MAGAZINE
Poets do not die, / They flutter / militantly / Transposing eventualities / and acuity / death is alchemy / and range / it is paramountcy / Transcendence
Read MoreWe are always scared that we might turn up dead tomorrow, and when we don’t, another woman dies instead. We wake up to the weight of the news like it is our own story because it is, because we are her, and she too was like us before she was taken. She too lived in a space of unknown seconds to come, she too was like us when she read of women who were stabbed, raped and brutally murdered by lovers, strangers, service consultants, friends, colleagues and relatives. We cry.
Read MoreIn my time now, / Lets not kill them / Lets kill the corporate field / Lets take over the land / Lets be more black than we have ever been!
Read MoreKoko danced herself into a casket / Offering her blood as a tablecloth / She is skin, melting away at the seams, / Offering her rupture as a chorus
Read MoreI do not want to white anymore! I do not want to rainbow without bread. I do not want to hate Cecil and anthem with his children, to shoot Hofmeyr and dance to Micasa, to burn sparrows and mourn the death of cleggs, to hate Eugene and thank Slovo.
Read MoreBut when I arrived All I saw of the landscape was its rancid torso. The rivers had become prisoners condemned to an eternity of stillness. The contours were scars, tallying the countless years of trauma. The soil had hardened, open hands were now closed fists. No songs were heard. No musicians were in sight.
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