Dis poetry is like a riddim dat drops
De tongue fires a riddim dat shoots like shots
Dis poetry is designed fe rantin
Dance hall style, big mouth chanting,
Dis poetry nar put yu to sleep
Preaching follow me
Like yu is blind sheep,
Dis poetry is not Party Political
Not designed fe dose who are critical.
Dis poetry is wid me when I gu to me bed
......
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree :
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round :
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree ;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
......
Let us be apart then like the panoptical chambers in IC
patient X and patient Y, our names magic markered hurriedly on cardboard
and taped pell-mell to the sliding glass doors, "Mary", "Donald", "Tory";
an indication that our presence there would prove beyond temporary, like snow flurry.
Our health might be regained if aggressive medical action were taken, or despite
these best efforts, lost like missing children in the brambles of poor fortune.
The suffering of another's I can only envision through the mimesis of my own,
the alarming monitor next door in lieu of a heartbeat signifying cardiac arrest,
prompts a scurry of interns and nurses, their urgent footsteps to which
I listen, inert and prostrate, as if subject to the ground tremors of
......
My ears had shrivelled
A soothing voice I’ve only felt
In dreams of mine before this yet
Before the night I’ve always kept
Fell upon me
“Have you forgotten how we spoke before?
Have you forgotten stacks of books
That we don’t need not anymore?”
......
Whole atmosphere is
Magnetic
Environment is
Full of magic
I am overwhelmed by yellowish
In yellow
The whole creation is
Watching your feat
......
Blood. Red revolution
hero her narrator
invented the derailer
for the train spinning in spirals
driving in loops.
I can still see the looping point.
World-ending catastrophes, world wars,
crises,
had become cliche.
......
all that's heard is tinnitus
all that's felt is about the same
staring at you at no length
your sight forever blank.
play as radiators in winter
burst
its waters steaming across facades
failed
this part is cancelled
......
a deer lays dead
underneath the puddle
whose cauldron it is in
something's missing
a foot three deeper
new branches lay
forcefully shed
but for a moment
......
Grasses wheezing in the breeze
Hiding secrets underneath
A sun's rays through vegetation
Lighting crows's anticipation
Critters chatting on the bog
Calling out to me: "Ya hog!"
Apostle's ashes on the ground
To be masked by pollen abound
A crow's work washed up at rivers
......
as I lay away
their chest is still coarse
from what isn't there.