Idle skulls heap in the corner of tombs,

I scrub the art, sometimes

paint sky blue, Tuscan sunset, fuchsia

to give a kind of simple praise.
In the periphery of Urbanisation’s philosophy,

children dream kingdoms of fine passages,

repeated hammock swings from one ancestry

to the next, counting slums, one through ten –

whether or not God is dead or lives,

it is nothing so serious.
The breath bends like wire, wheezing,

sleep never really comes.

Cold symmetries of (rot) (buckets) (faces) 

(white Gods) (ceramic) (angels)

I measure the distance between here and the afterlife in centimetres.
As if poverty melts in the air,

joy springs from the river of bankruptcy,

the single banana tree laughs

at the drunken singing and prostitution of our jaws.

Out of the mausoleum karaoke sounds
	on the grave I rest my head

	I fear the living, not the dead

					on the grave I rest my head

					I fear the living, not the dead