deepundergroundpoetry.com
A Summer Day in the Township (South Africa 1985)
Skeletal dogs with torn leather hides
Slink past the blackened carcasses of cars,
Shrouded by early morning dust and engine fumes;
Past battle-scarred chickens picking at craters in the street,
Between rows of commuters
Who shuffle and squeeze into the bowels of buses.
Crossroad hawkers sit guarding eggs on blankets,
Pyramids of bruised apples between their knees,
And shacks, stacked back to back,
Support naked pumpkins tanning on tin roofs.
Radios throb like disembodied pacemakers,
Over splashes of red on blistered roadsides
That sing of bullets and melting rubber flash:
The post-tribal rhythm of beating batons
And chorus of sirens.
A tin-can football rattles like teeth on cement,
Ignored by the skeletal dogs with tongues of fire
That crouch to lick their smouldering wounds.
And far across the rutted landscape, beyond the smoky funnels
Rise tower of mirrored glass, like cocked fingers,
Where aerosol cans of cream or mace
Can be employed without discrimination.
Slink past the blackened carcasses of cars,
Shrouded by early morning dust and engine fumes;
Past battle-scarred chickens picking at craters in the street,
Between rows of commuters
Who shuffle and squeeze into the bowels of buses.
Crossroad hawkers sit guarding eggs on blankets,
Pyramids of bruised apples between their knees,
And shacks, stacked back to back,
Support naked pumpkins tanning on tin roofs.
Radios throb like disembodied pacemakers,
Over splashes of red on blistered roadsides
That sing of bullets and melting rubber flash:
The post-tribal rhythm of beating batons
And chorus of sirens.
A tin-can football rattles like teeth on cement,
Ignored by the skeletal dogs with tongues of fire
That crouch to lick their smouldering wounds.
And far across the rutted landscape, beyond the smoky funnels
Rise tower of mirrored glass, like cocked fingers,
Where aerosol cans of cream or mace
Can be employed without discrimination.
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