One hundred chickens, a dozen pigs they send
our glazed hearts out to farm . days at loss, rum
nights. Hill side squatters unfurl banners, Let a thousand
poppies bloom.
Patria scare crowy guards
have their orders : sheep for wolfing, skin to fault
pleaders at flood gate can wait.
Landscape shopping ? carpet like ornament to hang
glide | here front galleries house no Art, though so
you know : wall graffiti eyes follow every plank
sandals cross.
Hugging titles mask heads turn on frog
testosterone . throat cuts stagger into dump rivers,
on to other people’s cause ways.
Outside the rib cage stomach settlers allow
sucks on the fate treasury if we help . fold small
victory cigars.
*
\ So our breasts clutch faith . plate
hard to hold serve, betting everything.
Like this our barrels thirst
stuff brew, bulb versions screw.
\ Not much else . could leave
you the least bit curious ? Go back! Foreshore
gifts let drown. Natures roam . herd rider, ocean
broker.
– W.W.
LESSING
*BUT, deep dung, Lessing don’t give a fuckin fly
(His perverse version of a Canuck-learnt curse):
Given his luck, he’ll always crash into things,
But also through and beyond them, his wings then bruised but
Their feathers intact, ever ready for more
Routine hazards arising from outside him
But, rising within, for less of the same old.
(from “Charon’s Anchors” by Brian Chan)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 