In the Attic

The boy speaks in tongues
and sometimes it is hard,
it is hard sometimes, to relate -
if he will grow up
what is the point.
If he will grow out of his toys,
if he should grow up
what is the point of there being a boy?

Under the skylight he sits and spatters,
he listens intensely to bits and matters -
crackling the spine of his phases,
caressing the eyars. Brushes his cheek
on old wood pine pages,
and flicks, twitches, picks and splatters,
and dims, switches and licks his lips faster -

the sun shines through his wood pine hair.
He likes the warmth, and sits and looks
lightly, light binding his boyish stare;
for it glares too brightly, for it is forever there.
So he lays on old wood pine and shades
his little face, hands and girly nails,
as he rolls and grunts, tries to whistle and slumps,
and scratches and picks the earth
in his nails and licks, just to see what
earth tastes like; and he does as he does
because he knows nobody knows.

And he does as he does because he knows an awful lot -
alas, as suspected, just as he thought!
It tasted of bubbles and mud, wars and chicken like
spud. And he sits where he sits, the sun is his enemy,
but the stuff is still stuffy, his hands getting clammy -
so he rubs and he pulls and he coughs and he tugs, and
he stops to think maybe he does not know all that much.
But one scowls at the rubbish – it is hard sometimes,
as his palms shower down in thundry drums and he
hums and he hums and he hums and he hums.
Such delightful rhythm but speaking in tongues;
his language is daring, his eyes domineering,
and all the while he imagines Peter Pan peering -

badoom, badoom the glory of noise!
Badoom who would have thought he was coy.
His mother will love him more than he does -
but what is the point of getting there first.
Little drummer he is, stardust his toy.
If he hummed in a man’s world,
no one would hear this little boy

Nocracy

Soft, soft, the ground caves in.
And the calendar shows you’ve been running thin,
for the letters in your head are all shapes in a cave
meandering slightly,
forgotten but secretly safe -

and your grandma is bellowing “Oh my days!”
As if it weren’t enough to remind you of when
you weren’t there and the town was another place,
if only you could have seen her smile then.

Pagliuca, Pagliuca! Stop sipping that Snakebite.
Your attendance is poor and your focus is shite.
If only you tried a little harder you might,
but the ways of the world are clear and drole,
and you are left to believe in a satisfied soul.
That is easier than raising your voice,
even more so than ignoring the chore of a choice.

Despair is little when you are lairy oh Larry numb.
The anaesthetic which spreads from finger to thumb,
in a rattle of what sounds like African drums
and the clicking and the typing and the silence of the Texum.

A whale of a time for a while in a way,
gets you thinking of all them other days
where you felt and flicked, not scurried and clicked
and in the loving of Nabokov there was no shame.

But the digital, digital gunning of sin
crept up as those gangrened from cancer of skin.
Soft, soft, the ground caves in
and the calendar shows you’ve been running thin.

But lo, and behold, the Emperor is dead -
If I’m losing the benefits you may as well take my head.
For the books have set fire, for you have made your own bed.
Reluctantly shadow behind those who have shed the remorse,
the passion, the purpose, the regret,

Seemingly reasonless to reason what seems,
the intolerable arrogance of those who tolerate and deem
well, the lines of the high stands of the pitches of Win,
But soft, soft as the ground caves in
and the calendar shows my friend, you are running thin.

The Country

I want to leave my heart in the country,
and learn from the art of living.
I want to part from self induced cynicism
that numbs my longing for the simple.

That’s not it.
I want to be special and unspecial enough,
to dispense the namecard, the contracts and the mind lard.
I would rather feel the velvet of the sky instead.

More than that,
I want to be content in knowing that others are growing
by pitying my simple-minded lost soul.
I long for the longing to let go of scrutiny and laugh
alongside human insecurity.

No, that isn't it. I wish them well
despite the jealousies of this condescending city life.
I condemn the frail spirit that keeps me
from ploughing the garden or reciting Yutang,
without having satire stinging my tongue,
and guilt weigh upon
my already heavy, hollow heart.

On the way to Stratford-upon-Avon

My humorous head is

married to a frustrating memory,

and much like any odd couple

quarrel over the silliest of treacheries.

But if I remember as so,

there was a neatly trimmed graveyard

where only old women would bother to go,

decorate the tombs –

with white, blue and Golden balloons.

The song of Summer trees –

savoured in flowery cobwebs

and polite little fleas,

over looking war heroes who were

you and I when the Earth took them in.

I saw a burnt down barn

simmering through its rusty skeleton,

where a boy escaped chores

and lay, in lazy hay, beside restless young boars.

And his children,

and their children, tangled with lovers in the attic –

navigating through the wonders of static whisperings.

There goes the soul of secrecy,

and the seemingly timeless murmurings of naïve indescretions by the crickets.

I felt dock leaves and stinging nettles,

wind blown hair and scratchy skin;

a world far too great to fit the one within.

So I sit at the nook of a tree

as a final blanket of sun lights with the breeze,

and the stars begin their travels with fruitful ascent.

Church bells knoll and pastor lights fade from the sky.

And as fulfilling a day as this could have been,

I seem unprepared to bid England goodbye.

The Driver

He said "Get in the car, my friend",
and I didn't know what to say.
Stepping hard, he showed no fear;
the night was young as we drove away.

He looked into the rearview mirror
and saw my youthful eyes,
then pulling on his old man whiskers
he clarified all lies.

He claimed that money was the greatest
misfortune to all our souls;
and visions seen by the bravest,
memories of which bring them foe.

He told me stories of Kathmandu,
and the Kings of the spiraling sands;
of purity in the black man's shoes,
and civilizations raised by their hands.

At last he told me that life is but one precious breathe to hold.
That he knew nothing else, other than to never let this go.

The Passing

You find yourself so Original
with kissing backs and ear lobes,
with verses of love and private anecdotes -
the source of ingenuity, truth be told,
has passed from my lover's lips to those kissing your own.
And in passionate stumbles our lovers unfold,
from being poets to commoners -
utterly sold souls.

Our love resonates in similar ways,
what only time can prove true or fake.
Though we do not whisper love words for love's sake
a world of our own we recreate, filled with
blissful encounters of stories heard before.
I'll wait to see
not too expectantly -
the tides wash away our vows from the shore.

A Fumaça

Quando eu era moleque,

os cabelos cheio de peste,

eu pensava ser dono do mundo.

O meu mundo que sumia de mês em mês,

na Rua do Picadouro, casa quarenta e seis,

até que enfim fui rebaixado a freguês.

Pois a fumaça que cercava o telhado

com papo de adulto e cheiro de gato molhado

caiu no alcance das minhas unhas ruídas.

Agora que sei lavo bem as mãos,

derrubou-se a casa de telha à chão

e a ideia se foi num cheque de barão.

Enquanto encanto meninas com minhas histórias sofridas,

de cabelos de peste e unhas ruídas –

meu mundinho, memórias pica-dor meu coração.