This The Closed Chapter Of Their Premature Ended Lives
Yonder petite Lady Curvaceous Curves
Is the best thing to have dangled the dry
Hips in the gray colored streets of the less
Remembered condom strewn parts of this town
Your eyes light up immediately and your spirit
Is filled with the nightmares of hope when you
Hear the jazzy rattle of the trombone of her bones
Her very presence lights up the dormant fires
Of impassioned desire in the loins of the rat
Toothed men who must be paid even if they have
Gone on strike and left the cement in the
Wheelbarrow next to the savaged corpse of Ben
life is the oldest eternity of gloom
Follow me to the mountains
The fish eagle is feasting in tears
The vulture has not run out of meat since the
Beginning of this season of lust and death that
Is why the air you breath smells like burnt pork
Close the door.The putrid smell of death is too
Much dear.This is why the Zen doctor says we must
Laugh earnestly and often for the sake of our souls
Every birth is a mistake that must not happen
After the slow flowing water has been drunk dry the
Unquenchable dry boned ghosts of the parched desert
And the bones of those who died of the man made thirst
Over the hills where the grannies cannibalize their
Grand children you can observe with your over sized
Eye the picturesque lazy downward spiraling meandering
Torrent of my blood where it waters the land of the dead
For the prise of every breath you waste life
Becomes harder and harder
Your heart must be baptized in the gray ashes of
The lime stones and for a fee the ghost of thy father
Will not hesitate to tell you the date of your death and
When the worm is bloated with the puss of the corpses and
Thus blessed you must raise your hands heavenward and
With the tears streaming from your fuming nostrils you
Must bow graciously and thank the dealers in human
Sorrow for their blood waters the heart's battle fields
Do not enter the holy of holies of this mansion
The dead must be treated with disdainful disrespect
After the explosion the flames engulfed the bandits
Who fleece the orphans of the scourge of AIDS
You can say with the grudging congratulations that they
Met death with fire and death returned fire with fire
life is so meaningless Josephina
With religious fervor I count the number of the dead
They stare at me through the lenses of their dead eye lashes
I must not feel sorry for them as they died by the hand
Of their own careless desires and overt miscalculations
[...] Read more
poem by Ngaka Motaung
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