plotte

 die sout van hul snot en trane stort nog en los historiese patrone
wat leef soos los klippe in drome op rots tekeninge vertrap

om te weën, bly ‘n bitter-soet vreugde om te ken as mens wat staan
in lyn vir jou erfenis in suurgrond as jou plekkie in die son

‘n krom lyn van eer vir jou mensereg in ‘n stembus, as pad na warmte
die bloedkruisie trek gou koud, die spoeg is nog nat, ver van droeg
!gda

gnomics

they mastered the art of pushing pineapples
through the grape vine, making a buck on the hustle;
they learnt about daisies pushing up from grave mounds
built without names on pine-crosses;
they were taught to cut their losses while ahead
or to jump at opportunity by kneeling on a neck,
to aim for the leader, the media would see to the rest
!gda

dance of the indignant

 

a dancer in a grave robber’s dream cast shadows on walls
in the wake of her seam, a whirl of serpentine fire licks flames
her skin glows like bone scraped, below as above scorched
earth smokes and mirrors darkened skies, ominously boiling

mists of mission, yet, another hole to plot and loot of bone and marrow
soul be damned in broader schemes, what’s another dance
a foxtrot by moonlight, there was always to be a last dance of the bones
with the dancer on the barrow, in the bone robber’s dream

a heap of sand for daisies, a patch of gravel for a rosebush
a mound to bed a garden, back home, making science of man
saving extra pennies for that inevitable rainy day,
when the bones shall speak where they lie, and ask to dance
!gda