Tired Of Running

The memory
Stands like a cracked bronze statue
in a museum
talking, smiling we are tired with life

We struggle to frustrate
old pressures on our backs,
rain beats the ground, we flounder, slip
But still has to survive the implications

Having traveled far, I came upon
mountains of histories ,
dead lakes on which libraries are erected
wheels of the train pass us
chattering like idiots
billows of future meandered, followed the rainbow

Sugar and salt are same to a dying tongue
I must try to join
the broken particles of my slate
though the line maybe there
and only keen eyes will see that my slate broke once,
and on walking was joined
the slate with a line, not black, not white
I will hitch hike with pilgrims to Vietnam to harvest rice

Leaf In The Wind

Leaf In the Wind
I am the man the colour of Night
Leaf in the dream, I go at the
drift of my dream
I am the tree budding in spring
The dew that hums in the
baobabs hollow
Leaf in the wind, I go at the drift
of my dreams
I am the man they complain of
Because opposed to formality
The man they laugh at
Because opposed to barriers
Leaf in the wind,I go at the drift
of my dreams
I am the man they talk about
*OH HIM*
Him you cannot hold
He is like the breeze that
touches you and is gone
Leaf in the dream, I go at the
drift of my dreams
I am the man whose dreams
Are manifold as the stars
More murmurous than swarms
of bees
More smiling than childrens
smile
Leaf in the wind, I go at the drift
of my dreams
I am the man without a penny
I am a school dropout with no
Stake
But still I will go at the drift of
my dreams.

THE BASTARD

THE BASTARD
An unlucky creation,
His mother, a street walker
His lying father,
A champion at producing
bastards
It is not his fault
Poor innocent bastard,
That in slums he is brought up
By a mother that has no
husband
Though many a husband he sees
Caressing his mother
On a lumpy stool or lumpy bed
An unlucky creation
This bastard
Before birth heavily and
mercilessly tormented
With a rope tied round the
mothers waist
To tangle the foetus
Or his unformed head
Squeezed with hands rough and
murderous
Never will he know motherly
love
Or feel soft hands,
Only the rough fist of old
whores
Dried breasts and stinling spiittle,
And when his mother is gone
To earn her shilling
To bars they are brought
The bastards
Thrown at the father
Like rotten pawpaws
And he , to escape abuse and
shame
Runs faster than the kite
His beer undrunk