third world Europe

I’ve eaten at Hemingways in Faro

sipping my beer

& wondering how much

ole Ernie would have loved

the purple bougainvillea

framing the door

the blue jacarandas in the square

placed a red bandanna

around his statue’d neck

at the start of San Fermin feria

in homage to the man

the battle of the moors

before running before the bulls

gaining my own Pamplona scars

living to tell the tales

Hem’ came from the first world

defined by modernism

yet seeking in our ancient ways

its own elegant sophisticated

third world ways where

we cannot be modern

his own home truths

wars, women, eternal life

defining himself

by not being us

taking what he felt

he best of the old world

into the new

Le penis

Yer French
Spanish
Portuguese
seem not to be afraid
of the penis
in the way
we anglais
western types are
you see them side of the road
letting the pee run free
or in cafes
roadside bar stops
the unisex toilettes
a row of sit downs
with a urinal in the corner
as everybody walks by
not giving a damn
about your uptight
nervous bladder
cock in hand anxiety
vive liberte
eh?

I could’ve told you

The air on fire
in portuguese mountains
driving thru’ hot ashes
blackened forests
I’d love to do fado
but you are gone
cool mornings
on a french beach
before people spoil it
playing in the waves
surfing for me
coffee in Spanish bars
thin sweet pastries with custard
sugar wrappers on the floor
but you are not here
autumn in England
leaves, mist and rain
driving to destinations
songs on the radio
coats, hats wind in our hair
like that spring picking bluebells
these we will never do again
because you are not here
my friend I thought
who would always be
around
has gone