Get High My Beloved Country

As political dust settles over the creaking metals of demonically demolished houses in the forgotten dark streets of Lenasia, I would like to acknowledge the presence of the powers that be - in absentia.

First and uttermost on my list is the honourable minister, whose cops greeted protesters with gas from a tear-jerking canister, as we watch the dodgy story of our liberation brutally unfold in our eyes, while the comatose public continues to be force-fed campaign speeches through the intravenous life support system of lies.

Rebelling youth suddenly mushrooming in demand of land, screaming “fighters, let’s join the band.” Depending on whether you can laugh or sing, the entire debacle either evokes comedic feelings or the sadness that comes with the regret of a dying fling. So, where to my friends? Should we stay with the seasonal ballot parasites or go gallivanting in sanguine berets with our drunken fiends? Or is it better to just lounge on the couch while the country slithers hound-ward? Quite a devil in between being a rebel with a lost cause and admitting to being incorrigibly coward. For how do we take back land that was stolen when our hands are already in our people’s purse two hundred times a whopping million? It’s willing buyer willing seller, let that beautiful couple hand over the acres for a billion. Who’s Rand is it anyway? Who suffers when investors run away?

Indeed, the people shall govern, and of course, down by the broken seats of the rowdy tavern.

So, I suggest we go dancing before December, and if you can’t you just can't, but I hope you remember:

I’m Simply Tshwa

And I love you

Once Upon A Thong

No matter how hard you try, sometimes these poems keep visiting your mind like an unassuming wind that ends up being a storm in your teacup. Err, make that my beer glass. Suddenly you are asking yourself simple but useless questions about life. Well, not as simple for everyone because, as we say in secret conversations, Existence for Us All - but each for him or herself.

When such storms begin to brew out of control you end up hanging from some strings, which can only be compared to the delicate strand of sexy panties. Since the recent stormy visitation, I could not keep quiet like an abused farmworker attending to crops while nursing both physical and emotional bruises incurred over insubordination.

While eavesdropping on my mind mulling over the poor peasant (as if there's ever been a rich peasant), I couldn't help but shoot up from my couch of comfort like scud missile and stage a personal revolution. Yes, my friend; I know the revolution shall not be televised, but it shall be penned as I bemoan my beloved country a la Alan Paton. As my sticky ink spills, it is fair I render an apology for the stain that has seemingly reduced the splendour that you once cherished when you laid eyes on the pure garment of your peaceful thinking...

As we proceed down the rivers of teacups and beer glasses, I have to yawningly admit that this piece of poetry is rather stale, but miraculously contains a spoon of divine nostalgia via the dense outpouring of rain throughout the bioscopic streets of the Hong Kong within every lonely man - and woman.

I pray the piece evokes similar feelings in you, and if it doesn't, don't worry, let's just go dancing before December, but if you can't you just can't, so I hope you remember:

I'm Simply Tshwa

And I love you...

Once Upon A Thong

(A dedication to men who chase panties)

Once upon a thong

In throngs we hung, like rebels in Hong Kong

Hanging out like dates mounted on tombs

The fate of lustful men who had forgotten their homes

And opted to be outcasts playing ancient Delta

Our penal voices shivering hobos looking for temporary shelter

Once upon a thong

In throngs we hung, like rebels in Hong Kong

Hanging like drunken peasants

Rollickingly dining under the shadowy light of fancy breasturants;

In their payday overalls

Painting the city red as they criss-crossed Viagra-scented malls

All in desperate search for those feminine waterfalls

While their children starved in stinky community halls

Once upon a thong

In throngs we hung, like rebels in Hong Kong

Loose, not from a noose of capital punishment

But from the pleasures of moral self-banishment

Our consciences seared with the hot iron of crooked gender

As we continually snapped our fingers at the bartender

Affording much in our poverty, each the night’s big spender

Just to show, le rune bafowethu re tshwere di tender... (To be continued)