INDIGENOUS LETTERS FROM HELL

i

We who are basking
on the whites-only
shores, remember the
albatross who spat enough
blood to keep the
darlings of the regime
deep in slime forever.

i

Over here the sun
is a little stuffy.
The moon is still
a sort of friend
We do not depend
much upon the sky.
The ether’s nerves
are getting better.

iii

We are the happy
ones who drink all
the memories we can
lay our paws on.
We are particularly
fond of those recollections
where the trekkers
fed on the carnage
before the sun was rising.

iv

That the sun is a
corrupt animal does
not bother us. We are
used to the sagacity of
local tribesmen. The
butcherboys will see to
it that their powers
are meaningless.

v

just a note to say that
we are proud of our
heritage which is as
congenial as a new coin
or a pack of soapsuds
reciting rubbish.

vi

Besides the fog,
the rest of the
ambience could be
called ‘liveable’
We are a generous nation.
We take what we need.

vii

Remember this: the sky
is no less a harlot
than a black mama cleaning
the dishes.

viii

There is nothing wrong
with the cosmos; it’s
only the bellies, fatter
than mustard puddings, that
could do with a few more anthems.