Poetry: Shelton Pinheiro

In the dimly lit
dusty corner of the office
a slim arrogant cigarette sits
contently smoking John.

Beyond the Alps,
a sleepy village awakens to the
sounds of an aimless football
kicking around a bunch of schoolboys.
On the merciless streets of Kandahar,
a piece of American bread eats
hungry, veiled women.

In a thousand sleepless cities,
books read scholars
bikes ride punks
pianos play prodigies
pictures paint artists
bikinis wear babes
fires light arsonists
and love makes couples.

On a crowded train
rushing past coconut groves,
a stupid poem writes me.

As if shot
through my head I sit up
pitch black.

I try to remember the rain.
I rummage for my eyes to check
for sweaty armpits, legs and fingers,
I grope for a mind pick
to dislodge the decaying
leftovers of a stale nightmare
stubbornly stuck in the crevices
of my brain which stutters
like the ancient kerosene generator
in throbbing gasps before
dying with a gentle hiss
like vanishing droplets of water
on red hot burners
in treeless highway dhabhas.

I close my eyes and hope for the memory of rain.