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Poetry by David Whitehouse 

David is a journalist in Paris and edits The Lesser Flamingo ezine.



© 2009 David Whitehouse





the zulus are coming

the black horde steams off the plain's horizon
we have guns and they have sticks
we're soldiers, they're part-time
but they are many, we are few.
as the zulus swarm forward
i don't wait to run out of ammo; face down in the long grass
i play dead. the tribal chants hang in the air,
fire sticks and cannon hold their eyes
as they traipseblind over me;
soon i'll shed my red coat and crawl back to camp.
but bright spark Lofty, my england childhood friend, hoists me up
on horseback. he has this to say:

do you think i would leave you lying there,
when there's room on my horse for two?

stupid bastard, i curse, then die as the spears rain on us;
but when the zulus carve our corpses where they lie
to set our spirits free and onward, i start to see his point





beach boy


i had to give my plane back

when the market crashed

but my open-top underwater car,

zero-emission and made to order,

is due to arrive in 2012


catch a wave and you're sitting on top of the world






All work is property of David Whitehouse.




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