I speak six languages, French on the train,
Flemish in a square, money in my top hat,
I sell the hat, travel on, Italian at a Cathedral,
Hebrew on a mountain, money in my flat cap,
I travel against the sun, speak music with him.
I did not lose my treasure on the crossing
and no pirates approached our ship.
The natives are civilised, for natives;
a charming prince with a nose ring performed a dance for me.
wine buckfast lager pass a smoke man the dope shroom stash smashed
out of my head can't feel my feet the bed half a pill I'm delirious dead
Strong man and the Siamese twins dig ruts for the wheels
and the acrobat brews tea in a tin kettle.
I toss my top hat at a bear, for Mother Russia has been cruel.
And in India – Kerala, the south, yes – reading the Edakkal Caves,
Kutti Chattan, poems of 600 BC, love, kings, Roman ships all sailing in;
the Varthamana Pusthakam travelogue. For the BBC, yes.
A good documentary, insufficient, of course. The Bordeaux, lovely, yes.
The polymaths of mars,
we are too too busy building atmospheres
and shattering quarks, for poetry.
Although, in the 37 minutes spare in the day,
I expel a line or two.