I sleep the sleep of the just;
The heat and the dust
of the whitewashed grimy township cease
To exist at the turning of a page;
Yet the skeletal mind is really not
Its own world.

I roam in the Hararean cold nights,
Homeless yet home, hungry yet driven,
Satiated, into the alleys of the creative impulse.
As I try to snore the world out of my mind,
Communal bath gossiping and quarrelling
Pubcrawls into the doldrum of my career.

Vocal I am, like storm-bewilder'd
seas,
As I wonder in the dusk with chanting
streams;
Among a blaze of lights,
With tawdry music and cigars
Are my skeletons and women
Dawdling through delights.

Guns into mimic thunder burst and
boom;
And...