International Poet

Favela The sun hammers the corrugated iron, cracks the thin boards; but over the sea the clouds push their black hearts closer and it is discussed that the evening will be a washing-out of the runnels of shit; plastic buckets and old tins will find their appropriate pitches, and the children who go down to the city with boxes of brushes, rags and polish, are near to becoming apathetic. This afternoon the music is only anticipating the drumbeat; aguardiente is opening the eyes of old men and bright dresses are all the colours of the desperation of hope. And this is a brief time of the sleeping of spiders and a shining of moonstones on the buckles of sad shoes.

Atavism the sight of a burnt-down car wrenches a howl out of his clutched jaws a raucous primeval howl which is the genesis of fear ashen as our planet atter the big bang and the stench of molten rubber grips him by the lungs the unrelenting howl reverberates in his bones as it suddenly hollowed out ... hollowed out ... hollowed out a myriad sparkles illuminate his mind then at once the history of mankind unfurls, thrust upon him, deaf to the miseries of the heart oblivious to the lament of the flesh it is written there, as a testament to our collective memory that no one shall escape IT no matter how it is disguised whether through the mask of hypocrisy or the smirk at our great cynics and there will always be a burnt-down car to remind us of our collision course with the ultimate unifier yet, we still need the judeo-christian-islamic bogeyman to brandish IT betore our eyes lest we forget and whoever claimed that faith was an exercise in futility equating the love at God with the sent...

Fictitious Line Smokes of cigarettes and mugs full of coffee, next to the fictitious line where the eddy of words leans against and nods, wounded, to my silence.