While waiting for the taxi brousse to leave
the gare routiere, my rucksack roped on top,
my pallid wealth raised hopes of sales among
the numerous street hawkers veining the crowd.
Regretfully declining proffered food,
dark glasses, watches ("one for the other arm?"),
I noticed at the back of the long line
of minibuses, touts and ticket huts
a group of men more ragged than the rest.
This was black Africa where one man's white
sports shoes mocked many sporting none, barefoot
among the dirt and litter, dry just then,
and any flashy watch churned envy
among the unemployed unoccupied
waiting for lady luck to change their lives.
My group of men appeared a level down
in squalor even from the norm with shirts
unwashed and trousers stained and torn as if
no women organised their lives. Just then
a well-built man, erect but past his prime,
parted the crowd, a cubic cardboard box
so huge and heavy-looking on his head
it strained his face and threatened his dignity.
Two of my group of paupers took his load
both of them struggling to lower it until,
once upon the ground, it was surrounded
by the rest of the group expectantly.
I shuffled closer, curious as to what
the box contained and inadvertently
locked eyes with one of those whose prize it was.
I palmed and shrugged my question and beckoning
hands encouraged me to join them all
chattering in a circle round the box.
Then just as I advanced, a matronly
woman severed the circle, knife in hand,
and started to attack the cardboard lid.
Excitement rose as she pulled the cardboard back
revealing - CRABS, monsters, caked in mud
but obviously alive, at least the ones
on top, menacing their claws and crawling
to escape. No chance. The men brought wicker tubs,
truncated cones, and filled them from the box,
covering the seething contents with a sack.
They lifted the heavy tubs by their rope straps
to wear them rucksack-like upon their backs
and marched off jauntily into the town
presumably to sell their share. My man
grinned as he passed, proud of his load and job,
his dirty working clothes irrelevant.
He gave the thumbs-up sign and left. I climbed
aboard the bus, also irrelevant to
the daily life of which I was not part.

It's right old folk should be depressed
now Heaven's relegated to myth;
no haven now for those oppressed
by the sad decline to death.

Less superstitious, atheistic,
we suffer still the pains of illness,
so scientifically fatalistic
where ignorant faith was bliss.

Now fearful of what future's left
and vainly struggling to cope,
without the promise of after-life
we haven't even hope.

We humans think we're so bloody clever,
the peak of natural evolution.
Then how is it that we clearly never
learned the process of hibernation?

Do we enjoy the freezing snow,
cold rain in the face, the fingers numb,
the chill in the chest when the winter winds blow -
just enduring till warm days come?

We try to enlighten the dark winter scene
with some event always tempting near -
there's Harvest Festival, Halloween,
bonfire night, Christmas, New Year.

But everything's been commercialised
as just a temptation to spend more cash.
Tradition's changed when firm's realised
it's the perfect chance to enhance their stash.

Sure, fireworks may spark up your life
but its wearing, when you're nearly broke,
to have to indulge your kids and wife
and watch your money go up in smoke.

And it seems to me that everyone loathes
anything colourful brightening their day -
everyone wrapped in their dullest clothes,
black and brown and dingiest grey.

I'm fed up with cloud and drizzly murk.
I really don't want to get out of bed.
No way do I want to go to work.
Why can't I just stay home instead?

I feel like I'm getting too depressed.
I wish I could hibernate today,
settle down for a few months' rest
and sleep the winter away.

Attractive only as taboo;
elsewise a rather ugly view
when spread, so flabby vulgar -
a woman's precious vulva.

Dermatology

What is this sad disfigurement
that scars a beautiful face ?
What is this inflammation so
infects the human race ?
More serious than a nettle rash,
some type of dermatitis ?
Or maybe it's a sort of eczema
that needs a diagnosis.
Life threatening psoriasis or hives ?
Certainly no port wine stain from birth !
But which of these diseases best describes
the spread of Man across the skin of Earth ?

A Pecking Order

My garden restaurant clientele
are loyal regular customers;
ethically diverse they vary
in their characters as well.

Cocky sparrow boys push their way past
timid uncomplaining dunnocks;
busy bluetits move so fast
they leave their greater cousin flummoxed.

All alone in a polka dot dress
a poor old thrush repeats herself;
nearby a posing blackie blessed
with as good a voice shows better health.

A hubbub of new arrivals heralds
the locally infamous Finch's clan
(quarrelsome green, bejewelled gold)
who soon get in their usual flap;

more respectable dapper chaffinch
none the less hints a secret life;
mysterious bullfinch home on leave
from spying comes to find his wife.

A gang of noisy starlings enters
respecting nothing for street cred,
baiting jackdaw for her headscarf,
calling pigeon 'Old Pinhead'.

Even so they stand aside for
braggart magpie who they know
sometimes acts unwilling guide for
gangster godfather Old Man Crow.

There's only one bird lives to kill -
psycho sparrowhawk Mac the Knife
yet freebird robin unafraid still
whistles the corner late at night.

So now my story's at an end
but if you think it's been too brief,
what you must do is just suspend
some feeders and your disbelief.

Cathartic ?

Does porn really exorcise demons
or merely exercise them ?