Didgeridoos like alp horns, Kaleidoscopes of mystical sounds, While they gather around a fire, Learning that their throats Are spirited, and their hands Are full of corns. In this outback, the choice Is getting high on pituri and cheap alcohol, The type that is distilled, in a Queen’s land. How the kangaroos came before Us,
Everybody is a somebody….. The body suit zipper stood waiting to unzip, Like a hatched shell, polka dot complexion, Where a baby ostrich lay. Some call that baby, a baby Some call it a house or home, Some call it a business, Some want it, to be like an owl, to be Inside a parliament.
Sandpapering history, Stood as his will, a man, dark As honey, who tried to ferry Across to the other shore, One where there is no distinction Of color or any utterance of slave names, The oar, a dream was, And every stroke that rippled and pushed, On waters of the Mississippi, Too rippled on pages
The mountain and the snow, The slow thaw of time, The summit, that makes brave, The steepness, courage like A flashflood of grit, And mountaineers, that live On the glue in their hands, And the slow graft To the top. We are all mountaineers, Climbing the dream mountain, To find the slow thaw of estrangement,
I know some countdowns will never start Or end. Of life, the launches that we do In our bedrooms, in our heart and in our books. We make hairstyles redundant, And some avant-garde, and a little difference In how the privileged call all the shots. The dichotomy of stripes and stars. In one first-world country
No one can blow the flame In your eyes, nor can they fish the dream Out of your heart. A dream is a yellow dwarf Around which many small objects revolve A solar system of its own And your spirit is a leaf That photosynthesizes on the sun Funneling quanta and streaming Energy from the
Like the polished shoe on the long road Knowing that lines will appear. Still you walk On the bearings that a dream gives. The mountain Is never too high or rocky, and the whitewater Is never too torrid. You walk with no polish to paint over Dust, tan, tiny marks and patches. And soon your
I look through the rubble The little mountains I have constructed In a little room called the attic And here I have little ones, big ones. Good and mediocre. I have gold and fool’s gold. Ingots and trinkets. And they are all handpicked for the occasion. Equally weighed for the requiem And the dream.
Micheal Phelp’s speedos And Usain Bolt’s track-shorts Weighed so little, a few grams at most But that heart inside the flesh suit That wobbled and quaked, when they felt the tingling strokes Or mercurial pace-mongers Yet rose to the occasion – weighed a lot lot more…… For it takes a million tons of iron and