we write what we like

because

when some of us die

or disappear, like jensma

who will find the body?

who will stalk the grains of truth?

will the ones to come

find the spoor?

we write what we like

because when the black bird

stands over the child

poised for its entrails

the earth has died

as much

as if hit

by a thermonuclear wave

we write as we like, because

the millions

who were loaded into holds, some decanted

into landfills, others dying

water-deaths

    listen! the sighs

    ride the seas

    the bones call out through our pens

we write as we like

because smoke was rising, grey columns

cigar smoke, when the generals

peered down

as crowds ran

first in, then out, of stadiums

where the gunshots ring

we write, unfettered

because

when a little boy died, in alexandra township

hit by a car,

the mortuary vehicle, for ‘technical reasons’

arrived three hours later

we write what we like, also

because love (like anger

or, with the force of anger)

breaks through

cracks

in the old buildings 

& small weeds squeeze forth

between

pavement slabs

where the bad boys 

once fought

& because

the rows of little houses

sprout patterns & braided heads & vendor-stalls & rap songs &

                                                                                                    graffiti

& because curry smells

brew & ripen

as the day unravels

our pens won’t self-muzzle or stay put

because at tonkwane, in magaliesburg

the immense gorges gape

& the kranse

scratch at the sky, the itching

causing storms

unconsoled

(our pens weep) because

as the blesbok’s shin

caught in the trap

leaks blood  

the calf must move on

in search of the brook

we write

words we choose, words that choose us

words that lasso & grip us

because … under a tree

children read a book

& the story flits

from branch to branch

from artery to artery

& back to protruding roots

of the gnarled tree

we write what we like

since

on fridays, (even in darker times, days of tanks & curfews

when bullets punched holes in school uniforms)

the taxis hoot

coolly clustering

in the clutter of downtown life

waiting, lurking … for the homeward push; salesmen call

& brenda’s voice spits & steams

from giant speakers

& the next day

the wedding convoy slithers

to the city gardens, where

cameras click & pleasure bubbles forth

from stiff suits

& tight dresses

i spade words, spoon commas, similes & metaphors;

like a tube, i excrete

pastes of hard or soft colours;

blue green yellow black purple orange mustard

in ranging texts, filled with widows & orphans or peppered

with spaces that count as full stops

in lines that huddle

by cramped margins

i play

close to the edge

… i write what i like

(For the title of the poem, apologies to steve biko.)