Afro comb as a symbol and dressed in blues, Afro comb as symbol and dressed by the blues, Ghost of Kofifi speaking through the fire of Sophiatown on jazzy coloured Sunday nights.
Soulful American Africans to this day, teach us but their not us, its just us and our imitations to be them. The American African and the African American all the same either way.
Synesthetes taste the sound of this all and describe it as ivory coloured and dominant. Ritual sacrifice to the landlords, pour out libations at the first of the month.
The assault that never was. Sticks and stones will never hurt you, words will break those fragile bones sweetheart. Sonnets over post 94′ piano’s that coloured a rainbow in two colours.
Their closed eyes that pray for a better life, My grandmother prayed hard on her deathbed, harder than her fragile bones because she knew no better. We buried her ngegama likaJesu and the irony of translation.
You love the township and the township doesn’t love you, 80’s suspicion lingering among 90’s kids. I bet they’d stone me first before they make me wear the rubber chain that would smooch my neck.
Double consciousness dictates that I am to be known as suburban martyr. Die Swart Gevaar that will burn for enlightenment to become ashes and to become dust.
This poet lives within his own mind. A hopeless romantic his struggles include conginental ptosis, double consciousness, paranoia and cleithrophobia. This poet will soon leave his mind once he is done writing poetry.
this poem appears in our print quarterly number eight, Dear South Africa.
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