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Tuesday, 03 September 2013 21:15

Sparrows

By 
Sparrows shackled

Sleepless saint less nights on the side
Walk
On pavements
Concrete evidence
Of the existence of an everyday struggle
The eye is the hustle
Hard.

Eyes shoot like revolvers
Revolving around
Mirror images the suicide of sight
Things we have seen
Have made us blind
To the potholes
Deep
On the side of the street
That swallow
To cook
Salt on wounds
And cooked
Smiles swallowed
Puked grimace
Pain filled
And breaking
The eyes enclosing
To reveal flammable tears
Smoke and smell
Of insides burning.

Start
 
On
 
Entering entertainment
Morning wood means an axe to grind
Bikini’s sell cars and body spray
Wood bleeds
Champagne showers during ad breaks
Baptism of screens accompanied by screams of blessing
Pleasure comes to early worms
Catching the bird
To contextualise or the lack thereof as long as they speak persuasion
Body language the 12th official language.
 
Vinolia flavoured meltdowns Jam Alley
Eye’s scream in shock at the cones of a once smiling face turned to tubs
Frame that we see
Fame down the drain and it is sad
Stains get wiped out
While stars get washed up
As they sell you what’s left of them
For the amazing price of free 99.
 
Swallowing pop through the eye balls
Our corny culture rolling onto the next channel
Reality shows lying
The makeup is telling
Lipstick on the lips of Bonang eclipsed only
By caving forehead
Which she uses as an umbrella
To shield comments about her skeleton
She handle’s it well
With thick (leather Louis Vuitton) skin
 
What’s realer than a life that lacks a lens?
 
Blank television
Fills the side that we need not see
To swallow pop culture through eye balls
Is enough for eyes to vomit madness
 
So you go to paint the wall
You pull a chair
You watch
Frowning, at the start
Smiling, at the end
 
You’re were a cool blue
Till you read about
Socialites dictating about dick took in books
“Mzansi” wanting to know all about the bottom
And that glamorous top
That adorns the busts of the most famous D-Cups
As seen on T.V
 
Gucci’s and Lamborghini’s reproduced for T.V moment
Conception of mimicry
Crying at birth
To one day grow misguided as a paraphrased re-run
With that same rags to riches premise
That informs books and movies
That informs heterosexual serenades
That will eventually empower model bodies & sugar daddies
To be all they can be.
 
Just listen to the
“Sounds”
Hedonistic undertones blasting on stereos
A hit song plays
The world lends their ears
“A loan”
Then takes them back after a week
 
Just listen to the
Sounds
Alone
You’ll hear rolling silence
That thumps and bumps
The hit song that misses
That can’t see nor touch nor feel
Or be felt
 
It’s a speaker with base but no voice
Eardrums beaten not massaged
Scrambling brains hence we consider it a “smash hit”
 
From this shall come slogans and acronyms?
Like Y.O.L.O
A hymn of recklessness
That makes a mess
The foundings of the new religion
Pop idol worship
The reign goes on.
 
The street kids’ song
Is by the stomach playing blues
Bitter blues blasting through bodies
Breathless
If we remember we’ll pray for them in church
Poignancy lives in innocence
Some are in groans
Some in song
The groaning song
As the cupped hands ask for spare change
Not just on Sunday
 
Spare a thought for priests trying to fix churches
Though they don’t want your thoughts                                                                      
They want your change
Spare change
The song in your pocket
As the cup asks for spare change
On Sunday
 
You offer a piece of mind
 
A piece of you
Soaked in your identity
To tame demons and spirits
 
Then you wonder
Perhaps they are the architects of evil
A devil socially constructed
Hell is other people
Especially those who knock on doors
In the name of their devotion
 
Surely belief and faith can be explored in intimacy
To be decided on by soul
Whether said soul accepts or rejects
It is said souls business.
 
Drive time
Wheel spin on shining rims and dim windows
Actors, Lawyers and Salespeople
Selling dreams for $ouls
 
Wheel spins on shining rims and a clean get away
Dim windows and
Hand-made leather intentions that you won’t see
But they do see you
 
Wheel spin on shining rims and dim windows
Rolling eyes to see a running mind
And a clean getaway
 
The mind running
 
Taps
Of your feet
To your favourite tune on the system
 
Life running out of
Taps
 
Also meaning
The pleasure of knock and cum in
That runs on minds
The one experiencing drought speaking like swimmer
Leaving a mind running
Spillage on palm
Keeping this leak to themselves
Imagination quenching “thirst”.
 
Outcomes and Incoming
Capitalisms questioning by unanswered lower case
Profit versus Ubuntu the answer is madness
As we so often find ourselves in institutions going mental
Prescription theories for the cure
Sanity locked behind the pages
Or so we thought.
 
In the City Of Saints
The moon has been coloured green
Hippies still live
Swallowing green smoke
Impatiently waiting for trains that will puff & pass them by
Dubstepping
Afroing
Braiding,
Fucking
Sleeping
And writing
Poetry.
 
                                                      And then at dusk
Smoke and smell
of burning
 
Necklaces
Are made of rubber
Painted with flames
These necklaces
Smooch necks
Passionately
As screams turn on
Pupils white overtaken by a Dionysian trance
The overdose on ritual sacrifice
As screams turn off
 
Claiming flammable horse hair,
Silicone and rubber spines
Parading heads
The revolution has come again
Authenticity has risen
 
The sparrows now fly freely
There is now sleep
Amongst the true and the living.
The masquerade shall cease to exist
The carnival shall end
In an idealistic world.
 
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Sihle Ntuli

Sihle Ntuli is a Rhodes University M.A Candidate in Classical Civilizations. His debut anthology 'Stranger' will be released in 2015 through independent publisher Aerial Publishing.

Website: thehouseofkehinde.tumblr.com
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