Looking down from where I stood
I perceive the devil’s blazing tongue;
That is, the dusty road against the misty
tropical sun. It spreads itself beneath
Saddened corrugated sheets, sheets dull
And scattered in ugly detour across
The weary splash of day.
On this pinnacle, like a pigeon, to my
mind’s eye, this python before me winds
craftily on to Padre Hill, right from
the slope on my feet.
It is watered feverishly by spits
of the polluted air, then as it melts
With the horizon, it is a mirage
across the face of the towering ground level.
The lift that transported me
flesh and soul
mind and body
red buttons, black buttons I push,
this graft grovels me to your entrails
suddenly, I am me again
on your dusty soul
Is this a better view?
no, just different.
You wind breezily, and these stalls
with their noisy market women,
peddlers, robbers, cars, cattle, men, peddlers
with you-they dance to Dugbe.
You are punctuated by other ugly rattlesnakes
fangs drawn, running across your body
in endless spirals
this battered bitumen, stalking out of its family
overridden bumps, potholes, sewer filled with
sludge, decay, maggots, stultifying stench.
You are ridden flat and flabby, but with you
Is a stain of a glorious bygone past.