Tuesday, August 25, 2009

Poetry Year August 25th

Tick and call me gamelon
hear the rhythms all day long,
can't do right, or can't do wrong,
it's just a never ending song.

Hot by the sun,
warm by the sea,
spray from the salt foam,
it's an island fantasy.

But then you look out to the faces,
in the not so pretty places,
the dirt the despair in their eyes,
still there after a thousand tries.

So take the happy pictures,
from the glossy airline features,
put them in your memory,
just a little bit like me.

Flown from the harvest lands,
down to the repast hands,
searching for your madonna,
that's become your mania.

So think as you sleep on her sheets,
that they are two steps from the dirty streets,
feel her tongue on all your skin,
realize she's poor within.
However well she coos your name,
you're just another boy the same.
It's a game you cannot win,
because you are still white foreign.

Don't you hear, or don't you see,
no have happy from misery,
no have rich from poverty,
no solitude from company.

Ticky tacky timp and touch,
you will never learn that much
the language of the beating drums
will never be your native tongue.
She'll fade like flowers in the sun,
and I will still be your only one.

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