Saturday, September 16, 2006


Be Careful:

The danja
Of nostalja
To one who's
Growing olda.

A night near Reivilo:

Men at a party, brown faces slash
The night with teeth, and laughter, and pain
Slowly moving, slowly talking, I was rash
And listened well, was told in vain.

Of eighteen years spent making cheese
In quivering tones, soft and pleading
A small brown man, denied life's lees
And all of comfort in the age he's reaching.

The second man, good Doc, my drunken friend
Told of hate, and theft, and a curious detached
Casual brutality, too much for those forced to spend
Live in minutes, the years by apartheid snatched.

In the roaring of the fire I saw the roaring of our fate
The sparks of love tremble up, each trembling inch
One inch less; overwhelming hate
Menaces round, and the masses of the human flinch.

Business As Usual:

He sat again on the rock.
The same one.
Burned out veld or the green
Fucking suburbs.

Why can't I be better?
He asked
Smarter, wider awake, tougher?
He wondered.
Better than what?

In a certain round of human effort
Where men (mostly men)
Pursue war by other means
It is better
To be tougher, smarter, wider awake.

Than that guy who will shortly be
Snared, all unknowingly
In your cunning web
Or you in his.

Happiness Recipe:

There is nothing easier than
To be happy, you know
You just - put it away
Be sensible - the matrix ends.

The model is well established
For happiness. It is thus and
Thus and thus and thus.
Take and apply. Add the ingredients.
And subtract the poisons.

Love, hate, power, desire
Dis-contentment, ambition, will to grow.
And nothing can go wrong
Go wrong.

Arica Cafe

This lonely place
This bare cafe
These chairs, these walls
That smile, that hair
Coffee in a coffee grave
Those breats! that arm
Bored people, neon lights lit
Purple tables, cigarette ends
Shimmed thighs, unfolded knees
Those legs! that waist
All unavailable in this
Lonely place.

Toning down the sex act (grey audience):

That certain act
You can perform
He said
But please, by God
On the bed
I find our men
Each limp little pen
Have certain desires
And blow-hole fires
Their grandmothers they wouldn't
Allow to intrude
What I'm saying
Excuse me, he blew
Is this, that some, a certain amount
Of ugly sin, is welcome
But don't, square the account
Don't fill it in
Its hard for some
To see the bum
They've just become
Private thoughts
Half-hidden must stay
Or private thoughts
Will blow us away.


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