WHERE THE GRASS TRIUMPHS, OR DISTURBS PUBLIC CHASTITY

 

                         
                 Because it grows quietly like plantation resentment they let it run
                 unnoticed; it serves to screen waist down moves and unguinous news 
                 paper wraps you might step on. So, heads up, remember to hold
                 your breath; and watch out for stoopers who won't all clear
                 the wind, who don't wave a posy.

                 Budgets are up set assuming islanders would bank on genes high
                 in self give in; not toss stuff out the window like conjugal
                 bedding live with tie knot infestation, Aie aie aie

                 Cows with first names graze anywhere turning off the belt way
                 at hand raised signal; which allows chauffeurs of the guardian
                 chrome and tinted view to continue. So despite hard earned
                 arteries the system works, see? 

                 Besides, grass traders, our happy few, deploy at Welcome sites
                
where custom inspectors  ̶  and carrion book makers sorting fringe
                
brown tails as white beaks crow  ̶  pose with no fear of getting
                 their angles iguana nicked; Jab Jab rear shake of the lamb
                 important at entry levels, Aie aie aie.

                                             Our sugars at high yield, faith hips saris unwind,
                 the 
sheet spread under hand  ̶  This is what matters! so men in haste
                
to stuff positioned wives gripe; grunting down to stubs.

                 Meanwhile, pledge hunters with no office for fun whet
                 knives on any plot marking grave stone; like illicit love
                 wanting, though not all that way, a bone to pick, a suckling
                
to pork  ̶  usually some one off bass line, or a sniffing
                 tagless Please, not here! mongrel.

                                                                        - W.W.

 

 

 

                        

 
          

 

   

                     
                   CLEAN GREEN BALLAD

                  
               
  Miss Camille, trying to stop a frog
                    from patrolling her patio 
                    by spraying him with Mr. Clean,
                 found herself spraying also a snake
                     trying to beat her to the frog,
                     and ended up killing the snake
                 by chopping him in two with a cut-  
                    lass  ̶  which she now calls a machette,  
                   
 a word that wants to rhyme with tête,
                 the thing which her blade separated
                    from the tail that twitched on till all
                    snake-habit had drained out of it.
                 I flung it into the backyard-bush,
                   out of sight and mind till the next
                   grass-snake and -poem come to pass
               
(like the tête and crapaud that vanished).

            (from "Nor Like An Addict Would" © by Brian Chan)

 

 

  

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Author: FarJourney Caribbean

Born in Guyana : Wyck Williams writes poetry and fiction. He lives in New York City. The poet Brian Chan lives in Alberta, Canada.

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