genocide – Page 8 – poems 2 die for

BY THEIR FRUIT

I have such trouble
writing this poem

my words swell fat
like overripe fruit
burst on
my page, on my fingers

covering everything with
sap wet, thick
and sticky

in colour and feel
indistinguishable from blood

and these
are the same words
the golden children of the law
use in the court room

where
such words do
not explode, do not
shatter the auditorium
with blood-juice
and bomb shrapnel

proving
(sadly, sadly)

that there will always be something about poems, about

poets
and the power
of their poetry

that remains forever
at a distance

tragically unreal

STUMBLE

we were falling asleep
trying to left-brain
follow every
technicality after
technicality
(South Africa got no case
because we forgot
to insist on
a reply)

but we will show you
dispute if you
diss our
deep integrity

(bet after this you
wish we were
your legal
arm)

but where
were your human fire and
intensity
moments of raw humanity

saw only a shifting of the goal posts
a stilted conjuring act

none of that Irish flair and poetry
threatening to scorch the beams in
the palace roof bringing it tumbling down, everything upside

down
and tumbling down

the world tipped South and
the Southern Cross

pointing the way
dear next Dante
away
from Hell
and towards Heaven

yes no poetry, not a flash at all,
just stumbling responses
and mixed-up
papers shuffled like cards but

all of them
jokers

not a poet
in the pack

not one
homegrown (perhaps
you did
them in

as you did every voice in Gaza
especially
those of the poets

M have alwayd loved you from the first moment I saw you all those years ago I loved you despite the impossibility but now to see you defending the indefensible speaking the unspeakable I no longer know what love is do not know if there can be love anymore

OLD JOHANNESBURG

OLD JOHANNESBURG

waiting by the roadside
in old
Johannesburg

maybe
resurrection
will
befall me

maybe redemption
will come my way

failing which
perhaps

a circus or carnival will
come
round the corner

sweep
stubborn old ideologies
off the street

as serious joke or
perhaps just giggles

a parade of Zizeks
tumbling past me as if
Red Square
comedy

where figures from the
Commedia del Arte
are here
to replace tanks

look
seriously at the world and
it suddenly goes
Toy Town

confirmation bias
on open display for
everyone to see

fat
conspiracy here:
buses passing every few minutes
not stopping for everything
the drivers
believe

waiting for the curtains to open

waiting for the means
transport a boardgame
on my back

set
of lewd Cluedo
for whomsoever might
wish
to join me

help me
to survive
life on a billiard sphere

hustling to get by
wanting to be Master
always
a slave

waiting for the lights
to darken

have
lost the book
in which
I was made

****

after a
while

everything
slithers

snakes and
ladders

perhaps better to
devote time
to generating boardgames
rather than
squandering my existence
writing
poetry or composing fiction

****

bumper to bumper stacked together
owe it to them

to not close my eyes,
keep looking

or everything before me
will disappear

and this funeral procession
miss its target

some poor
exclusive dignitary

about to skip his rendezvous
with captivating tombstone
of proportions extreme

so much here
so mechanical

yet so many
vital nuts and bolts

****

bureaucracy
is horror

bureaucracy
is death

I sat with
Slavoj Zizek

through yet another sunset
telling jokes

about philosophers
telling jokes and
the end of the Universe

(not that this necessarily
implies a causal connection)

today the lawyers
of old and new Johannesburg
are
heading North
with a holy bone to pick.

I sat by the roadside
play after play

oodles of
words, scenes,
dialogue
even

still in my head

ghosts of tales
still
to be told

(media marvels yet
to unfold)

old Johannesburg

TUXEDO

TUXEDO

tuxedo
is name of
the game

you file your suit
hoping
to agree
of definitions

promise not to fight
over whether
this or that
homonym
accidental or
intended

all puns here
quite intended

but here they all are
creatures
of the South
my fellow-travellers

fat portfolio in their satchels
speaking in each codicil
humanity out loud

arguing
that a single sluk of
this evil
can
erase angelic face
pollute the God-given concept
of eternal, outright righteous

hold mirror up to Emperor
to deconstruct
all mind of god

yes
a time when
courage must be superhuman
to vouch for
civility, decency

to put us on the spectrum of
one indivisible being

and this to argue
before history, in
tuxedo

lest the lie, the quite lie
the brutal lie, the truth
denying
crushing line

find its path to become supreme

RUBBLE

RUBBLE

my poem
lies under rubble

dead, asphyxiated
would be on
life support

but
there is no life
is no support

my poem
is getting
amputated

will lose a whole page
has already
lost
stanza
after stanza

without antibioticd
without anaesthetic

each line screams
as they cut
through
bone

you will have forgotten
these words
and the mass graves
of those
that have
spoken them

as you stare into the sunset
across the Mediterranean
from
your beautiful
seafront property

looking out towards Greece
the rubble
of great Troy

and the gods
of Homer’s world

GOLD

Ah! Mr
spokeperson all
that glitters

you shred what
was written

cover to
cover

as aligned with
every slurred devil
every
monster that
blasphemes

and this

before you
even read it

not even a single
painstakingly argued
ruthlessy documented
worth

sent
from ths South

our humble submission
where
all are
savages

know nothing
write anything.

AI poem in the style of Shakespeare: South Africa taking Israel to the ICJ

In lands afar, where shadows cast their veil,
South Africa strides, justice to unveil.
With heart resolute, they march to the fray,
Taking Israel to court, to have their say.

As rugby kings, and champions of right,
They face the champions of woeful blight.
Oh, how the irony sings in the air,
How shall Israel maneuver, now, to bear?

With twisted tongues, they’ll surely plead their case,
Beguiling words, their deeds they shall embrace.
Yet, in this court, a reckoning awaits,
Where justice’s scales shall decide their fates.

For Gaza’s plight, the world’s tears they’ve shed,
In this epic clash, hope shall rise, not dread.
From Shakespeare’s quill, new scenes shall now unfurl,
As justice fights against a twisted world.

MAMBA METAPHOR

MAMBA METAPHOR

you called me
animal

thought to
myself “that’s
a metaphor”

think I must be
an animal there just
to be stamped on
crushed, einsatzed and
gas chambered

and it is there in the script
in your vision of, and
for reality

         what you see
                      must become,
must be
even if you have to
slaughter all the children
animal children
of the rest of humanity
                     animal humanity

but my pen
is black inked and
silver grey on the outside

its nib
poised like a fang

ergo
    this poem, writhing and
striking
         exacting an absolute
price
from being
forced into this corner,
put in this posture

is a black mamba
it is my
      totem for the day
       my creature of choice

******

you called me
animal

thought to
myself “that’s
a metaphor”

throwing linguistic
Phosphorous in
your general direction

sticking you
with enough drops of
neurotoxin
to kill half
your army

I see
you still have issues, your
anger rising

anger born of fear
fear clinging to
survival

that evolution is about, all about
about only
the crushing of the weak
the triumph of the strong

so
    whilst you still can
whilst the venom is with
horrible curiosity
feeding
                    into your system
pressing
        every wrong button

throwing every wrong switch
disabling every
vital lever

finding out
what makes you tick
then smashing the clock

whilst we wait just a few minutes
for the demonic chemistry to work
behind this deconstructive
procedure

just
pass the torch on
you
will no longer
carry

slide into prayer and
plea for vengeance from

your slick
wooden god

*****

you called me
animal

thought to
myself “that’s
a metaphor”

sometimes they
are wild, unpredictable

can cross
into reality

this in
their nature to
follow their shadow, unleash
the dark program

remain dangerously true
to both
species and brand

EXERCISE

EXERCISE

you cannot go
into a classroon
proclaim to
the kids

today, children, I have
something lovely
for you to do:

today
in class
we are going to get
creative

have
real fun, drawimg
painting what
the soldier saw

or sculpt a little diorama
or create a tiny script

and then
enact it

as a play, or maybe film
the play or maybe

a black and white or
technicolout film

we have
so much red paint
it’s going to be spectacular

buckets of red paint
for you head
to toe
to slosh around

an exercise for all of us
to forever remember

death is the scene
death must

never forget