A poem in imagry from the sleepy brain, translated by a cortex and turned into words...
Post-Colonial Politics
by Nicole Speulda
We sat at opposite ends
of a teak wood white-clothed table
negotiating foreign policy
in a city, maybe Hong Cong?
She knew, with convincing fluidity
the geography of Never-Never Land,
the price of art in Carribean isles,
taxi-fares in Liliput and Marnia.
From some nowhere she magiked
hot chocolate and tea-cakes
to put me at ease.
On my concerns of disease and refugees,
and environmental protection,
she quoted me the property rates
in suburban Emerald City,
used the cubes in her water glass
to show me life in fast-forward:
the vastless space of Africa,
and a resort named Mirgorodistan,
the coastal sprawling of Brazil,
lunar landings and the Enterprise
an entire scientific lab called bicro-chemonesia.
She showed me the island of blue dolphins,
between Ireland and India,
coming back to earth, to reality
and I grew tired, soothed by the sound
of the voice whispering lies.
I awoke buried in eyelashes,
smiling at the absurdity of my mind.
Until I spotted the fortune cookie
sitting, half-mooned on my bed.
No, only true fictional fictions,
my fingers cracking it open, I thought
are capable of self-reproduction. It read:
Places like these will survive and thrive
the techno-communal renovation
And then, I woke up.
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