New Year Resolutions

New year; he launches out to sea

No last look at the fungous wreck

Which cast him here many monsoons ago

In no time, Big Wave sweeps him ashore

He’s read the flotsam books back-to-back

The seasons, the reasons, the nano and the bio

Conquest and empire – he knows it all

But he does not know where he is

The little legs pattering near his hut

The warm smiles where his food is fired

Even the blithely breathing body in his bed

He does not recognise them any

Next year he will try again

And push out to find his hidden Home

But Big Wave will fling him back

Won’t build a house or town or school

He won’t colonise this place

He’ll try to leave again and again.

A Despicable Thing At Opeibea House

An urchin scampered from car to car at the Opeibea House intersection. That is where an ex-president's car turned cartwheels when it was crossed by a 'drunken' man. The boy would touch his nostrils to each car window and mist it up as if to disgust the driver to give him coinage quickly and make him evaporate. A driver of a tiny box-car swept him away by throwing the door open. Three times he did this. Each time, the lad pushed it back shut. If you insult him by treating him like dirt, don't be surprised at what he will grow into.

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Tomato Movie Awards

The makers-happen in our ‘measled’ movie market amaze me mindless. You roll and eddy over one another like confused crosscurrents with your myriad flimsy film awards. If you don’t close them to a classy one or two, you’ll continue to clutch at celebrity straws.

Assad, Gingrich and Other Random Questions

Has the EU ever needed Britain?
Should Iran give back the border-breaching drone?
Shouldn't we put an assassin on Assad?
Why did they allow Gingrich to rise again?

The Art of Public Peeing

Yes, I understand that art must mimic real life. It matters nothing if ‘real life’ is a national dishonour for us. But the movies strike me dumb! Why must the movie-makers stream sick scenes of men dog-peeing in the open where civilised people live?

Faux-Fang Vampire

Twelve or thirteen year-old spectre haunting the Mahogany avenue at 37 beneath where the bats hang upside down. He has his hand to his mouth. He stirs the cars to motion and makes me wonder why. Then he ghosts up to my window and drops his hand. Geez, he has two-inch fangs for canines, and he tries to shock you to give him money. I thought him unfortunate but a friend thinks they were faux fangs.

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Give the Bone a Dog

Yes, I wrote and meant that. Give the bone a dog. Imagine my voluptuous stimulation on hearing that profligate, plundering Portugal, who formerly came to explore, and then exploit, Angola is now imploring Her to save Him from imploding. Asking Her to buy fat stakes in His ex-economy. Oh, give the bone a dog!