ZADIE (3)

ZADIE (3)

Oh Zadie
your words
hurt me

I was wandering
along the periphery
eating an onion
gifted me
by Roland Barthes

when
I overhead a word
that hit me with
all its 50 megatons

and so, I had no option,
but to
    take it to heart

which
    would have killed me
had not realised,
it was
not
   actually a bullet
and only like a bomb
by virtue
of
   analogy
a prime (should I say
“primed”) example of
metaphoric
thinking

and I rose
to go on
my way

fight again another day

but then another bullet
hit me, though
you may say
I just walked into
                        it

but luckily, was
a recent arrival, via
plucky trade

a miracle, God be praised!,
and I was saved

its manufacture British

Oh Zadie your
barrage, blast, MG-42 spray

so totally
nailed my argument.

POLICE BE

POLICE BE

police be
a reality

peace
uphold
the vanity

steamroll through
happy metaphor
such as
carnival
of Peace

cracking heads
breaking ribs
the like it when
you go
     crunchy
(much prefer
to smooth)

came in ranks
came in files
along
   the flanks

a navy blue line
many navy blue lines
that
   in storming
the stairs

fell
  out of step, became
Mongol horde
become
throwback
sheriff and
all those deputies
Bob Marley missed

rowdy, bouncy,
sad that
     there have
to be prisoners

their mission, God-given,
all about nipping whatsoever
with
  measure
of violence
in the bud

HIND

HIND

your last moments
how
   can we forget them
ever forget
them

now they are
seared into us
like
  a cannon flash

and we
      here promise you
little angel
to clear the world of this evil
make it safe
from
   the power that is
death and deaths
league
of demons

let us return
its agents
back to the dust
from whence they came

naming
the darkest places in
the human heart
after them

placing them
in the innermost circle
of the forever Hell
that
   is satanic mind

OUTSIDE YOUR TEMPLE

OUTSIDE YOUR TEMPLE

that line from Robbie Williams
about talking to God
floating
   through my brain

woke up
and suddenly found I had
strayed into your
encampment

masquerading as sort-of
poet, philosopher,
lover of Zen
and all bladed weapons

watching you agog
amazed: every
action small
and large, every word
both long
and short
a telling truth to power

something about
the semiotics here, though,
a red, red flag
to tormented souls

skewered by the fatal ironies
of such massive, cosmic,
toxic contradictions

their Empire
a prison
from which they
cannot, dare not,
refuse to
        don’t know
haven’t the faintest idea
how to escape

this dream world best
world
   worst of
        all possible worlds

****
and here
  is a figure too, West Coast
Italian in
robe soiled and tattered
barefoot, perhaps

those feet
not having seen water since
the Pope kissed those toes

crosses in
   front of me, of
pure
holy squalor our
most iconic figure

a figure
     so joyous

hard not
to hazard a guess as
to who he
      just has to be

****

the police are here
in riot gear
they

have their
orders

they

beg
   to differ

what happens from hereon
in

is scripted

like a victim selection
bombing program

it was authored by machine

JOSEPHINE AT THE PANTHEON

JOSEPHINE AT THE PANTHEON

she danced funny
               went bananas

sang so sweetly
every
   trill a thrill
(full
     chanson)

danced across
Europe and North Africa
all
    around the Gestapo

and so
   when they needed someone
to put the PAN
back into pantheon
rub
  shoulders with
  dirty old Voltaire

this daughter of
Africa
     queen of diaspora
maiden
of humanity
   was a natural choice

DEMOLITION JOB

DEMOLITION JOB

My Mother’s voice
am overhearing

telling someone eager
to listen
    they knew what
this place was like
they knew what they
were coming to
            did they not know
what to expect

front page
      back page

centrefold spread

Greek chorus
            gossip horror
the shock
the shame
              character assassination

and they
       or rather he the husband
having Army training
explosives, sabotage
blowing up
                things behind Nazi lines

now
out there consorting
with the men of shadow, figures
in the night
feared
    shape – shifters

blowing up pylons
disrupted the sacred electricity supply

and me
    that night all night
hearing the Indian Ocean waves roaring in to
crash on the shores of False Bay

so much Sun here, Sun
Sun

Sun for everybody

this man and his
accomplices
    attempting to take
this Sun
away

****

sixty years
and we have crossed them
in a heartbeat

so much of that time
faintly remembered
not even
taught in schools
(sad that
somehow we
have so relegated history)

but now
a different narrative,
               a whole different narrative
a whole different way

of thinking of ourselves, this place

and how
we came here
      stifled, imprisoned,
imposed our colonial mindsets

stuck our future in tiny cells
on an island in Table Bay

for long
bitter decades fearing
no hope of solution, no path
to a liberation
that migh
   
allow redemption

a moment of memory
viewed
            with
a self-
forgiveness 

graced by the acceptance
of the perspective of great change

****

and here we are
my dear, absurdly conversing
in the light of all those years

democracy waiting
     in the wings, or rather
on an inhospitable island

time
   become its true essence
as pure
duration

imprisoned consciouness

until
   it was not

you born
in the year of its ending
of the release
salvation

far
  from its memory, vague
on its history

of the swirling eddies and currents that
despite every counter-
possibility produced

a dawn, a new
day

and now
        history has done
a demolition, removed
those back-then voices
that spoke with such
blind conviction,
presumed authority

as
   it slowly, inexorably
whittled me away

but across
       land and ocean

the old monster
has
    found lease of life, more
hideous incarnation

the drive to inflict the worst
of which we are possible
on fellows
of our species

as they, we
did back then

    would have done to you

(and now this voice
those voices

        who do
they belong to, what
                  are they saying?)

FORECAST

FORECAST

scry
me a river

the forecaast
was fairy tale
and real sunny

but barely
an hour after
the holocaust
the debt
collectors
were up
and about

rat-cockroach hybrids
still actively mutating

they used all their
rapidly evolving
extra
   sensory perceptions
to scurry across
every size and shape
of radioactive
landscape

tracking down each
debt defaulting  flash or firestorm
strike survivor

remind them
of their every financial
transgression
reinstating every
legal redline