
Richard Fox Paper boat people lived in caves people looked out the mouth and the eyes people thought the moon was a hole in the sky but the sun was actually a bathplug holding the water on the outside here comes the rain people constantly thinking in raincoats if he had clever hands he would fold a paper boat rather people floated on the august wind like an assortment of winter leaves hung in the gutter waiting for spring people blew along the surface life was golden life was fallen red and yellow people lived in cars the road shone as if covered with tiny bits of glass the road was covered with tiny bits of glass behind the glass there were tiny bits of road going other places he thought he saw people out the window of a bus but they were just people outside the window of a bus and if he had clever hands he would still fold a paper boat rather he would put tar all on the outside people came and went as if nothing had happened people came and went people come and go nothing happens that seems to be the best of it Used Vehicles Traffic takes me back to the days when there were less vehicles and people stayed indoors more, relied on natural timing to put in an appearance when it was absolutely necessary, and then get done by a mammoth on a routine hunting expedition, Your fifteen minutes of fame cut short by a sudden juddering feeling, straight through and out… nobody stopped to watch. Those there dug a hole offered your meat to strange gods, ate what little was left, grew the wings of giant birds in slight lit caves and opened small businesses after having found the ocean brave with dead men's dreams and a land unconquered beyond the reach of any King we grew soft and lazy, fat and slowly towering achievement on top of achievement, paving cities of gold out of circles of power, of pain and punishment wrapping men in leopard skin, tagging them cold, humourless marking them fit for war, placing them in the line of fire then measuring it from point of impact to grave. Those of them as were not wounded we tried to save all our failures reflect a willingness to learn to keep on mass producing these weapons of self destruction. Somewhere along the line even the Manson family could give us a Jesus Christ. Lost halfway between Bliss and Oblivion in a used ford the options are endless down a narrow road desert skirts the dirt lane, Reality is a concurring nightmare, the devil's accident without Re Call. Ive been Dreaming in cactus, walking for miles without a soul (Both of these poems first appeared in 876, published by Third Word Publishing) Return to South African Writing Introduction and Contents Page