FIVE-FORTY

the moon the temptress
blouse buttons undone
lightening the last reaches of the night
beckoning and calling
the waves jumping and howling
the pack´s on heat

yes, empires and species die out
yet i sing, i breathe still
let´s hear it for the freaks, the competent, the great and the fuckers

let us go then
you and i
scared
clenching the reins awkwardly
to ride onwards
for just as long as it is possible

this is beyond that little love
this is beyond solidarity

my country

behind her skirts
a babe in the midst of bull rushes
hiding behind the girls hoola-hooping
trying not to get my clothes grubby
is it luxury to feel four years old ?
a crime?
irrelevant to the matter at hand ?
the festival of the judges is a riot of colours, styles, weapons, cults
machine gun pronouncements, slipshod hangings, sentences, barren wastes of time
i peer out through a crack to be nabbed by an unsteady moralist
who tells me to stand up and be counted
i scream
not my world
not my problem
i muff and swaddle myself wishing to be a hippo in his mud
a two year old with his bright yellow plastic ducks