I meditate to afrobeat in a sunlit garden,
hypnotised by bumblebees in the lavender.
Starlings in the treetops startle my ears
with gleeful imitations of vintage synthesisers.
The children laugh
I laugh at pumpkin flowers
and skinny jeans.
A cool breeze plays in the roses.
I dust off my Sitar.
each and every one of us
has access to Popstardom
no matter the number of fans
two dozen, a hundred, six million
Popstar Nature permeates
the silk kimono of existence
tsch Buddha, enlightenment
is seeing your name in lights
I’m not a Slam Poet,
I don’t know how to play Basketball
and success is the scourge of the Artist.
Besides which, I have no interest
in kicking up a fuss
re social or political issues. Unrest
is a kind of sickness
and passion is best reserved.
There’s nothing like the clean white outsoles
of a new pair of trainers.
Two blank pages meet the pavement.
Cirrus clouds at 45,000 ft,
the altitudinous thrill of consumerism!
If only Lorca could have seen them flash
down fire escapes in Harlem.
When the outsole shines
the foot is hidden,
fitted in stylish silence.
Faux Rothko, Faux Rothko
a whisper is heard in the rushes
decrying derivative works of art,
an imp in Versace sunglasses.
those other Instapoets,
they don’t know what love is
love is the glint
of sunlight off a Rolex
in a glass