Venezuela.

From favelas in the hills

we will descend upon you

like a swash -

angry, and yet peaceful in motive.

We will wound your tyranny

and your reign shall bleed to death.

we want our Hugo back;

we want our Chavez.

And so in the night

the light of a distant helicopter

signals the light of democracy;

hope is restored once again.

We move back into our barrios

and return to our communities,

sure in the knowledge

that our constitution shall once again breathe.

But the future will always be uncertain:

it seems the giant above us

never sleeps.

Bertrand Russell on his beliefs (short video).

The notorious PAB....

Mumbai.

Walking the streets

are haggard children:

far too torn and ragged

a picture of youth;

feet hard with miles

of incessant walking -

like somnambulants endlessly

walking through infinite deserts.

Their eyes are broken,

but somehow still full of

the colour of youth.

Their faces are beautiful,

and yet tell of a struggle

that's been wreaked

since time's conception.

They sell anything they can find;

steal anything they can find -

just to buy lentils and rice
and keep clothed and dry.

Sewerage lines overflow

into the streets,

and children

bathe in the water.

All's not well in Mumbai,

or Detroit, or Flint,

or Wigan, or Bristol,

or Beijing, or Ulan Bator;

all is not well.

Your whitener,

and your methamphetamine,

and your presciption pills,

and Valium and Zantac and Vicodin;

all is not well.

It's part of a culture

that we're creating,

but which we'll never know;

it carries on like some shoddily written tragedy

shown in a broken theatre;

God bless the world.

Keith Olbermann on the Haitian disaster and the comments of Rush Limbaugh and Pat 'anti-Christ' Robertson.

Rifle scopes with engrained Bible verses on them.

Luckily, this company has now been stopped/prosecuted.

Baby teeth (haiku).

Baby teeth, you grind

softly; you dribble: eyes wide

at the thought of food.

Baby, you grasp with

chubby arms; arms like the fat

of the early world.

You smile, but frown

as you teeth; I soothe you with

smiles, rum and milk.

You clasp my finger

and play with my hair; amazed

at textures unknown.

One day, you'll have

your own babies with their own

baby-toothed smiles.

And one day, you'll

again feel the walls of the

world, in awe of them.

But you won't be trapped;

the world is your oyster; make

sure you flesh it out.

Walls cannot hold you;

neither can I; but baby,

please remember me.

Baby, I love you

like a loved-up artist loves

his unfinished work.

I love you like I

loved the bottle; I've now

traded vice for love.

Nature poems.

Part 1: the seeing.

Penned nature poems
In the darkness of twilight
For your child's pleasure.

Purple sky streaked with
Milk, and a Moon of pale death
Throwing light on trees.

The outlines are framed
In front of mountains and creeks;
Carried down river.

Part 2: the calling.

Coyotes beg the
Moon to come down and play; far
From its starry friends.

The trees seperate
As if channeling nature's
Will; wind scowls: deep tones.

And the night is writ
Like it's for my eyes only,
And I write the night.

Part 3: the being.

Nature poems: my
Play thing, in the dead of night;
When all has made winks.

Submerged in deep sleep,
But hearts thud in baritone;
In my mind, I hear.

Water is the life;
For the life of me, never
Might we become merged.

Part 4: the becoming.

When all is quiet,
I see your eye above the
Trees; you call to me.

You whisper in my
Ears and caress my senses
With autumnal words.

When my eyes open
I can smell your life and waste,
And I see clearly.

The flood....

Illegal alien.

I've been running all my life
but I've yet to find
a place to call my own.

I've the right
to settle where I like;
lines drawn in dirt
won't keep me from my throne.

I've got no place here;
I've got no place there;
but I'll find my place
anywhere;

they say I am wrong;
they say I don't belong,
but all paths must meet
in the end.

I've been on the road
for most of my life;
looking for any place
that'll take me;
any place that'll take me -
any place I can lay down my strife.

Won't you take me tonight?
I'm cold and on my own.
most of my family's dead;
the rest have mostly flown.

Won't you take me tonight?
I'm cold
and all alone.
All alone.

All is not well
where I'm from;
It doesn't seem that much better
elsewhere.

But you could change my story;
there must be good people
out there.

I don't have much clothing,
but I'm willing to work.
Don't turn me away
because you feel you've been hurt.

I've got no place here;
I've got no place there;
but I'll find my place
anywhere.

I can't speak all that well,
but I am strong.
My dignity is not
for sale.

Just because you've lived here
longer than I
doesn't mean you can commit me,
commit me to die.

I am a being.
I have a heart.
You have no right
to tear it apart.

I've been running all my life
but I've yet to find
a place to call my own.

I've the right
to settle where I like;
lines drawn in dirt
won't keep me from my throne.

City of Immigrants.

An ode to reckless teenage bravado.

You're the victim of
Fear in vanity's clothing.
But I still
Want you,
And need you,
And adore you;

Even though you might
One day
Become
A supernova;

But, I'm secure
In the knowledge that
You'll never
Collapse
Into a
Black hole.

Kick up the leaves,
And curse the heavens
For being too perplexing;
But one day
You'll know them
Like your palms,
And psalms,
And everything else in your dreams.

Funeral.

Crying at a funeral
For no particular reason,
Other than the heavy sense of
Grief and
Similar watered eyes.

We all cry the same;
Though in different moments
And shades;
Some tears are kept inside
And lubricate us,
Tempting us to fall apart
Like frantic machines.

Crying at a funeral,
For no other reason
Than respect:
A poor and facile reason
That any cheap conjuror
Can tease
From water-ready eyes.

Crying at a funeral
Because I would like
To have known you
And loved you
Like your dearest;

But I never did.
And I never will.
So I sigh,
But my eyes don't become moist
With tears
That have no place,
Or bearing
Within my soul.

I'm sorry,
But sometimes the dead
Die quietly,
And the living
Have quiet thoughts,
That cannot be placed
And so live
In suspended animation;

But somewhere,
Real tears are shed for you;
Tears that began on the day of
Creation;
Tears that will run for ever,
Weeping at the beauty,
And banality,
And wonder,
And futility of it all;

Tears that run through us all,
And prompt us to remember
That one day,
We will die so pointlessly -
Like you -
After living under the
Hammers of others,
And a boundless night sky.

No matter.

No matter how obscene you think it -

no matter how crazy they say it might be -

a crazy thought is not the preserve

of a crazy mind

or a violent sea.

A thought is all yours:

an expression of you;

and it matters not that others tell you

that you're a fruit

or cuckoo.

Don't worry on keeping quiet

or keeping your thoughts within;

your thoughts are for you -

they're not for others' whims.

They say that it's 'random',

but that's such a facile word.

The only thing that's random

is that their aims are so absurd

as to try to shut you up;

as to try to dumb you down;

and put you in a suit,

and cavort you about town -

like a monkey on a string,

or a child with a noose;

or some colourless thing,

like a dead and lame goose.

No matter what they say;

no matter what they do;

your tomorrow is today,

and you

are you,

are you.

Hate.

Can you feel the hate
Swirling within you?
You mask it as 'humour'.

One day,
It will turn you inside out
And swallow you whole.

And where you once were
There shall remain a heavy presence
That quickly goes unnoticed.

The teeth within you
Will develop an appetite
Whose calling can't be sated.

And so you will crease,
And fall in on yourself,
Like a neutron star in its death throes
In some uncared-for
Pocket of the universe.