The Cuban Cars
The colours are as states to the stars
Sharks circle under the weight of this
ocean.
These bloodied Chevy’s down
but never broken. Still found
playing
the game; running, drinking, playing
cards
(just like their owners). Casting an eye
from our table in La Guarida seeing
across
the roof tops woven together by clothes
lines
Against an army of straw hats, throbbing
street basses lubricated vessels of
Daiquiri
Cuba Libre and the lush Cuban
Ginger
the plod pressure here is a slow burning
cigar
This own private mythology this other
classicism
This Havanan air leaves the recipients
Drunk and drunk and needing more however
Thin however old: each dawn bring a fresh
sparkle
Dawn chorus in Moscow
I remembered the blackbird in the
garden
Airing his song among the flora and
fauna
Now as distant Jupiter or Neptune
Here in the cold Russian night (or
morning to be correct)
I lay here unable to sleep against
Moscow’s
Urbane symphony no Mayakovsky
Theatre
The birds converse to my exclusion
I try work out their meaning and
meaning.
Life picks you and carries you on its
current
The viabilities catch and
divert
The birds here touch my mind
I cannot know what’s memory or aural
For the ghosts of they who passed by the
night before
Early Sunday Morning 1930 by Edward Hopper
You don’t see us
Along life’s rails
The sleepers and paths
That veers away from
The split infinite.
Of the fire and
Passed by; under the
window’s
Eyes, closed on the
world.
The rats and foxes
On night maneuverers.
You cannot see them in
doorways
Sanctuaries of the bum.
Sevenday
absenteeists.
Words that smooth and
caress
All lovers are blind except for Echo
–
A cast in these vast stone
artefacts.
These places to store…
Created for building &
making.
And ‘no’ not us, we’re the bums – lost,
strayed.
Just the bums invisible, yet there.
There is reason. There must
be. Reason!
Kant’s mind occupied him a
lifetime
Sorting those colossal pieces
of,
Bishop & knight …
We feel - the fork
No address: no, no, no,
Begging breeds, no
ingenuity
The cream always finds
The way up – the wise
will
Wield a new way.
We sit, sharing stories
So old now, they become
rusted.
Stuck in time. Their cells, their
D.N.A.
Become and the story: that grows
differently
The scene remains the
same.
Life remains until the day grows.
The light cuts the polished shop
window.
They have passed away.
The eyes of the morale and the
moneyed
Will not see them
today.
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