NO PLACE

no foot to stand on
grabbing at the ropes
ocean churning and swelling
opening ravenous maws

my song is the sea
in every motion of her body
my song is at sea
with no ground
with no footing
and no bottom

WHAT´S IT LIKE LIVING WITH GEORGE ?

he´s a man without contours

a man of just corners

no fluidity

just knots of barbed wire

is this because of some great injustice

wreaked upon him ?

no

it´s just george´s way of expressing himself

of dramatising his little problems

yapping and giving out little cries

george suffers from absence

george is not there when he is here

when recalled, when one insists that he turn up,

a maudlin prisoner shuffles up

or an old queen in a pique pouting

petrified in painted styles

george misses his mummy

but that´s so many long years back now

lord have mercy on george

lord grant that he may take himself up

hot nights in the future

and it could so be
sometime in the red-pillared room
grimly sadly sweetly a hospital bed
and up on the night terrace
sun lotion, grill smells, perfume
waft up salty cloying his nostrils
he rides his forefinger over a well-clipped moustache
then howling at the wind and coughing and crying
he screams and hollers
like there is no tomorrow