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what the !

at last –

on my feet again

after an hour of waking sleep paralysis vacant I stood

staring out the south window

still shaken from this experience chills sweating

when a foul breeze blew in gentle

& spoke telepathic my name

showed me forgotten ancient & suppressed memories

in 3d colour motion picture like

some just too horrible to tell

vaguely familiar tastes of foods I couldn’t recall

foul breeze answered none of my questions none

I began to laugh I’d laugh it all away

then walked over to my conga

hands slowly beat out a rhythm my ears had never heard before

& as the room filled with light

the stinging sulphur smell continued to fade

I said to conga –

next time it’s our turn


copyright 2016














About a. edward watkins

With the exception of 2 years study of western music theory and harmony- I am a self taught percussionist, writer and abstract painter. Not your drummer boy drummer - not your writerly writer nor the painterly painter. Creativity is an integral aspect of my existence - as it is for us all - in some form or another. My experiences in life have informed and shaped my world view profoundly. I am the disrupter - the never quite satisfied - the relentless creator of word, sound and image. I question the answers and question the questions.

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