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…and shut it behind office doors.
The only heritage I’m looking for is found in
“A Huamn Being Died That Night”
Commissioning our TRC to justify our B.E.E.,
inflaming my mouth as I
feed on black diamonds.
I bleed black-tar babies
of smoke infested necklaces
and tires which perfumes my legacy
with the smell of petrol.
Oh, it imbues me with the moral high ground
to stand on my media box and
cry out to a world that doesn’t care.
Peter, peter the millie pap eater,
waking at four to toil in the heat
and break sweat on the backs of blades of grass
and dandelion confetti
clinging itchilly to my frowning brow that
FLASH, FLASH, FLASHES,
while I cover my face from the paparazzi sun
that immortalizes a brokenly broke family man.
The cracks in my eyes,
white man’s crow’s feet,
bloodletting and bleeding
and I’m …only twenty-six…
for my family, when I was still at the tender age of
Breadwinner at sixteen and
counting down the cents to the last supper
that no prayer can multiply.
I lay hands on the foreheads of my forefathers
paid for by SASSA and the exploits
of AVBOB and discard a life of levity,
essentially dooming my spawn,
the next generation of little me’s,
who will probably
count down their cents to the last supper with their children
at the age of 23…
my bound “Born-Frees”,
with manacles of the mind
crawling the tunnels of obscurity
to push up barren dirt in a lonely field
under civic pylons,
shaded by this flat-topped mountain,
resembling no heritage to me.
The sand becomes damp now
and the soil so loose
and the shack shifts on soil
that live and are vibrant like obtuse
reminders of getting up at four and toiling in the heat
while the white-washed world
sprinkles dandelion confetti
and the paparazzi sun dusks on me.