IMBIBING

mountains enveloped by mist
the undulating captivating landscape
somewhere the caustic admiration evident
the remnants of their dominance
christening our places after their royalty

this unadulterated mesmerising beauty
the drizzle on the shimmering leaves
serenading me is the myriad chirping
birds of myriad plumage everywhere
concretising my affinity with this land

ANOTHER DARK CLOUD

the nation waited in anticipation
for the larger than life character
for years he had evaded the triumvirate
of peter walls, ian smith and ken flower
giving the masters sleepless nights
that settler empire had crumbled
crumbled like sand castles in a tide

a dark dank cloud enveloped the nation
that anticipation turned into grief
everyone engulfed by waves of disbelief
the many questions asked then
the deluge of questions still asked today

that dark dank cloud is here
the nation in the steel talons of pain
questioning even the sanctity of life
yet another event shrouded in mystery
a nation in a cyclone of questions
a nation at the end of a tether

my cockroach voice [to dambudzo marechera]

'what's wrong with a cockroach anyway'
'nothing but the squashed body of a cockroach'
that fascination with the cockroach immense
stemming perhaps from living in the house of hunger
there in the grinding poverty of the townships
called western suburbs by the politically correct

that cockroach voice turned prophetic
still singing the scrap iron blues here
the cockroach scurrying for cover in crevices
the house of hunger still here with us
trying still to exorcise the ghosts of the past
adding my cockroach voice to yours
'what's wrong with a cockroach anyway'

sordid tale

here on the dung heap
together with other vermin
for i am part of the story
the sordid sewer story
together with other sewer rats
milling around pimps and prostitutes
for i am no saint too
mingling with robbers and thieves
pronounced images of death
sons and daughters of whores
imitating their mothers' whoring shapes
and the pimping ways of their fathers
carrying on the nocturnal activities
living on lies and illusions
immersed in the cesspool of delusions
that is the life we know
in the claws of control freaks
incurable pain of back stabbing
in the pelvic thrusts of nymphomaniacs
mingling with pastors, liars and murderers
this river is forever in flood
this is the sound of reality

FLUSHING THE TOILET

the monotony of the stuck stylus
regret is like that dilapidated rondavel
the sanctuary of a fool
wallowing in thick melancholy
leaving the leafy suburbs of hope
the well manicured lawns of bliss
the dead leaves of sadness swept away
the chirping birds of harmony
everywhere their myriad songs resonating

fetching water in a basket
sitting on the broken chairs of regret
that sanctuary of the fool
those that shatter conservatism live on
finding lots of happiness in sadness
tearing to shreds the veil of regret
the toilet must now be flushed

gems[for dambudzo marechera: guardian fiction prize winner for house of hunger].

we are still panning
the literary gems inexhaustible
in the diamond fields of your estate
that vast and prophetic literary estate

panning for polished gems
from the house of hunger
the streaming black sunlight
there in the cemetery of mind

you left society shell shocked
prose and poetry in motion
through hararean mazes
leaving a trail of labels

grim necessity knocking

the truth sinks in
like softly falling rain
on parched soil

not the nymphomaniac
but out of grim necessity
the road to whoredom

the faithful housewife
facing certain starvation
everyone has a price

walk away shame faced
any woman can be a whore
and any man a robber

that false modesty drowned
in the quicksand of reality
the cop knock of grim necessity

unholy alliance

built on centuries of military adventurism
built on centuries of mass extermination
the arawak indians totally annihilated
the aborigines mercilessly butchered

anglo-saxon blood is the most precious!
the propaganda machinery at full throttle
africans still under the yoke of slavery
mass extermination schemes thwarted

to the foundation

sucking my juices dry
these primeval beasts

asking me to be contented
for my reward is in heaven

giving me pie in the sky
when i go hungry and thirsty

raising choking clouds of dust
with their fast imported cars

bickering over titles and trinkets
enslaving us in false cosciousness

in those cobweb laden huts
fertile ground for macchiavellian ideas

am i a victim of the system
built on people's misery

dear brother

faced with heroism on one hand
cowardice staring at you on the other
you fell into the arms of villainy
brother you are on the dung heap of history

we waited with bated breath
for we thought you were the mid wife
there would be much ululation and whistling
the mid wife then became the murderer

brother, you chose not to be a warrior
could not resist the allure of trinkets
you have lots of company in villainy
these are memories of a miscarried era

strip tease

when the light comes on suddenly
into the crevices the cockroaches go
leaving the feasting on the crumbs
the love for darkness is exhibited

suddenly night turns into day
many hide the nudity with leaves
those were the first clothes in the garden
trying in vain to flee from ourselves

now they seek to dim the light
am too tired of this monotonous script
stripping away the cloak of falsehoods
the light now shines in the crevices

the first stone

they turned and walked away
walked away shame faced
their holier than thou stance
crumbled like a straw hut
engulfed by a fiery inferno
stung by wasps of imperfection
not one could throw a stone

today i stand condemned
let the perfect one throw a stone
like in those days of old
they walk away shame faced
that is the start of introspection
their minds befuddled by that wisdom

doubting thomas

subjected to too much evil
at the hands of fellow human beings
holding onto socratic scepticism
tortured still for this approach
undaunted i move on still

not a saint at all
that is the root of this doubt
been a victim of terror tactics
forgive me for espousing this doubt
maybe doubting thomas was not wrong

an illusion?

the deep desire in your eyes
that wry smile on your face
like the early morning rising sun
soothing my turbulent soul

hoping for the opportune moment
maybe i am a victim of my ways
a victim of being presumptuous
i will wait but not in vain

cleaning the toilet

the acrid smell
those hairy maggots
there on the stale shit
in the rivulets of urine
defunct flushing unit
in dire need of cleaning
then i must clean the toilet

typhoid, dysentry, cholera
decimating the future
get the flushing unit working
this toilet i must clean
the moment demands decision
not the time to duck and dive

to a son

when you look at it
through the lens of abandonment
your mind will be full to the brim
full to the brim with bitterness
deep rooted resentment for me

they will draw you to their side
then i will be demonised
i will take my share of the blame
maybe this will prod you into objectivity
maybe after this storm comes calm

scaling dizzy heights

it is not about what you know
now it is about who you know
about warped political connections
licking arse to scale dizzy heights
sex in plush offices for high posts

throw into the trash can
brittle perceptions about merit
those systems rotten to the marrow
diarrhoea ideas running the show
service delivery dealt a telling blow

willing captive

that infectious smile
those sensuous lips
those curvaceous hips
a willing captive
that is what i am

that gap between the teeth
that neat row
the sparkling white teeth
a willing captive
that is what i am

woman of angelic beauty
woman of mermaid beauty
under that hypnosis
the grinding coils of the python
a willing captive
that is what i am

dangerous side of truth

the wires then snapped
that was the language
blood surging into his brain
just like an automaton
that missile he propelled
it hit the bull's eye
the blood gushed out
disbelief took centre stage
the waves of anger remained

it was bound to happen
the thoughts gnawed his mind
like a family of sewer rats
the many men taking turns
endless trips into her bedroom
the knowledge gave him a back hander
sending him reeling into confusion
the feelings of deep resentment
sobering thoughts of reality

the dead boy had said it
telling him of his source of bread
of where the khaki uniform came from
telling him what he already knew
the source of his deep resentment
the wires instantly snapped
a few convulsions and it was over

they say the verdict is yours
the numerous trips into her bedroom
the rustling of notes and jingling of coins
the curiosity that led him to the key hole
the growing befuddled mind
those feelings of self pity
that knot of anger in the mind
sit in the high chair and judge

forestalling the greed

among them the visionaries
saw giant waves of greed
noble ideals in the trash can
under mounds of choking dust
submerged by the quicksand of corruption
like an abandoned nest
the fate of the leadership code
among them the visionaries
where are those visionaries today

talk

what is the root of this self censorship
the source of this deafening silence

i hear them shouting silently
the songs, poems, stories in whispers

a nation of intellectual dwarfs
bereft of lively self introspection lively debate

talk at the street corners and in pubs
talk on board commuter omnibuses

the present is here listening
posterity is waiting to hear you

high tables

keep your high tables
where no crumbs fall
where lazarus is banned
where the gruesome murders
are washed down with whisky
where the hungry and thirsty
salivate and never get a morsel

keep your high tables
where the concubines laugh
laughing at humourless tales
tales of your imagined heroic deeds
empty stories spun by spin doctors
keep your high tables
supported by clay legs of lies

AFRIKAN DRUM

the demonised drum
speaks to my soul
soothing my afrikan soul
sweetly caressing it

invoking those spirits
the restless spirits of my people
hot iron branded -pagan
those that dangled at noose ends

reverberations of the drum
spelling out my happiness
at times messages of strife
the demonised drum...