My country is a jungle

A kiss is a bite; a hug is a fight,

A handshake is a bet; our existence is a gamble,

Mr. Eagle dwells atop the rock watching over us,

The eaglets prowl the streets spying on us,

Their vulture friends sing and dance alleluia

Round the rock,

And every Wednesdays they assemble to share the

Milk of the bleeding national cow,

Their weaver bird friends sing their praises

With voices cracked by soured wine of the Eagle king

And his hyena bodyguards,

Their squirrel friends pray for them, eat their food,

And come to the public like Pontus Pilate,

My country is a Jungle

The grass is too rough for the goats: they want fresh fish,

The bone is too hard for the lions; they want milk and honey,

The barking dogs have their tails cut,

The rampaging elephants got their testicles broken,

The parrots have their throat cut,

Yet, Mr. Eagle and his entourage fly round the world

Singing alleluia about this jungle

Where life is sorrow and death is a feast.

©2011

WHERE WE STAND

 

 

In this desert we stand,

Forward is as far as backward

Hope,

That antidote for unseen tomorrow green,

Has become a desolate yesterday dry.

Nothing remains,

but dust and, the wind.                                

© 2001

Fantasy

She carries her tender front firm and innocently.

De flowered, has emerge dazzling

With panache…,

She is full of energy, equitably distributed and,

Like the caressing breeze, she erotizes sensations.

The moon dwell in her eyes, her voice is love songs.

She gives me imaginations; she gives me hallucinations.

The birds sing emotions whenever she passes, they

Sing natures song.

She is nature’s owned work, a marvel of an art,

a creation of my mind.

Where I live

Ignorance and poverty are landlords.

Half naked women celebrate gossip

All day long. They are housewives.

Some send their children to school,

Others do because others do.

Their husbands are strongmen, struggling against

All odds, they provide the daily bread.

The children help the neighborhoods’ free-girls,

Their laundries must be clean to sell the flowery meat.      

Little innocence,

They watch and learn the destructive trade.

The prostitutes parade the street with their sagged breasts

Tucked tantalizingly in their tidy revealing iron bras,

Tempting, tormenting,

They are vulgar in their manners.

Their welcoming faces betray banners of

 Frustrated existence.

Where I live

Behind my dwell are marijuana merchants.

Evening and early mornings,

Youths gather to smoke away sorrows of

Bad economy.

When the free girls meet the youths at the equilibrium

Point of smoking revelry, the fling becomes for kind.

The men in black uniform make their random raids but,

Tomorrow, everybody goes free.

The economy is bad, the police is our friend.

For the prostitutes, if they pay in cash or kind,

I cannot tell. Between the police and the youths,

They are arbiters.

Where I live.

In front of my dwell lived some Young men from

Hell.

The landlord cannot throw them out, they were above the law but,

Jungle justice is above them. They were caught in active duty.

Their guns are enough exhibits, the mob need no witnesses.

The kingpin was a friend to the police but, the

Police is our friend?

Where I live,

Children learn the trade. The

Free girls and the boys from hell convive every evening,

They initiate the kids into the destructive life of

Marijuana, banditry and prostitution.

©2001