As I send my words to Africa
There comes your old voice: Remember Shel-/ly! You were leading me on this walk
some name poetry, and others, self:
The Orient of what’s considered
West; and Occident from any East; or so Boreal as seen from South;
Completely Austral for all Northern:
One might think this is the centre of the
These are the fish heads, these are the dogs weaving their stray
From times when proud odes hanged high in mosques
And Wang Wei opposed a fisherman to the rise and fall of industry
Blaming you and me & being right
This is the young man
and these are his rubber boots – empty; so we’ve been told.
All masks for power, for your estranged manner of finding sons and distant
fathers, prisoners of a frozen
Old, thirsty for blood, explaining all in words that once meant water, masters,
human love; whom do they speak to?
: and who is talking through all the flags
Preaching for a pose: peace, skin-color/ and democratic right to pursue
Death in any form that is social?!
You and all these me guilty of us,/ at last, with no need for an excuse.