The southwestern township
comes alive in
the nighttime
The power trips
because Pravin is
on a power-trip
Khenza becomes a Gaza strip
teasing death with the
bullets that seduce the sky
Glocks pun the air
lone-walkers beware
you chose a bad day
to be stranded like broke hair
The patrons at 112
are refusing to disperse
voluptuous vixens in tight skirts
are making it worse
They say little
by way of words
but enough, through body-language
We come alive
in the nighttime.
The curfew lifted like a coffin
then Dracula came out to play
The full moon bursting
with the glow
of a thousand inner ‘peace’s
the kind of endorsement
only a celestial object ever reaches
The power returns
once the powers-that-be
have gotten their rocks off
We cheer sarcastically
and loan the Mexican wave
from the muchacho’s
at a zero per cent interest
The activities go unabated
only dawn can intervene
against nocturnal kaffirs
conquering the night.
