There is no poetry

Except as we insist

For we must.

 

No poetry

In the universities

Of bureaucracy

Though you can

Study our poets

 

Our lyrical jarring

Smashing rhyming

Word worlds

Our melodious singing

Farting whispering voices

Our compositions

Crying for another

Way against

 

The horror.

The poet

Of the particular

Has laced words

Quarantined

From death

Abandoned words

 

Ebola words

Deep beyond print

 

Ebola

Comes to screens

As colour

Black, white

And cloth so bright

There

Should be

A bondo dance of brilliance

Instead of grief

And Africa’s mourning.

 

Weep then for possibility

A truth

Of this age

Any age

We are

Tainted by language

Long lost to the living

Inaction, inertia. . .

 

 

And Poetry waiting

 

 

 

Copyrighted by the author

 

 

 

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