Buckingham Palace

The energy is in the air here, my palace transforms into my creative lair there. Buckingham palace, where the poet resides and sometimes hides.Where he bribes his consciousness sometimes, where he imbibes and spits out his imagination flaws. Colours his mistakes on a canvas waiting to be filled with eccentricities and pot shots like artistic entities. He is an artist, period. Centrepiece, period.

Reborn, born again and again but no cat with nine lives tales. No fairy-tale. Somewhere the destination reforms to inform itself. We don't know where, we don't know how, but we work it out everyday. Each day and each time we try. There is indeed a mystic flowing through the air. The poet feels this flair without fear his queen is on his side and calls him her lion. Tau e legageng la yone,  The lion is not hiding in his lair. He is unleashing his creative battalion force by fire and african chemistrical sorcery on a Credo Mutwa side-dish tip.

The lion checked in from sleep in his lair.

Buckingham Palace.

Parliament in progress.