A couple of poems I started on a recent trip to London.
the room offered two time zones
10:04 and 08:32
he stands in the centre
an hour rests on each open palm
real time prowls
waits to skewer you
Yes, the room did have two digital clocks, each showing a different time.
There was a heat wave going on that week and it sort of contributed to this.
whatever, the furnaces are fed
it is only nine o’clock
and already the room is too warm
unbidden the hot wind from the sahara
brings the words of his mother
days like this there’s no talking to him
too much in his head for him to ever hear you
the sun shall brick bake the air
his voices will yell the louderPretty bleak eh?
It was one of those poems that wrote itself, coming from somewhere deep inside.
Here's an accurate poster. I am glad I am not the only one upset by the antics of the shameless and apparently Teflon coated advisor to what is laughingly referred to as the prime minister...
Here's someone of quality, which is more than can be said of the poltroons in the cabinet, the majestic Ben Webster from 1964.Until next time.