Jean-Michel Basquiat (1960-1988) by  Yvette Walker

there are no horses in New York
no white ones with wings
no Pegasus dreams
no fallen feathers of desire
         one day they will bury you angel
         you will rise
         alone in the streets
         to sing your tin-pan song

to the invisible people
the ones who own the world
you have a flaming sword
and a disabled walkman
         you have the eyesight of insight
         but you can't beat the bodies
         rotting in the streets
         the potential Christs

lying in the aisles of the city
believing showers of dimes rain down
you can't beat the bugle call
of the rich and famous
you can't beat henry horse
who is white and high
his favours written in the tabernacle
of your arms
         you will dream angel
         of your dark city
         of the dark dark
         darkness of the mortals

         of no horses

© Yvette Walker