wish these words were parcel-bomb
explode in his face
when he read this poem,
burning are my hands
to grab him with throats
till he vomits his racial gall,
so he can understand
that this world is not his father’s farm,
i am about to swallow
policy of this company
and hammer his balls
like grandfather does to his bulls,
make him realize
p w botha was right:
lizards are not crocodiles…
ironically lizards brought down mighty crocodiles,
my great grand parents to my parents,
they all danced on one leg
to music of malan, verwoed and de klerk,
even today after the so-called democracy
do i still have to leave this white boy
lowering his pants on my head?
lord forgive me-
his white release valve, i’m going to break.