Africa is a continent of music in my living room,
an orphan's tears dampen the palm of my hand.
Not for me, cash misspent on some Gucci suit
that could build a well in Botswana, save a village
nor the obscenity of oysters, the cruelty of champagne.
I purchase hard-chosen presents: syntax of my love,
at festive times, to ease suffering, to buy smiles.
My heart has, through the years, harmonised,
with that of certain comrades. I make-believe
the world goes deeper than gossip,
the plot of soaps, the latest Ipod, secreted
in someone's denim pocket with pilfered notes,
the intricate matrix of the man-don't-give-a-damn.
With my face angled to the dark void of heaven,
I could curse the cosmos, but instead I keep giving
ingesting the infinite blackholes of dead nebulae
like failed friendships; false people, lightyears from truth.
Today, I will draw nature with the graphite of my soul.