Incubus Drive
is when me and the neighbours fall out
it's not just the volume
furniture moving bass
but I have to sing
full shout
I know all the words
you see
cos I played it
so many ******* times
it's ingrained on my beer brain
all my inhibitions
blown out
I'm on stage
in front of the microphone
air guitar
I'm no Brandon Boyd
but by Christ I'm on fire tonight

I live in a half-home
hours from the city
in a rubble village
from which the youth is leaving
and where I don't hear language
that speeds up my pulse

I recognize the coats
of my neighbours and I think
that they are decent people
strangers that I greet
and from whom I don't want
to know more than from myself

It's all clearly
a question about friendship
whether there are doors
which I open myself
and what choices
I turn over in my mind

Big Bellies,Big Cars.
These are our leaders.
Sunken Eyes,Starving stomachs
Those are your neighbors.
Dysfunctional systems and it's not so important.
Hospital shelves have no drugs and the beds are rusty.
There is no food in the basket
But the main economic activity for the country is agriculture
Bribery is now part of culture.
The doctor will decline to offer you his assistance if you don't avail him with 'a little something'.
Part of our taxes go to personal accounts some abroad.
On Some days some people in the City,I Have seen some,sell their blood through donation drives in hopes for the free biscuit and soda and this is lunch.
And some go on for some days without any food not even little to their mouth
And not because of leisure or for their pleasure.
On the days when they get what to offer to the impatiently waiting intestines,it's a pleasure.
Some of our young girls are introduced to adulthood because of the conditions in the families they come from.
Chips and chicken,KFC,maybe Cafe Javas,have fun together and definitely bed later.
Some have 'achieved' more than this,like small cars say Vitz,Raum and Spacio but their lives have not changed for the better.
Some offer their Prized bodies to these predators for petty items like phones,clothes and leisure.
The dignity lost in doing this has a measure.
All this because for some of their needs and wants,some even so small,Their parents can't cater.
Potholes in the roads can even be a topic to joke about
Harming our cars that we toiled so much to acquire,we are not so bothered,since the people in charge,will soon work on them(We hope)
Sewerage spews all over our streets and roads sometimes and still we are hopeful for the better.
Maybe not now,maybe later.

Big bellies,Big Cars.
Those are our leaders.
Sunken eyes,Starving stomachs
Those are your Neighbors

Bridges are no riches
anymore, they don't offer space
but rush

over my head, they separate
people and confine them
to an island without energy

a void that exhausts me
and that I cannot fill
with the contacts I make

over all the bridges
with which I make shift
for lack of time

to go out the door
and explore my island
a while without agenda

having casual conversations
and meet neighbours
who I can touch

My street was full of aunties
and full of uncles too.
They weren't the same as family,
but grown-ups who we knew.

Parents of my mates,
friends of mum and dad,
people I could trust to share
what it was they had.

Winter parties, summer trips
a massive paddling pool,
loads of music, lots of love
and laughter while we grew.

Common homes and gardens,
a street in open-plan,
more than simply neighbours,
one big, street-long clan.

The curtains twitch... in my street,
They pretend to be rich... in my street,
The gossips thrive... in my street,
But they’re barely alive... in my street,

The big cars come and go,
They all reap what they sow,
They pretend and they trick,
Atmosphere is so thick,
I’m the **** of their jokes,
And they pinch, and they poke,
But they fail to agree,
That I see what I see,
What I see, is the truth,
I will shout from the roof,
They can’t judge me at all,
For I’ve seen where they crawl,
but my lips they stay tight,
For there will come a night,
When they will see me see,
And they’ll understand me,

People talk... in my street,
People stalk... in my street,
A massive game... in my street,
We’re all the same... in my street..

New Year, the beginning
of spring in Amsterdam
The air is soft, life

is lighter in the streets
carefree are my steps
white and pink

the fruit trees, with confetti
of New Year's Eve
in the gutter, red scrap ribbons

through the city, the body
in which I breathe and live
Everywhere the promise is budding

that it can be peace
when we are neighbours
and it is spring

in everyone's heart
street after street
a flourishing beginning