The Devil's Plan
A swagger
A pose, a turn of a leather jacket
El gente machismo
And ochre afternoons
The tide of sherry and sangria
Is a tide that cannot be fought back
The slick awakening of banderillas
Let's forth the salsa spring
In this ochre afternoon
Don't be late for tapas!
But would you sacrifice your siesta for
a kiss in the sunshine?
The breast-like dome of the basilica
And tepid cries of las mujeres
Conjure up tantalizing morsels of Earthly delights
An epicureans dream
Held warm by the Devil's fire
Sultry afternoons are smooth to the taste
Buttery resin loosens the tongue
Refreshing swims
In the pool where Columbus swam
And pondered New World conquests
Golden sunsets
And life is only just beginning.
Copyright. Levin Shome. 2002.
Culture
Culture is what
you and I
make of
It is not a badge
But an intrinsic history
Outsiders get a five second glimpse of
A far as I can tell
My ancestry goes as far back as the 1600s
Maybe more, maybe further still
From the Mediterranean to the Antipodes
I carry those histories, those pasts, those flavours, tapestries of thought, colours, art, music and origins with me.
Of mixed parentage, my blood carries strains of Western Europe, the Middle East, the sub-continent of India, Southeast Asia and into the Pacific.
I have made my home with my predominant Malay and Indian sides. My Thai and Sumatran sides have found comfortable nooks to reside. Likewise my Indo-European uniform which is now well ensconced.
I am not a book
But there are lines in an individual that reinforces curiosity
With my skills with words, rhythm and melody
Personification, vibe and metre
And keeping one ear open for the punch line
I am he who stands before you
Plain and simple
Solid and forceful
This is my time
And I am replete with culture.
Copyright. Levin Shome. 2003
Grimace
Did you hear that?
There it goes again....
I can't believe you missed it.
This house hides many secrets
Creaks and snaps
A jangle of curtain rods
Muffled whispers
Salons untouched for ages
Pristine and dusted
There are trap-doors under the floor-boards
Unsound stairways that go to unknown alcoves
Hidden rooms behind walls
Panels slide to reveal a mysterious room
Tunnels travel under basements
Rodents make lightning runs, fearful at the slightest noise
Behind the commode
Is a grimace
You don't wish to see
But behind the grimace is a shadow
With a crew of thousands
Manufacturing fear
Just like the grimace
Peering through the floor-boards
As the unintroduced guest
Sharpens their little knife
On the nails
Down below
Lock the door.
Copyright. Levin Shome. 2002
Relapse
A jerk
A shudder
Skin is a raw canvas
A shiver, wallpaper resembles paisley patterned grotesques
The agony stabs at the innermost
Her sweat is a tundra rainfall
Rocking in stunned stupor
And her eyes have lost their gaze
Her arms are tracks to No Man's Land
And her mind is a prehistoric cave
or a bomb shelter that failed
I don't think she'll be coming home on the bus with me tonight.
Copyright. Levin Shome. 2002
Ghost Chords
It takes it's rest on a sea of blue-green forgetfulness,
Before it takes off on a period of experience
Am I the only one
Who can see the sexual appeal of the prone, the fallen and the vulnerable?
I'll take a voyage to the centre of an erogenous zone and book a reservation
for my demise
Fingers waft on phosphor guitar strings
Tickle the spinal cord
Knees hit the ground as
Prayers are mumbled in the hope of invitations to the wake.
Copyright. Levin Shome. 2001.
