poetry

LAST QUARTERTheir passion’s running wild;They lie against my shoulderAnd cry of love affairs,I turn gently to caress themIn their apparent teared despair.And more they cry for loving,And more and more and more –My smile, my wit forgotten,It’s lust they’re craving for;That’s why they take my bodyAnd squeeze the life that’s left,Suck on the juice of livingTill I lie there soaked in sweat.CAROL[25 th Jan 1978, Newcastle]She’s tearing up my mindBy being so hard –Yet she doesn’t knowWhat she’s doing at times.Her mind is fixedIn one track –And her confusionBrings a blank.THE BUS DEPOT CANTEEN[March 1978, Wheatsheaf, Sunderland]She fished out a tea-bag from a metalbiscuit box,And threw it into a brown ringedstained mug.She poured stewed water over the top,Till the tea-bag surfaced in a splutterand cough.Then drenched in long-life sickly milk,she shovelled in sugar to thicken it further,and sliding the gruel over the splattermarked counter,she said – ‘Five pence a mug, luv. Hopethat you like it.’MAKING CONNECTIONS[30 th Apr 1978, Port of Spain, Trinidad]The usual waiting ……Travelling is usually waiting,For the next bus, or boat,Or even plane if you’re not broke.Waiting for that next ride,To move you on to something new.Then waiting once again,For the next bus, or boat,Or even plane – once you’re bored.When the new has passed to old,And the penalty of boredom,Is to wait anew.GUYANA (song)[5 th May 1978, Georgetown, Guyana]We don’t have no soap for our hair,We don’t have no salt for our peanuts,We don’t have no milk for our children,Heh, tell me what’s wrong with Guyana?We don’t have no glass for our windows,We don’t have no bowls for our toilets,We don’t have no books for our libraries,Heh, tell me what’s wrong with Guyana?We don’t have no jobs for our Indians,We don’t have no smile for our Negroes,We don’t have nothing for our Amerindians,Heh, tell me what’s wrong with Guyana?36