of this one

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Officer in charge.

OCPD

“There are no terrorists in this location”

Reads the title,
In classic bold type,

On Foolscap paper,

On a dusty desk,
Inside a police outpost in Isiolo.

“The drilling rigs will make no difference to,
The cows or the goats or the lives of the people,
Who do not live here.”

“The construction does not impinge on farms,
And will be manned by machines not capable of dying,
So there is no need to worry…”

“The oil will be distributed fairly,
According to the percentages,
Agreed to in the constitution.”

“The matter of people living
In Isiolo does not come into this.”

“There are no people here.”

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My first lie

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I spoke French for thirteen years
I say to him
And he smiles.

More cheese.

Soft night yields to love,
Rap is the only hard night sound,
The White man is out of his depth,
Even in French.

He leans forward and whispers in my ear but,
The first lie was mine.

We’ll count them later,
In the fullness of time.

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I wish we had played on all night.

evocative, short, poetry, words, move

I wish we had played on all night,
African cowboys with not much,
Else to do,

I wish we had challenged the fish in the sea and,
Called out to the Bison,

My father and his band,
And his

-strike while the iron is hot-

Jive,

Johnstone, his brother,
On the drums,
Kicking up a riot,

Sarah the lead,
Crooning about her rescue from a,
Very bad man,

Lydia,
Lead back-up,

Flinging in the,
‘Alleluiahs’, and
‘Godda-let-it-be’s!

Samuel,
A doctor dying of AIDS,
Breathing life into a tin-metal harmonica,

‘Alleluhia,’

Rocking the old man at the end of the bar,
And the couple at the table, fighting with their lips,

I think heard it coming when he fumbled the line,
And I wish we had played on all night.

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Ready to Land

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They’ve dimmed the lights
getting ready to land
service staff buckled down
can’t see me pull out my camera,
start clicking, clicking down the sci-fi lights,
like some Twilight Zone episode
where I’m holding my breath,
waiting.

Waiting for that thing
You know, the thing
the monster
that tormented William Shatner,
sitting in his youthful beauty
beside his slender generic wife
elegant in a slim fitting suit
oblivious to him there
spying the monster on the wing.

Difference is I’m not afraid of the monster
I’ve glimpsed him
every now and again,
ducking away as soon as he spies me.
It’s okay.
Really.
Observing things changes
the way they behave.
We can live with monsters quite nicely.
We’ve just got to keep an eye on them.

I’ve got eyes.
All kinds of eyes
to see all kinds of things.
I’m paying attention.
Even if you are not.
Even if you are sitting quietly
in your seat
in the dimmed cabin
waiting for the plane to land.

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