Fat Bastard
Cape Town, South Africa
Let us fill your glasses. This wine is made
by us women on a farm once owned by men.
A new constitution intoxicates the nation. We women
plant the seeds, irrigate the land, wait for grapes
to grow into perfection, then crush them into wine.
Bottle it up like old resentment and sell it.
In 1995, the whiner protested "It's not worth it"
trying to hold onto a piece of shifting ground.
Said "You may as well take it all."
Then claimed he didn't mean it. But we took it anyway,
nursing his sour grapes as we have for decades.
Our cooperative farm is ten years old. We women
fatten our collective pocket, keep the quality high and gratefully,
never miss an opportunity to thank our former boss.
We raise a glass and our new name
to him!
Her Jazz
we couldn't hear her screams
over the sounds of the machines
so we just left her there
innocently
trying to shed snake skin eyes
they lay their hands on heaven and it burned
the smell of smoke and angel wings
filled the room
chiarascuro never seemed so fresh
"fly"
she pleaded though it fell upon bat ears
walk, don't walk, walk don't walk
flashed like a letcher in the park
and now too many things remind her of
too many things
everyday is like
what fresh hell is this?
every night is like a klan rally on the front lawn
it seems that
rape is like a short brick wall
too high to jump
yet too short to think you can't
it's got no legs
they walked away with it's soul
these machines pulled a train
as she lay there all
I think I can
I think I can
i think I can
but there was no can open
'er eyes welled up
like
two jiggers of whiskey while
they waited to be drunk and devoured
longed to be lengthy
the machines ate fear and excreted arrogance
these power hungry fuck dogs
these buckets of false pride
these open head wounds posing as pillars of strength
"so now what?"
she shook
it was a shy gun and
it would be a soft kill yet she would mean
every inch of it
as she stood there all nickel plated
arms outstretched
she tried to stop crying
but she didn't know that song yet
she wanted to strum the strings of a peaceful sitar but
she didn't know that song yet
she wanted to compose a symphony of decision
but she didn't know that song yet
she wanted to sing the truth
but she wasn't sure that she still had a voice
and now her jazz was about to get real avant garde
the wailing saxophone of her mother
the bellowing tuba of her father
the hammering bop drum of his
the soft long piano of her life
playing the song of
one
more
decision
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