There are no conversations.
Still, no message is lost...
in the quiet gathering,
along the sacred river.

Colours revolve by ancient forces.
Demanding a moment for ritual healing.
And the universe bows...
Drowning at the edge of eternity.

Breathing dust.
Breathing Africa.

AFTERMATH

Showtime is over...
The curtain falls.
Dividing the present from the past.

And you may wonder...
in the chaos of the curtain calls.
Who are the present?
Who are the past?

For after the aftermath,
somewhere...
a new performance has just begun.
Someone turns to the very first page.

In a different show.
On a different stage.

METROPOLITAN MENU

One pill in a jar...
to kill my scar.
One thrill in a bar...
to fill my car.

NATURAL BLONDE

Sleep tight my little angel of Sodom.
Let your luxuriant body,
wave the satin sea.
Your heathen water...
like tiny pearls on every pore.
Proving your State of Grace...
now each phallic fantasy,
has washed ashore.

Allow this voyeur,
on your private voyage.
Bound to lead to the lights of Paris,
sealed behind the r.e.m.
But why bother?
Why bother about the town of the talk?
Too many bitches going to the dogs,
while yearning to be some pussy on a catwalk.

Sure...
Sure there's no shelter in a paper Penthouse.
Nor any affection in those lipstick traces,
you're always dragging home.
Which is no disgrace,
as long as you keep your collar clean.
Still, you say the walls are cold and bare...
for a centerfold on the edge,
torn from a magazine.

With all these hungry shadows sharing our table...
we are never quite sure,
who's appetite we appease.
And we might starve,
if we keep feeding our vision to the blind.
But I'd rather starve,
than to eat their food for thought and die...
of famine of the mind.

And we share this faith...
about exposing the naked truth,
in our world of poets and strippers.
Some even say it's the reason I love you.
And I must admit it brings a certain bond.
But the only reason I love you,
is because you're so damn natural.
So fucking natural...
Natural blonde.

OVERTURE

Behind every spotlight lies a dark shadow.
And sometimes shadows reveal more than light.
A reason to stay in the picture.
A reason to play the overture.
Over and over...
again.

Poetry Magazine