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there’s a poet locked up inside of me, waiting to shut up

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I was browsing on my browser
and my browser browsed me
so I asked myself
if it’s really true what I see
or perhaps, instead,
maybe it’s only it who sees me?
or could it be my selfie
who thinks that I see?
but then my vision was clearly confused
and my little brain became somewhat bemused
because my selfie just stood there
still as could be
with those overposed eyes
staring right back at me

There once was a sociopath name Zuma
Who couldn’t fuck up the country any sooner
He raped Kewzi, then us, we applauded, even jumped on his bus
File that in the annals of protest humour

patterns form as experience talks

the way ahead is the sound that walks

but then, in time the trodden path 

stumbles on the aftermath

of ideas that come and eventually go

making progress extremely slow

the paths are fluid, running free

except for the likes of you and me

great ideas of yesteryear

far too suddenly disappear

quickly turning into crutches

when we insist on forming them into structures

*

one day I decided to go to Heaven
when I got there I found no one else was there

it felt like Hell to me

so then I decided to come back to life
and I suddenly awoke again
only to find there was no one there either

I decided that meaning
was neither here nor there
instead, meaning was right now

heaven and hell
and everything else
is anything before or after this

so I abandoned hope and fear
lest I be disappointed
by hitting or missing the target of my own expectations

now each day feels like an eternity

it’s amazing what you can achieve
when you’ve nothing else to do in the day

*

Does he suck his thumb at night when thinking back on the day…
Of the plans and procedures he secretly fudged in so many ways
In fright does he quiver at the pain and mayhem caused
Or does it not even bring even a second of reflective pause
That he filled his own plate and drained his oversized mug
rubbing his huge gut with a full face all smug
While the rest of the many wept silently in pain
For inside they all know it will happen again

The lust for more continues to dull his eyes
And fills his lips with even more filthy lies
So he justifies the abundance of plunder he has seized
Saying “this is just what my country needs”
The few get more and the most get less
And the rest… well it’s all just a godless mess

The once oppressed victim is now the oppressor
The great hero revolutionary is now the slave boss of the lesser
His singing of songs, dancing and casting of spells
Increases in might as it dries out the wells
in the hearts of the people who will queue, longing to be quenched
While it’s increasing poverty and oppression in which they are drenched

But they still seek for their heavenly king to unfold
Who will retell their story with glories untold
Patiently holding hands with ancient tradition
In desperate, blind hope they volunteer…
a suicidal mission

And who will stand up and speak up for the masses oppressed?
The obscenely salaried politicians they say…

…who would have guessed?

*

a child
born in time
just out of line
a misfit traveler
estranged
in a strange land of strangers

who waved the wand
and gave the command…
did someone?
who decided it would be…
or wouldn’t…
did they?
the son of a misplaced son
found in a foreign land
the product of some decision
perhaps made before
who can know why
if even at all?

all is blurred
barely visible
reasons evaporate
answers flee
only questions remain
of plans perhaps made
but in sand, …while the winds blew
with the feet of men…
tramping through
what was written can no longer be read
if it was
we can’t know now
or then

sleep walkers
walking in the deep
interrupted steps
dreams incomplete
partly woken
in a confused state
disjointed, unappointed
perhaps it’s too late?

for some
peace can be found
even on the barren fields of war

the puppets rise to take the stand

to wear the mask and raise a hand

but who is it who pulls the strings

the god of greed or other things?

the heart of man is deceitful still

a plague for which there is no pill

yet one by one they take a bow

in hope to win the crowds somehow

slaves cannot be freed by slaves

though they preach great plans of better days

their words are hollow as they flow

they speak of things they do not know

the puppet-master mocks, he tugs the strings

the puppets dance, as he plucks they sing

truth like lies and lies like truth 

the hearts of men, 100% proof

the other puppets watch the show

they have nowhere else to go

they’ve seen the play many times before

maybe things will change… so they watch once more

each act is like a scene from hell

it’s all one can see from inside this cell

green pastures painted on the wall

but there is no smell of grass at all

loud songs of freedom fill the air

sounds to try block out despair

hope in hope is all that’s left

the orphans

the widowed

alone

bereft

everything in its own time
to meet is merely chance
a bump of heads
an embrace of love
there’s no choreography to the dance

who is the fool,
tell me, who could it be?
the foolish, blind king,
or those who believe he can see?

who is the fool,
tell me, who could it be?
is it the fool of a king,
or is it you and me?