Relentless iambic letters conjoined, forming rehearsals so
carefully, soundly, rehearsed
brilliantly like Schlieffen
and his perturbed lowliness — not of a lower
but of camouflage and satisfaction.
Luxuriously lurid lights,
ricocheting like the springing of a course-book
Bright like the opportunity of
Rather, diaphragms shaded with unmistakable fallacies,
full of livid contrast and bitter blue
sharpeners, flooding rote
and rote and rote and rote:
rehearsals rarely censured, rather reputed
as marvellous, a commendable work ethic
and brains of gold.
Silver seems sulky
next to the arrogance of gold and fresco delusions
which morph the illusions
‘Walk this way, talk this way, work this way, be this way’
honked the heads of ministries, accompanied by powerful
temperaments, albeit, seemingly.
Seeming is the verse of seamless fouls wrapped in a cage
and hammered home into stitches of brutal ultimatums,
of course, issued by the heads
Smuts, sheered with dire comprehension,
a history of colonisation and proposition of the unconventional:
of course, the developed convention—beautiful scarlet eyes,
that of deviance and depth,
wretched into Smuts cardiac; his whiskey and wine
sexy and brutal, yet pragmatic and undue.
His convention, our not,
is similar to the lopsided soap demanding autonomy
of your body, your soul
which you merely gave up.
of my unfair, my foreign
attitude. I too, concede, to
such, now, anachronistically polished
cues and customs
that have dehumanised and
depersonalised my civic bombardment.
But, I ask, in my canny accent and luring washed-down streaks
“Is consciousness a far-fetched discipline?”
Or, have we merely
trained our minds