by Keroapetse Kgositsile
The wind is caressing
the eve of a new dawn
a dream: the birth
of memory
Who are we? Who
were we? Things cannot go on much as
before. All night long we shall laugh
behind Time's new masks. When the moment
hatches in Time's womb we shall not complain
Where oh where are the men
to matches the fuse to burn
to snow that freezes some
would-be skyward desire
You who swallowed your balls for a piece
of gold beautiful from afar but far from
beautiful because it is colored with the pus
from your brother's callouses. You who creep
lower than snake's belly because you swallowed
your conscience and sold your sister to soulless
vipers. You who bleached the womb of your daughter's
mind to bear pale-brained freaks. You who bleached
your son's genitals to slobber in the slime of missionary-
eyed fakery. You who hide behind the shadow of your master's
institutionalized hypocrisy the knees of your soul numbed
by endless kneeling to catch the crumbs from your master's table
before you run to poison your own mother. You too
deballed grin you who forever tell your masters
I have a glorious past I have rhythm I have this
I have that. Don't you know I know all your lies?
The only past I know is hunger unsatisfied
and a kick in the empty belly
from your fat-bellied master
And rhythm don't fill an empty stomach
Who are we? All night long
I listen to the dream soaring
like the tide. I yearn
to slit throats and color
the wave with the blood of the villain
to make a sacrifice to the gods. Yea,
there is pain in the coil around things.
Where are we? The memory...
and all these years all these lies!
You too over there misplaced nightmare
forever foaming at the mouth forever
proclaiming your anger … a mere
formality because your sight is colored
with snow. What does my hunger
have to do with a gawdamm poem?
The wind you hear is the birth of memory
when the moment hatches in time's womb
there will be no art talk. The only poem
you will hear will be the spearpoint pivoted
in the punctured marrow of the villain; the
timeless native son dancing like crazy to
the retrieved rhythms of desire
fading
in-
to
memory
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