38 Line Poem...

Very low,
First thing.
Then the
Treadmill thing
Kicks in -
Another spin
On the karmic wheel.

Berbatov
Looks *nothing* like Gilzean...
"The sweetness...
The Oneness..."
Laura Nyro said.

"You're such a retard"...

Twenty million souls displaced
By Indian partition.
They trudge in human caravans,
One hundred and fifty miles long,
Engulfed in Scammell dust;
Those who do not fall
By the roadside
Skirmish intermittently
With their erstwhile countrymen
As the two snakes pass.
In search
Of what?
Sweetness?
Oneness?
"The British love their partitions.
It worked in Ireland. It will work in Palestine. And here."

"Is there so much hate
For the ones who love?"

A kestrel hovers
Where they'll build the new runway.
He cannot hear the falconer.
Is it any bloody wonder -
With all that traffic?

Comic relief?
My arse.


L.U.V. on y'all,

Bob

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