In this new climate, pears in port wine
cannot be accepted at tea time.
For years Stalin’s shadow tyrannised his meals..
what the belly rejects the heart feels
and stores in its own disordered archive,
waits for another regime to arrive,
and hopes it will be better.

But these were such little, domestic affairs..
He’d never actually said:”I dont want pears”,
and the port’s one of history’s non-events…..
except the heart stores each tiny pretence…
defers it till the masses alter the state,
then he stands up and says “I hate
what everybody loves”

Why should he pretend anything any longer?
Yet we do! Revolutions make us tougher and stronger,
but fresh tea-time tyrannies arise..
Dictators, benevolent or otherwise
alter the diet, and alter the lies
we tell one another.

Sandino salsas limp over the graves
of laughing Afghans. What his heart craves
his fist smashes, creates the loss he fears.
The heart’s archive collects its debts in arrears.

Afterwards, new lovers reach and draw each other near,
anticipating breakfast.



















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