illogical dust

Piss in my eyes then.

I taste only lemon.

Shit on my dignity,

I’m swimming in heaven.

Spit on my spirit,

is water to drink.

Slap my face,

my gaze does not lessen.

Set fire to my dreams,

now that’s a transgression.

Tonight, the windis a criminal thing, elementally cruel,horribly insane it kicks and it slashesat fragile things, like a street thug at war with the world. But this is meTurned inside out, Set loose and rampant,Afraid of herself, Shredding leaves from the treesWith masochistic disconnection; A primal howl that screams“Lock your windows, stay indoors”

You stroke my silence,Tending to invisible wounds.With you, my existence is justified.Regret becomes a smile,Mistakeages are rectified.

The verge, beneath the bridge. Parched concrete and grit, Little suns on sticks; Provocative flamboyance in a road-dust desert. I wonder about places we grow, and the food we need. Are we flowers or weeds?

Poetry Performance

We re-visit stuff all the time. Nothing is ever finished. Here’s a new impromptu version of “Stop”. In this era of free speech the question is – do we think enough before opening our mouths? Do we own what we say?

Look closelyand you’ll find in ‘mother’,Another word entirely; ‘other’.

Glove puppet politics The hand is unseen. Playing to the crowd, Never really give-a-sh*t. Glove puppet politics, Lick-a-lot-a-ar*e One eye on the ballot box, Division is a handy trick, Democracy? A farse.

Spoken word and percussion.

1-take homegrown poetry improvisation with percussion. Rough mix.

Always afraid of the unfamiliar,

Ready to hate on those not similar;

Before you do that, and out of respect,

Can I suggest you look in your mirror?