Untitled Prose

How many of us
Have stopped to stare
As we wash dishes
Brew a far too expensive coffee
While yearning
For cool white wine.

And the young ones
Looking for something to fill
Their emptiness of nothing.
And off course those with green fingers

Especially those with green fingers
They linger longer
Confusing memory with what is now
Impossible to see.

Yet they continue
Looking hard in concentration
Through glass turned opaque
By the light reflection of the room

Sometimes what is invisible to the eye
Our ears hear.
And for a short breech of time
Our hearts flutter
For what might be out there
Is magnified by fear
Causing blood to pump out of rhythm

When clouds stop blocking the sun
To make space for the moon
What do flowers do.

Do they bow their heads in slumber
Do stems and stalk flex so they can lean on another
As they wait.

For The slow slimy trail of those invaders
That we think we can hear
That crawls up stems
Gnashing holes in leaves so they wilt and die
As a momentary starter to their late night supper
Which they chew
One petal at a time

By sunrise they are gone
Invisible again
Save the silver trail of their passing
Like a tip reflecting
In the sparkling morning dew
Of the tears the flowers shed
Over the agony of their evening

SuAndi Bio PhotosmallSuAndi OBE

Manchester, England

Acclaimed International Artist – Writer, Performance Poet, Lecturer

Cultural Director of National Black Arts Alliance

Honorary Degree Lancaster University, UK

Bam Bam

It’s a hell of a thing
When a gun come home to live with you.
Things change,
House change,
You change.

If you were the master, the man
Now you not even the bend down,
Yes sah, servant of the house.
You is the below stair
Threaten live outside
Back door porch
No good nothing
For the gun in big biggest armchair
Tapping impatience.

Gun is restless, got no easiness waiting
Waiting for chat
Gun no watch TV
Got no hunger for pizza,
Special seasoned chicken,
Tub full of vanilla ice cream
With chocolate running down
So you must lick before spooning.

Gun full already.
Belly full of cold bullets
Gun need to let one go.
Not just fart,
But one big brown one
That smell like nothing
No one who never been to war smell before.

Gun got power
Make your palm itchy when empty.
When you doing anything
Make you leave and sit and wonder
Should you take gun out to play
But gun no player

Gun got no hobby.
Gun is professional,
Born into the business
Career change never.

Gun need a target
An aim
Gun is always thirsty for trade

Clever gun make words
Speak loud in your head
Whatever you doing.
Sleeping, watch TV,
Staring out to nowhere.
Don’t reach for nothing to calm you.
Weed no strong enough
H and Crack will paranoid your paranoia
So that when gun say now
You be up and going
Maybe somewhere,
Possibly nowhere
So long as you and gun be on a journey.
And the silence
The silence is so loud
You squeeze your eyes to slits
Trying not to hear
Until Bam Bam
You dead
And who die with you
Only the gun knows

A Brief History of Seven Killings. James, Marlon ISBN-10: 1780746350. (Page 73 Bam Bam )

SuAndi Bio PhotosmallSuAndi OBE

Manchester, England

Acclaimed International Artist – Writer, Performance Poet, Lecturer

Cultural Director of National Black Arts Alliance

Honorary Degree Lancaster University, UK