Here I am
A young man in a dry month
Waiting for the rain.
I was never in England
But I’ve read Shakespeare.
My house is a cubicle behind the garage
And the Amah keeps it, my attendant
In between watching the ducks
And wiping the shine off my curried plates

I a young man
A hybrid head in Cosmopolitania.

Vanity has many cunning passages
And contrived arguments
But the aging woman daily needs more and
more props
To bolster and reassure.
The truth galls: we are barren
Till we frantically whip up a pseudo-nationalism
And soothe ourselves with promises
Of an approaching culture.

We have not reach conclusion
Nor ever begun
Nor even have an identity
And I stiffen in a rented room.

I would meet you upon this honestly
I was near to your heart and saw your beauty
But I have lost my passion
Why should I need to keep it
Since what is kept must be
Adulterated dismal imitation‘?

The wildemess is multiplied
By such petty deliberation
The uneasy fine is intensified
To consuming frustration.
That I live
Give me a higher cost of living from time to time
More Tarzan, Knighthoods and la Monroe.

Education sits light upon me
For one object I’ll cast it off
And that is to be
A good subject.

Thoughts of a bastard brain
In a dry country
Waiting for the rain.

By Lloyd Fernando