Polarity hits you at face, Thoughts. Move
inversely. The deed, words, slogans
divide the eternity of time. No hygienic
patience. Persons coming from channels only.
The thing. Image in hundred mirrors.
Varieties of fakes and counterfeits. Foeticide.
Paedophile. Necrophilia. Peddling pink flesh.
It is. Peels of skin left on roads. Your shape,
my contours, his art. I am passing through
a tunnel. Open-and-shut. No end. No beginning
Two nothings.
Will keep on moving. Roaches are scuttling
like rats with wings. Their country. We are
outsiders. Strangers. Not to reveal the names,
No landmarks on walls, intersections, doors.
No vigilance, No corporatized pain. No
bleeding wounds.
Impatience. Nobody opens the eyes.
Long sleep. I pray, no waking up.
Let the global warming end. Let the
terror die of its own Aconite.
Still Living on my Feet is the follow up to Tichaona Chinyelu’s first book, In the Whirlwind, which was rooted in a sense of hard-hitting revolutionary black love. However, in this sophomore effort, Tichaona brings the revolutionary essence from deep
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