The distance between sleep an the plains
Where the creative-self likes to range
Is like a highly tuned violin when the strings break.
A unique thought moves in to place, why we
As poets can't give feet to verse? What triggered this piece
Of whatever, is 'de sky here is de pissing down wid
De rain 'an can you believe this, this is how a weather forecaster
From de Trinadad man presented the state of the day!
But, listen to the pure bluntness of his next statement.
'Don't forget de fuckin' umbrella folks. This was followed
By some nobody reading a report on poetry.'Poetry is nothing
But a cute emission of thought,like air from a balloon, and as such
Needs no form at all, only some one to think it.
Now, you will notice there is no carefully thought out jingles here
Nor any relevant relation with the plains of creation,a violin,
An a weather forecaster from Trinidad who tried to enliven
A dull day, hey hey .Okay, having said that, it must be clear to you
That we should never attach ourselves to somebody else's jaws.
I also want to share with you a letter I just penned prior to this, to
The company here that supplies my gas and electricity it is run
By a troupe of immigrants from India who also run all the dairies!
You see, I failed to pay within the allotted time , and was cut-off
An hour or so ago, (thank god I pushed the 'save as' button on this poem
Moments before) How then, some of you smart -asses are going to say
Are you managing to continue, well, joy oh joy, the neighbour called from next door to apologise
For his elephant-sized dog, yet again, uses my lawn to spread its shit.
I have no power to finish one of my poems,I said, no worries mate
He said, forking out a huge extension lead he couples me up to his electrical feed.
Anyway, lets get back to this letter I wrote .
'Dear Brothers
In the name of Allah, Hari Krishna, Hari Kari or Indiana Jones
May your entire ensemble be highly constipated until next Christmas,
In fact may all your supplies of curry powder run out and your
Cricket team you love so much have runs of the trots in all their games.
And if shit eventually comes let it be a porcupine,
A hedgehog, a roll of barbed wire, and a raging fire between your
Navels and your knees. Today, I am celebrating a free and
Endless supply of your gas and electricity, you won't stop me
Curry-munchers, I am just about to have a sausage sizzle,baked beans
And rice- jipatties, tuned in to the Beijing Olympic Games.

This poem is written purely for your entertainment pilgrims.
Later in the day my intention is to write a report titled 'unknown distance'
Provoked by one of the Indian Gurus who proposes to show
We do not have any such thing as a soul, its a piece of nonsense he says,
To help, mostly people in the West,and in America who need to console
Themselves of an endless existence elsewhere, when the oxygen-air supply-
Has run out here.

PS. I notice an awful lot of you in India are walking around with
bandaged heads, no hard feelings brothers, I hope your
heads will be better soon.
*