GMUNDEN
A sense of safety, drunk and stumbling, bold
And wired at first light from the castle gate
Over the lake and left along the cold
Hard shoulder of the shoreline, early-late
And joli-laid, a sorry state of hope
And hate combined. The hotel waits, inclined
To turn a blind eye to the whole, high scope
Of dissolution this guest had refined.
Awoken by the sunlight, he recalls
The DJ playing Billie Jean, assays
To moonwalk, oh the shame, those castle walls
Had best keep secrets for the clear, bright days
Of summer sore heads, stripped of safety nets.
The castle keeps the details he forgets.
MOMBASA
Perhaps still on Diani Beach, the grain
of spoilsport words which dye the tracks of just
another infant splurge of inner pain
writ large, somehow remain, where empires rust,
before the promised boom from that declined
empire deflates. Perhaps that scrawled vain tract
of verse best served by one straight striking line
was, in its way, his most appropriate act.
He went there puffed on mild restraint, then ate
Till he couldn’t eat again for thirty hours.
And grumbled, worked himself into a state
Of graceless mourning for an Eden soured.
In truth, no trace was left, thank god, the sand
Reformed, as, slowly, did the promised land.
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