A cheetah was running to catch a bus before it dawned on him that he could outrun the bus. After the cheetah was pulled over by the cops, he was fined for breaking the law of outrunning buses. Frustrated and bored with over-crowded buses, the cheetah decided to return to the jungle, only to be dismayed that the buses were now running through the jungle as well, not to mention that, the ‘Beware of Cheetah‘ signs had gotten more prominent.


How does cheetah preserve its speed? 
To rest, they dream of Turtles.


Cheetahs aren’t really trying to outrun anything,
They are merely attempting to fly.


Even lions dream of cheetahs,
Who seem not to have to, 
Work so hard.


Until Mrs. Cheetah comes around
Young felix can only stretch
Those mutant spots accompany he, Each one, a game of ‘fetch’.


Some cheetahs dream of Walcott
and writing with a muscular hand.
Other cheetah dream of masturbation,
For this is the ink that they demand.


A cheetah once dreamed of Lord Byron
And instead of running, wrote,
Yet as a writer, only wrote of running,
Then ran out of words, so ended up broke.

The difference between monkeys
and lions is that monkeys like
being challenged, Lions don’t.


Monkeys like puzzles because,
In being challenged they 
‘Grow and Expand’
Lions saw through 
‘grow and expand’ ages ago
And use this time to
Sleep instead.


For a lion, one can only grow into an older lion, there is no where else to go.


When the Lion loses its roar
The jungle loses its heartbeat.


When the lion is unsure,
The whole of the jungle is.


Cheetah chase chatter away from the mind
that would attempt to change and challenge its flow,
speed is not concept, to cheetah it’s law and stretching its spine
to deepen its pulse is a task not left to somebody else, who can
only outrun their last ambitions, and whose breath can yet bare
the weight of their own confessions, so banter to and fro,
as if all one needs to know is vague impressions
of the counter weight of time and the hammer that it throws
this is the hammer chased by cheetah, who is not a cheater per se,
just because he ramps his speed by chasing his demons away.


I swear in an un-drunken stupor
I once read ‘pomes’, written by gnomes
Who tapped out the verse with their gums
The words were actually quite super
And fit quite well in my thumb
I got back in my mini-cooper
And mini-cooped my butt back home.


…and in these poems written by gnomes
Some letters were syllables and some words were stones
Some vowels danced at the tip of the tongue
And they love to use the word ‘montague’
(this is where I take my cue) and their consonants are sung
Compared to which Beethoven wrote drones and subtitles for ‘pas de deux’
(this poem has a crush on you, and doesn’t know how to end, I recommend)


Cheetahs chase chances more than dreams
Who has time to sleep, when the savannah is waist deep
In binoculars, road signs and constantly shifting paradigms
And hunters who value its rugged hide, soft on the inside
And still expensive where the rules are more flexible in the game
There isn’t the space in the wild bush to fumble
Foxes have holes, cheetahs have rumble.


An antelope, an interloper in these neck of the woods
Met his fate at the end of the strike of a blur stretched 
Out in space. Who knew it was a race?
He crashed into the butt of a tree, now etched
With both the blood of defeat, and the gains of victory.
The antelope let out his life with a gurgle
Death after all is no hurdle, life wears tight its’ girdle
But then lets out its’ hem when breathing its’ last.
The future is far more fertile when forward fires
Burn the blueprints of an aborted past.


A cheetah once sought an editor
Who took it for a predator
And had it shot on sight
And this is why cheetahs read,
But cheetahs never write.


Lions and cheetahs aren’t too fond of one another 
Yes they belong to the same race, but ‘whatever’
One hunts by day, the other by night,
But in the magic hour both hog the light.
A lion will kill cheetah if he isn’t cautious
So cheetah move with stealth, and sidestep like


Warthogs snort their willingness to breathe
Whatever of life they absorb, meanwhile the 
Bows advance, the crimson waste of open wound
Soon to find its mark. Then it goes dark
And then a fresh spark. Now it swims in menacing
Circles in the high waves as shark.


Stranded in the high grass,
A cheetah is perched with poise
Ready to pounce in whatever direction
He thought he heard the noise.
His teeth write final epitaphs
Which carve themselves in stone
With whatever is left over
Of the carcass and its bones.


What is tough for cheetah is to see other beasts
Rewarded for their proximity to he, while for 
Being he, he takes the heat, while lesser
Beings feast, then puffy chested, walks
Into parades of bilious calamity,
Meanwhile cheetah stalks and fumes 
And outwits taxidermists furnished rooms.


There is no drama when cheetah leave home
He just point nose, sniff air, and go.


Unstable lines
Break off easily
Poet limps and
Is spotted from a
Distance by the 
Cheetah he’s been
Writing of. Will it 
Attack or were his 
Poems worthy?
The poem ends 
Either way, does now
The poet?


Old cheetah knows, who 
Eat storyteller dies verbose,
The vowels get stuck
In their spots
And the consonants
Settle where dreams 
Are not. Chase 
Is to cheetah
As word is to pun
What possessed 
The purloined 
Poet to drop 
His pen and run?


If your father
Was a premature
Does it predispose
You towards
Pre-emptive behaviour?



MILANO 7th JULY 2007