is it me or what?

I wake
and the world
has not changed
since last I looked

The world wakes
looks at me and says
What are you still doing there
waiting for the world to change?

(D. James)


What I remember

What I remember
are images
The words are gone
and live a life of their own
They never call me nor write
but the images
are still with me
and sometimes
I do wish
they would pay rent



isn’t my name
and yet I am moved
by the imbecile
gently led by his father
down the street
while screaming songs
at the top of his head
I am moved
by a white cloud
standing still
over the city
like a gentle threat
I am moved
by your breath
gently lifting the sheets
deep in the night
when I can’t sleep
Yes delicate things
move me deeply
and confirm
the rage hidden
at the core of my words
The rage of impotence,
hope and rebellion
– but not despair
Despair, you see,
is too delicate
for me