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