verdwaald loop ek deur my herinneringe
van die stukkies wat jy agtergelaat het
opsoek na iets wat ek myself kan noem
na iets wat my weer lewendig kan hou
verward dwaal ek deur die frakture
van die masker wat ek wil agterlaat
opsoek na iets wat werklik is
na iets wat nie net grimering is nie
soos ‘n aasvoël pik ek
die stukkies realiteit uitmekaar
en druk my hand in sy derms in
en soek voel-voel na metafoorsodat ek dit kan verslind en verorber
die lyk van realiteit se oë allitereer
en sy organe is vergelykings
sy kop is soos ‘n sif
en die druppels van obskuriteit
vorm plasse van verlatenheid op die grond
sy asem stink na inkvlekke
sy pote trap suggesties
en die laaste woorde op sy tong
was ‘n gedig
ritme is in sy ruggraat vasgeweef
en sy hart klop paradoks
die longe wat sy ribbes breek
is vol kontraste en teer
sy voetspore is lettergrepe
en sy tande is gevlek met rym
alles wat hy eenmaal is en was
is net ‘n gedig
die grysdag se asem
skeur deur jou hare
en verbleik alles om jou
jou oë skyn in die halflig
en uiteindelik raak ons lippe
my gedagtes ontvlug, ont
snap
val by die trappe af
en neuk die straat in
hulle stop die eerste bus
en klim bang en paniekerig in
want hulle wil my laste nie dra nie
wil nie meer hulle werk doen nie
my gedigte hardloop
weg
en spring van die derdeverdiepingbalkon
af
sleep hulself met gebreekte bene
na die naaste taxi en klim in
kyk benoud agter hulle
of ek hulle nie dalk gevolg het nie
maar ek het nie
want dis nogal moeilik
om iemand te volg
as jy blind is
here you are
the broken shadow
of the child you once were
and you look so deeply
to try and see your reflection
but there’s nothing there
but broken glass
your breathing gets out of control
and the tears start to flow
down your cheeks and into your mouth
but they taste so bitter
as bitter as the needle
pale and alone
you are nothing
but the broken shadow
of the child you once were
but that child is now lost
and stumbles around with her eyes gouged out
now you’re bleeding on the floor
and you pray to the blade
pray for it to kill you
but you are god-forsaken
and the crucifix around your neck
starts to fade away
alle onskuld is nou verlore
en ek kan nie onthou hoe dit is
om ‘n kind te wees nie
dis alles net vae herhinneringe
van verjaarsdae en kleuter partytjies
doringrosie het vigs gekry
want die naald was nie skoon nie
en die dwergies het sneeuwitjie se keel gesny
toe haar pa nie die losprys betaal het nie
repelsteeltjie het long-kanker gekry
en nou val al haar hare uit
hoopstad is ‘n brandende silhoeët
in die agtergrond van my lewe
bogom loop verdwaald in die grootstad rond
die stad van gemors, grewelerige geperste gemors,
en voetsêk het al lankal sy naam
na fokof verander
sproetjies het haar polse gesny
liedjies help nie vir self-beeld nie
otto sit al lankal in die hondebeskermingseenheid
met drie bene en geen kos
die kuikentjie wat na sy mamma gesoek het
is nou op ons eetkamer tafel
die broeders grimm skryf nou laken-fiksie
want daar’s net so veel meer geld
“kyk hoe vinnig word die kinders groot!
laas wat ek jou gesien het, he jy met lego gespeel,
nou sit jy al katte in die mikrogolfoond!”
spiderman sit alleen in ‘n kroeg
en onthou sy dae van glorie
batman bly nou in hillbrow
want sars het die batcave oorgeneem
en afgeveil aan ‘n pedofiel
nou’s al my verskonings opgebruik
en ek kan nie langer onskuld verklaar nie
maar die ergste van alles?
ek gee nie om nie
elke dag sien ek die skape
met die sonskyn in hul oë
en hulle wei elke dag
aan die gras van leuens
en niksvermoedend
dans hulle by die afgrond
af
met giggels so plesierig
trippel hulle oor die lyke
van wat hulle eintlik kon wees
en met die lug in hul koppe
sal hulle doen net wat die meesters sê
en propaganda is al wat hulle het
die skape sal geslag word
sonder dat hul oë knip
sonder dat hulle ooit
regtig lewendig was
ons lê in konkreet koekonne
en slaan ons verkrimpte vlerke
teen ons versteende tronke
ons hap ons dreigemente
teen die plafon vas
en niemand, niemend kan dit hoor nie
ons sit elkeen alleen
in ons eie klein koekon
en gebruik ons verottende bloed
om prentjies van mekaar te skilder
teen die ongekraakte mure
en praat omluid met onsself
en dink ons praat met mekaar
ons sal sterf in ons konkreet koekonne
sonder om die lig te sien
sonder om eers die vaste mure
die vaagste glinstering van ‘n kraak te gee
sonder om ooit vry te wees
weerklinkings en weerkaatsings
dans in die holtes van my kop
van jou prag en jou swanesang
voordat jy, so grasieus soos ‘n duif,
deur gestolde lug geval het
jy het getuimel vanuit die hoogtes
en die wolke het jou vlerke verskeur
en vere het op die wind weggewaai
en my gewete kom verswart
jou lyk het stadig
by my voete tot rus gekom
en ek het jou vlerke probeer genees
(ek sou my lewe gee
om jou weer te sien vlieg)
maar jou bloed was alklaar koud
en ek was al lankal nutteloos
liefde sit in die badkamer
en sny sy bene stukkend
om die bloed te voel vloei
verdraagsaamheid lê in die slaapkamer
en maak asof hy slaap verloor
sodat hy kan spog met donker kringe
geduld hang aan die plafonbalke
en wurg stadig stadig dood
en ruk en spat en spoeg net aspris
doodslus staan op die balkon
en skree omluid vir die wind se ore
om te kan sê hy’t aandag gekry
net stilte sit alleen
en dink aan die niks agter ewigheid
en voel hoe ‘n traan
saggies by sy wang afrol
flikkerings van gisteraand
vlieg verwar deur my kop
jou verskeurde asem
weerklink nog in my ore
en die verlange in jou oë
brandmerk my siel
ek het jou blom, oopgebloei,
gesoen en vertroetel
die holte van jou passie
ondersoek en vervoel
jou littekens
ysig langs jou vuur
los riffels op my tong
en my hand ruik nog na jou
jy
is ‘n vers wat dans in my kop
rillende werwelbewegings
altyd in die skadu’s
waar jou donkerdans
nooit einde sal kry nie
die vers wat nooit
afgesluit kan word nie
die vers van skadu’s
wat veerlig oor jou lyf lê
en damholtes
op die vel van was vorm
die donkerte poel in jou oë
en skyn by jou mond uit
jou donkerliefde onvervul
verewig in my hart
jou werklikheid verwesenlik
verewig in my hand
jy
is ‘n vers in my kopskadu’s
jou prag versteek versterk
deur die sagte kombers
van donkerliefde wat oor jou lê
jy
is die vers
wat ek nie neer kan pen nie
(put die betekenis)
ons stamp ons koppe
(uit my woorde uit)
teen lug om te versmoor
(sny hulle kele)
om te stik aan suurstof
(laat die sin uitbloei)
op die onsigbare maat
(laat die lyke droog)
van ons eie requiem
(op die grond gaan lê)
(‘n kosher gedig)
tonight i dreamt of you again
you were lying naked
wrapped in razor wire
and i couldn’t touch you
without cutting my hands to ribbons
(but i still tried
oh god did i try…)
and you were screaming songs
of lunacy lost but not forgiven
of a time long ago
when we could let our hearts
rule our minds
ek is so bly om te leer
dat my jeug vandag gevrek het
ek sal sommer nou-nou avbob bel
en begrafnis-relings tref
ek sal ‘n grafserk
uit ‘n katalogus kies
met ‘n interessante grafskrif
in ‘n sombere swart kleur
en hierdie keer is daar geen
geloof in ‘n liewe jesus amen
om my jeug te lazarus nie
i sat waiting for the apocalypse
it came, and it went
and nothing really happened
god gave his judgment
and i was left behind
with nothing but my thoughts of you
of how you came and how you went
much like my personal judgment day
ek’s so fokken moeg daarvoor
om agter glimlae weg te kruip
en elke keer te nederig te wees
en elke keer leuens te moet weef
ek’s so fokken sat daarvoor
om altyd onsigbaar te wil wees
om altyd myself die minste te maak
en al my drome prys te gee
ek’s so fokken siek daarvoor
om die heeltyd siek te wees
en myself te besmeer met modder
wanneer ook al jy naby kom
ek’s so fokken moeg daarvoor
om altyd te wil eerlik wees
net om weer die glimlag op te verf
as jy my vashou
O, Liewe Jesus
Bloei Jou Bloed in my Glasie in
net ‘n Klein Bietjie is Nodig
en ek sal dit Drink
Veilig in die Wete
dat Jou Bloed my Dronk sal maak
soos N.G. Tannies wat om die Sherry tafel koek
O, Liewe Jesus
Sny vir my ‘n Stukkie van Jou Vlees
in ‘n Perfekte Blokkie in vir my
en ek sal dit Eet
Veilig in die Wete
dat Jou Vlees my Gekonstipeerd sal maak
soos wat Sasko Sam gewoonlik doen
the womb is a coffin
as children are expelled,
more dead than alive,
into this world
and we come into this day
with the umbilical cord
wrapped around our necks
the worms eat only death away
but we come dead into this day
please, put me where the worms can find me
back into the womb, the eternal casket
where truth devours all the lies
that we held true in our meaningless lives
put me where all we took for granted
is stripped away and torn asunder
where eternity stretches into the endless horizon
wash away this slow death
wipe away the condensation of my last breath
that still lingers on the window
I don’t know what drove me to it. I really don’t. I was doing fine, I mean, I had destroyed basically all of my relationships, but still, I had sort of set out to do that, in some way or another. I always do that. Every relationship I’ve ever had, I screwed up, almost like I wanted to. Like a little kid with a microwave and a puppy, and a burning curiosity. Like I killed them, just to see what happened. But that’s only bothered me just after, just for a while. But I’ve always had a sense of humor. Y’know, that’s probably what kept me this long, just being able to laugh. But recently, in the weeks before the… incident, I felt… heavy. Like an elephant reading Tolstoy. Just… heavy. That was my downfall. I’d lost that spark of laughter.
So why did I do it? I honestly can’t say. But it’s kinda like when you’ve had a rough day, y’know the kinda day where everything just goes wrong? Well, it’s like coming home after one of those days and you sit in your comfy chair and you grab the remote to switch on the TV, but it isn’t working and the TV just sits there, and you start pressing harder and harder on the button until you just totally lose it and throw the remote through the tube. It would’ve been less money and pain if you’d just put in new batteries, but you just… lost it. That’s kinda what happened to me, that sort of boiling under the surface until it just spews out because of the pure pressure. Just I did a lot more than ruin a TV. But we’re not here for what I did, we’re here for why I did it. I was at school that day. The day was already kinda melancholy, but then again, most of my days are. I was walking down the corridor with my bag slung over my shoulder, and then something went click. I swear it was almost audible. Some thing went click. They say mental illness takes years to develop, but what about the exact moment? The moment bending goes to breaking? The click moment? That’s what I had. And, at first, I didn’t feel that different. It was like when you’re dodging and ducking to see something, and then you take a step to the left and you can see it perfectly. Just a sudden change of perspective. But then, I started really feeling the change. And I got this sudden urge to bleed. Just… bleed.
I had cut myself before then, but only small cuts. Just to bleed. I followed the insane logic that if I was bleeding on the outside, I don’t bleed on the inside. No, you couldn’t say that I was ever mentally stable. But that day was different. I wanted to bleed like a pig on a chain, to scar myself so badly that no-one would ever talk to me again. Then I could go sit in a corner and quietly die. You have to understand, you have to get this right. I never actually considered suicide, never seriously considered it. But I have wondered what it would feel like.
Like jumping off a mountain. You give a gigantic leap and you start falling. The adrenaline rises up from your stomach. You hit a branch on the way down. And you start spinning and flailing around. Your arm smacks against the rock face and breaks in three places. You can actually hear the bones snapping. But you can’t feel a thing. You look down as the ground rushes up to meet you. And suddenly… I wonder what that would feel like. The last split second when your head is crushed into your torso. D’you think it would hurt? I wonder…
But, I’m getting distracted. That day I came home from school and went to the fridge to grab a Coke. The urge had abated to some extent, but was still there. Just behind my eyes. I grabbed the Coke and sat down on the couch. Suddenly I heard a sound, from the kitchen behind me, and I spun round. Y’see, I’ve never been at ease with anything. Always kinda paranoid. So, anyway, I spun around. It was probably only the cat, but I saw the hammer lying on the kitchen counter. I looked at it for, maybe, ten minutes. I got up and walked to it, never taking my eyes off. I picked it up and held it to the light, as if to see the contours properly. I put my left arm on the counter, with the palm-side pointing to me. And without flinching, I smacked the hammer down on my wrist. I could hear the bones cracking and gnashing. The doctors told me later that I broke it in four places. Then came the pain. I can’t describe the pain. It was… excruciating. Then I thought it was because I hadn’t done it properly, hammers were for nails. I started looking round the kitchen for nails. It was really hard since I couldn’t use my left hand any more. So I looked and looked, but I couldn’t find a single nail. Then I thought, nail can have two meanings. I looked at my fingers. Turned my hand over. Ah! Nails! I started hitting my nails back into my fingers. I hammered until my finger tips were bloody and you could scarcely see the nails still protruding from the flesh. Or, you would’ve seen the nails if it wasn’t for the blood. By the time I got to the little piggy that went to the market, the whole counter was covered in blood. I slid down to the ground after the last little piggy went home. Then I thought, hammers aren’t only for destruction. Doctors use hammers on knees to heal people. I looked at my kneecap. Have you ever heard the sound? It’s a very interesting sound. It’s a kind of cartilagey sound but with the obvious break noises added. All in all it was a sound I quite liked. I wanted to hear more. Smack. Smack. Smack! Haha! It was like a symphony of self-destruction! But then, I couldn’t take the pain anymore. Then I thought, mother always gave us half a pill when we had headaches. I wondered what she would’ve given for this?
I looked around myself for the medicine, but I saw almost only blood. I was so scared of what Mother would’ve said about the mess. I grabbed the dishcloth from the sink and stated wiping up the blood. But the problem was that the dishcloth couldn’t take as much liquid, so I only ended up smearing it around. Mother would be so disappointed. As I was cleaning up, I spotted it. The last nail! It had rolled into one of the cracks between the tiles. I crawled closer. Damn! It was a screw! Well, screws could be useful too… Weren’t people always saying I had a screw loose? Here was my chance to screw it in. Nice and tight. But, of course, I’d need a screwdriver first. I slid myself over to the closet. Wow, blood was an excellent lubricant! But it got kinda sticky. So, I took out the screwdriver. I held the screw against the top of my head and started turning. People were always mocking me for screwing up. Well, now I was screwing decidedly down.
After about five minutes it got kinda sore, plus the blood was starting to run into my eyes and that stung quite badly. It didn’t go that deep, otherwise I wouldn’t be here, of course, but it still hurt quite a lot. Who ever thought a head could bleed that much? It was amazing. Like a crimson waterworks!
It was right then that my mother came in. She started screaming. I tried to tell her that I was sorry about the mess, and that I’d clean it up later. But she didn’t stop screaming. Screaming, screaming, screaming, SCREAMING! I just couldn’t take it anymore. I hurled the hammer at her. It hit her between the eyes with a dull thud. Haha! It sounded like her head was hollow! She collapsed onto the ground and stopped breathing. And I started screaming too. I screamed and screamed until the neighbors burst in. The lady fell faint at the sight of the mess. I started explaining again that I would clean it up, but I was feeling quite faint and the words must have come out all jumbled because she just looked at me. All shocked-like.
Long story short I went to a hospital. For people like… me. It was nice. The food was nice and everything. Just the pills weren’t nice. The pills were awful. They made me feel so sleepy. And we had to take them three times a day. They didn’t taste nice. Can I tell you a secret? I stopped taking them. Haha! But I’m much better now, really. Feeling good these days. Say, can you do me a favor? Pass me that letter opener…
Yes, there’ve been many fairy-tale rehashes. Enough to actually fill a book. ‘Fairy-Tale Rehashes’ by A. P. Erson. But this is not one of those. This is an attempt to set the record straight, to tell the truth and stand up for justice. If I happen to make a buck out of it, hey, that’s fine by me. I said justice; poverty can take a running jump.
We all know the story of Snow White, with the castles and the prince and oh! how romantic. But the simple truth is that the story was later modified because it wasn’t PC enough. But I was there; I can tell you what you ought to know.
Snow White no more lived in a Magical Castle than you or me. No, she lived in a ‘Mystical’ Trailer on the Edge of Forever (or Brakpan as they call it these days). And the only reason that she was so fair-skinned was because she didn’t like the outdoors. Her father was no more than a pimp (thus the velvet capes, and sometimes even a crown) and her mother was a ‘lady of negotiable affection’, who had died early because of a bad man who ‘dint wear no protecshun’. It baffled Snow White how someone else wearing protection could have stopped her mother dying. Yes, she was naive. The motto over the door was not Latin for “Nobility; the path we tread.” and was not very noble at all: ‘If the trailer’s a-rockin’, don’t come a-knocking.’ Yes, they were common. As mud.
But this didn’t matter to Snow, no; she believed she was destined for greatness. She believed that Fortune would one day favor her, since she considered herself as very brave, because of the incident with the ink and the three-legged giraffe. Yes, one day, perhaps one day soon Fortune would cast its eye from the apparently extremely brave politicians and lawyers and look upon her. One day. As I said, naive.
So, one day, when her slightly-less-than-good-but-not-exactly-evil step-mother sent her out to buy some bread and a packet of Lucky Strikes, she decided that this might be her One Day and took this as her chance to do something drastic and –in many people’s view- completely unnecessary:
“And don’t you be wanderin’ off wit’ my ciggies! I know there are 20 in a pack. And I can count!” she said like it was something to be proud of.
“Yes, mother.” she insisted on being called mother.
“You skinny-ass hoe, you need to beef up some.” she continued.
“Yes, mother.” came the reply. And out went Snow, putting on 30spf sun-block. Somehow she thought that being really, really, unbelievably pale was a good thing. See what those damn fairy tales are doing to the youth? They should ban the whole lot. Except this one. But I’ve already made the point that this isn’t a fairy tale. Not in the least. At all. Seriously.
Snow wasn’t feeling very generous on her way back to the Trailer, so she sat on the sidewalk and lit up one of her step-mom’s ciggies. Damn that hoe, she thought. Than, just as she was getting worried about the consequences she had so easily overlooked when the monkey needed feeding, a miracle happened.
Well, not a miracle. More like a coincidence. Heck, not even a coincidence, just an occurrence. A group of dwarves came up and asked her to stay with her. There were seven of them. Well, actually, dwarf is a bit of an exaggeration; they were more like traveling mine midgets. They were all wearing FUBU and had gold teeth. These ‘dwarves’ were in ‘da hood’ and obviously no-one was about to mess with them. The picks, hammers and large cache of dynamite might also have had an influence. “Hey, you foxy lady, come ride wit’ us.” said one of them.
“Yeah, baby, c’mon.” said one of the others. Well, Snow didn’t want to stay anywhere near her step-mom, so up she went and got on their cart. Maybe Fortune had finally decided people other than the (obviously very brave and righteous) oil moguls needed some help, she thought.
Snow was very grateful for the ride, but she was feeling uncomfortable. What she didn’t know was that these were miners. And thus worked on the mines. Very lonely mines. With no female companionship. Very lonely mines. So she felt 13 peering eyes on her body all the time. (The one called Leery had lost an eye in an explosives accident. Well, not accident, the one called Boozy was still sorry, but what Leery didn’t know about wouldn’t hurt him. Except for that dynamite. That had had a large possibility of hurting him. But he was drunk, which is like saying that clouds float.)
Anyway, when Snow got to their house, they immediately went into confusion. They babbled amongst themselves for a moment then the one who had introduced himself as The Amazing Zingy (his real name was Nigel) asked her: “So what happens now?” Now, Snow may have been a bit slow, but she was definitely not stupid. Not very stupid at least. And finally the penny dropped.
“Oh… You think I’m a… a wh… a lady of negotiable affection?” She looked down and saw she had accidentally put on her mother’s Zebra-Tiger print jacket instead of her own. “Ah, damn!” she explained.
The midgets than realized they had made a big mistake. Boozy took a long pull on his Autumn Harvest. Leery leered. Happy slit his wrists. Commy looked the situation up in Chairman Mao’s little red book. Than finally Nitro Glycerin-y (no-one knows the story behind that one) said: “Well I guess you could at least do some chores. You can start by cleanin’ up the mess Happy left.”
“Chairman Mao says we should strangle our parents in this situation.” said Commy.
“Hang about, that doesn’t make any sense!” said Badly Dispositional-y.
“Yeah!” said Agreeable-y, the eighth and largely useless dwarf.
“Comrade, he’s Chairman Mao. It doesn’t need to make sense.” said Commy.
“Yeah!” reflected Agreeable-y.
“Well, hup to, Snow, the blood has started to dry on, and that’ll take some scrubbing.” said The Amazing Zingy (Nigel).
This whole maid arrangement worked fine for a month or so, until the issue of minimum wage came up.
“Oh, bother. We can’t pay you. We have to pay for important things. Like drugs and alcohol. We thought you did this for free.” said Leery.
“Yes, well, you obviously didn’t take economics at school. I need to be paid; otherwise I can’t improve my life quality. That’s what technology’s there for.” explained Snow.
“I thought you said economics.” said Leery. He was getting confused.
“What I said doesn’t matter. What matters is that I get paid.” said Snow huffily.
“Well, if that’s the way you feel about it…”
Long story short: in those days the slave-trade was alive and well, and the midgets thought they might make a pretty penny out such a succulent… well, not exactly succulent… more like tender… or even not-really-ugly… piece of meat. And so it turns out that Prince Charming was a guy from Zimbabwe with cheap sunglasses. Never turns out the way you expect, does it? Oh, well.
“All right, what ‘ave we got ‘ere?” asked Vusi in a thick Jamaican accent. This was strange because Vusi was the aforementioned Zimbabwean. He adjusted his sunnies.
“Well, Vusi, we understand that you will pay us for a slave?” asked Nigel –I mean, The Amazing Zingy.
“Mon, let me just check da merchandise.” he started to prod Snow.
“Get off me you brute!” Snow said as she struggled against her constraints.
“Ai, mon! I like de woman fiery! You gots a deal Nigel!” he said happily.
“Vusi, I told you, it’s The Amazing Zingy now! I want some respect for my authority! I’ve stood too long in the queue at the Department of Home Affairs to be called Nigel,” he said growing agitated, “we lost a lot of good men out there. Four weeks, I tell you! Four agonizing weeks!” he shouted, and grew calm as the wave of nostalgia subsided. “Look, I’m sorry Vusi. Just gimme the cash and I’ll be off.”
“All right mon. Dat’s a deal. But are you sure you’re okay?” he asked sympathetically.
“Yeah. I’ll be fine thanks.” said TAZ as he wiped a tear.
“Hey are you guys ready?” asked Boozy as he emerged from the bushes where he was attending to the considerable call of Nature.
“Yeah. Yeah, let’s go.” said TAZ as he tried to keep the tears in.
“Geez, man, you been crying?” asked Nitro Glycerin-y as he too emerged from the bushes, where he was for no good reason.
“No, man! I’m no baby!” said TAZ briskly.
“All right then, let’s be off!” said Leery as he too emerged from the bushes, where he liked to spend his ‘quiet time’.
“Hey, what are all you guys doin’ here?” asked TAZ, now starting to feel that something very strange was going on.
“Hmph, I dunno!” said Nitro Glycerin-y.
And so the dwarves rode away with a big suitcase of money and one very suspicious dwarf.
Over the next few weeks The Amazing Zingy’s suspicions were unfounded, as no other strange events had happened. That night they all sat down to watch Brakpan’s Funniest Trailer Videos. When the announcer said there was a tape of a fully-grown slave-trader crying, TAZ became very angry.
The murders were never solved, but I feel that that does not matter in the Story, so I shall not go into detail.
So, there the whole story is. Without an assortment of graphic murder attempts by the step-mother, who was much less sly than the one in the story, and usually involved the first blunt instrument at hand, and once a plank with a bunch of rusty nails. But Snow had already gotten her Tetanus shot that year, so she only spent about a week in the hospital (without sick pay).
So Snow White lived not very happily ever after with a man named Vusi.
-For Franz Kafka
I am a prisoner in a cold cell. The prison I am kept in has long been decrepit and poor, and I have no more neighbours to keep me company, but I did have some companions –they may even be called friends, in some circumstances- in the old days when the prison was a shining bastion of reformation. And, like all people confined for long enough in one place, we shared stories and myths. I cannot, at the moment recall any of them, except one.
The myth is that if one is cooped up too long in the stagnation of prison air, one’s lungs grow accustomed to it, and then if one should be freed or escape, one’s lungs would immediately seize up because of the freshness of the air and one would die. This is the one story that stuck with me through my long imprisonment. I have forgotten many many things; my name, for one, but in the end that is not important to me as the guards would simply call me by my number, not my name, and since the guards have long since disappeared, I have also forgotten my number. I have also forgotten for what crime I was imprisoned in the first place. I was never in any doubt that I deserved my sentence; I’m just no longer sure why I received that sentence, or even exactly what the sentence was. I’m sure it’s a dreadfully long time. How could it not be? I’ve been here for a dreadfully long time. Surely the fact justifies itself? I have been here for a long time, it follows logically that I have to be here for a long time.
As I have mentioned before, the prison is no longer what it was when I came here. There are no longer showers or food or company or guards. They have all left a long time ago, and I am alone in the prison. Yet, I never dare to venture beyond the hall of my cell, and rarely even beyond my cell. All the doors are open, yet I fear the freshness of the air beyond it. And besides, I don’t feel like I’ve completely served out my sentence. I should know when I am finished.
Yet, even if someone from the ministry came and said my sentence was served and I was free to go, I’m not entirely sure I would leave. I would be absolutely paralyzed by the fear of the air, and they would not be able to shift me, and finally, after exerting themselves to some extent they would wipe their hands and foreheads, spit on me and walk away saying that I did not deserve to be let free. And perhaps I don’t, if fear of leaving paralyzed me so.
Or perhaps the ministry man would not be a ministry man after all, but rather a sneaky revolutionary who would try to get me to leave on purpose so the air would kill me, and thus prove his movement’s point to the government. And he would not shed a single tear for me, for how much greater is his cause than the life of one invalid?
Or perhaps the ministry man is a ministry man, and he has been sent to oversee my execution. And he would come and before the execution he and the guards would stand and talk and decide to have a laugh at my expense. They would decide that they would give me false hope just before shattering it again and killing me with what sustained them.
As I sit here, this has happened many times, but every time the people would come to get me I would throw them with rocks and shout until they ran away and I am left in my isolation. No, I will never trust them! I will sit just here and serve my sentence out quietly, until I’m quite sure I’m done.
ek wil elke noot in jou liggaam hoor
elke rillende spierbeweging ‘n lied
wat nagte deur my kop sal dans
ek wil elke skadu in jou oë sien
elke vou ‘n refleksie van ‘n ander wêreld
wat ek in my drome sal verken
ek wil elke kurwe van jou siel leer ken
en elke sagte nuanse in jou voel sodat ek
jou herhinnering in die aand kan vashou
I saw you put a cigarette out
in my eye
it burned like hell
it burned like love
as the blood spurted
over your face
coating you in love and pain
I put a cigarette out
in your eye
you screamed like hell
you screamed like passion
and all your sorrow
and suffering
washed down your cheeks
in a flood of love and pain
onsekerheid flikker in jou oë
en word weerspieël in die akkedisbewegings
van ons hande op mekaar se lywe
ewigheid gepers soos ‘n vlinder
en leeftye se prag word in
‘n
oomblik
vasgevang
die water vang ons skadurefleksies
en draai dit in sterrenette toe
en gooi hul lig saggies op jou hare
jou oë, jou lyf, jou lippe en jou asem
draai nou nog in my drome rond