This is how far my tongue has been appropriated by orientalist powers-that-have-been:
I typed lyndon kwelli johnson in the poemhunter search engine then “LKJ” reggae poet in Google
Before I realised for the first time that habit is a bitch mon
Dem say ye olde habit dies hard
Dem say punks not dead
Dem say “Sorry, no results were found !”
Even for Linton Kwesi Johnson
It is the peace of warm sun on skin
Getting out of freezing office spaces little more than bad air-conditioned igloos decorated with cracked coffee cups a half-empty peppermint oil bottle iPods touch mini nano no battery power remains none of yr strength either
To deal with all this REALITA CINTA AND NO ROCK N ROLL shit
It is the war against a sort of guilt-driven determination to improve the sing-song quality of my poetry
Or lack thereof
A sort of internecine covert boy-scout knives-in-the-pockets guerilla war game with badly-sung notes for paintballs
Ek-ek-ek ek-ek-ek-ek ek-ek-ek ek-ek-ek-ek
Yeah o yeah !
It is the muck of brown seawater between my toes as I go looking for my missing ‘I HAVE NOTHING TO DECLARE EXCEPT MY GENIUS’ Oscar Wilde UI keyring
It is the beauty of an accidental mash-up between a gondang and an 1 ltr. bottle of AQUA filled to the brim with tuak in the middle of a full-moon Samosir night
So many stars in the sky
It is the milky way on the tips of my fingers. Early winter’s night deep in the Boondi outback.
It is barely working just to avoid the sack.
It is facebooking on a secret window.
It is your face in pitch-black.
It is occasional joy in neverending workplace sorrow.
This is how far my happiness has been appropriated by occidentalist colonial powers-that-might-be.
