Under the temple dome of man

In the basement cells of the dungeon

The ripples in the thigh wrinkle away:

The rivers of the flesh run still …


The bureaucrat,

A wooden mantis,

Stern, stiff-collared, bolt-upright;

Cuff-linked, pedantic, perpendicular

With elbows squarely braced on the lacquered desk,

Thumbs through the ding11 mound of red-taped files

And dips his pen in the blood of the people.

The order rumbles through the hollows …..


‘Folio 21 for your attention:’

‘Reference your minute above, action completed.’

The written word is burning in the desert.

The parching tongue mumbles for starless night

To fall on the prison of loneliness.


Power is not enough to make us strong:

The heart must also sing the human song.