Colonial Heat

Round sounds spoken softly in the Carib heat

are stifled by molecules suffed to closely together,

and humming. Movements are dream-like, slipping

and flowing with color, promising the reggae bass

there will be no end to the buzzing night.

Reggae bass, the scent of weed,

slow smoked and still burning,

the rev of car engines

and guard dogs warding off

spirits of island vagabonds.

“I’m leaving this for London,”

he says, “I’m leaving it behind.”

For stone cold walls and sickly skies,

he’s leaving it behind.


3 thoughts on “Colonial Heat

  1. Colonial Heat has caught my mind and made me think. Sorry if I’ve interpreted wrong. The political power has stifled out the soft sounds of the reggie beat and their constanct annoyance is bothersome. You remember and smell like the racing engines, weed, and barking dogs at the a dream and a place of contentment. Yet you say your “leaving this for London”, we (the reader) know your not since the door is locked, and complain about the goverments powers and being trapped. Why to London? I have two explantions, either it’s a sarcastic irony to go to the source of political power (I could be totally wrong), which is great, or because you have been controled for so long your dream of what you knew of (which you love but feel it wasn’t the best life) your only solution was to continue the control? I loved it regardless.


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