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)