years days moments minutes hours months weeks decades,
pockmarked,
weary,
skidding,
clinging onto,
raging roads,
hobbled,
shovelled,
dragged deep,
wrestling demons without,
within,
yet always,
always,
hugging hope,
as night yawns,
and a new day dawns …
talkin’ double-standerds blues
i am bewildered,
the hypocrisy wrapped up and glistening,
plastic foil skin deep,
disregardin’ the ‘others’,
yet we feel pain,
&
yes we weep,
for ‘our own’,
cos’ ‘our’ pain is true,
and,
‘they’ after all,
are savages,
&
ingrates too,
they bite the very paws of those who kindly let them out of the zoo,
so don’t stand there so smug & fuelled by righteous passion,
’cause you and i know that soon we’ll be last decades’ spent fashion,
i don’t know if you’re catching my drift,
or am i being simple,
nuanced subtleties being in short-shrift,
i don’t even know if that sentence makes any sense,
or any of the yakkitty yak yak i scribble,
but i swear i can feel it,
machete-like in my bones,
my own hypocrisy slithering within,
as i you him her we she he & coming back to i again,
wrapping ourselves in that awful plastic foil,
skin-deep,
all as we drizzle lemonsalt on long open wounds,
rubbing some depleted uranium in there so it really stings,
while we shop till we drop,
&
while we pray for the glorious bounties the next shopping-mall brings
ps: rest in peace, empathy & compassion
peace | love | uBuntu
Talkin’ Sunday Jazzy Blues …
A day of rest,
one is told,
that even God took some time off,
leaving His children to worship Him some more,
while He stood on high,
to chastise us some more,
to scoff,
isn’t it ever enough,
the hollering,
the counting of the rosary,
those infinite beads,
on whose counting,
the merciful God feeds.
its sunday,
bluesy tones and jazzy notes,
are all I wish to hear,
not the tolling of the church-bell,
gently reminding me,
that unless I confess,
i shall be damned in some fiery hell.
i feel the same of fridays,
when my brothers prostrate themselves at noon,
while my sisters slog over pots of food to feed the spiritually under-nourished,
laying the tables,
as the faithful return from the stables.
and on saturdays too,
in the synagogues,
packed like pickled herring,
my brothers and sisters,
eyes closed in penitence,
seek absolution,
and all I wish for is simple revolution,
a tearing down of these quaint edifices,
that pander to some mythical maker,
all I need is my honeyed weekend,
free of sanctimonious clap-trap,
devoid of wishy-washy assurances of everlasting life,
hell, my life’s already a convoluted dead-end,
filled with discarded emotions, blinded by strife,
so I’ll have my weekend,
and I’ll have it now,
if you please,
as I savour my extra-matured,
pungent cheddar cheese,
to the sounds of Coltrane,
of Thelonius, of Satchmo, of the Duke, and of Miles,
the simple life,
some jazz,
and
a few smiles
Scribbled Verse 