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Kgaogelo Kwes Shaft Lekota
The Bull knows this is real, the dreams he dreams are recurrent.
They glean the clean depths of his soul with fear.
They come to him like intermittent déjà vu in invisible tears.
He likes it though,
the life that springs every time
... he steps out of his house
with the hope of seeing her.
It doesn't end,
like the embroidered memory
of the taste of strawberry
he knows it like
the fluid flow of Nesquick milk
with hopes that this is not one of those
moments that mimic a passing fling
in a tall glass.
Because her tricks humour his real days
in midspring winter mornings he plays hazy tunes
to prune his delight when he takes a blunt break
with a song of her melody for spring
she conducts his beat
the beat that Goliath didn’t hear
in his battle with the diminutive David.
The Samson in her is a biblical bohemian rhapsody
embroiled in the hubble-bubble toil and trouble scriptures
that he reads in his own private brooding spaces, so
The Bull hides behind ganja smoke and sends up a warning flare,
colourful and bare,
baring secrets that dwell like trolls waiting to emerge
with his deep defibrillated desires
He wants to whisper but, he mutters 'You love me,"
And 'tries to speak through startled-buck stutters.'
but he worries not
he is Samson singing the song of the black swan riding crimson tides
in her presence,
He smiles in his solitude and murmurs, "one day is one day, skeem."
They glean the clean depths of his soul with fear.
They come to him like intermittent déjà vu in invisible tears.
He likes it though,
the life that springs every time
... he steps out of his house
with the hope of seeing her.
It doesn't end,
like the embroidered memory
of the taste of strawberry
he knows it like
the fluid flow of Nesquick milk
with hopes that this is not one of those
moments that mimic a passing fling
in a tall glass.
Because her tricks humour his real days
in midspring winter mornings he plays hazy tunes
to prune his delight when he takes a blunt break
with a song of her melody for spring
she conducts his beat
the beat that Goliath didn’t hear
in his battle with the diminutive David.
The Samson in her is a biblical bohemian rhapsody
embroiled in the hubble-bubble toil and trouble scriptures
that he reads in his own private brooding spaces, so
The Bull hides behind ganja smoke and sends up a warning flare,
colourful and bare,
baring secrets that dwell like trolls waiting to emerge
with his deep defibrillated desires
He wants to whisper but, he mutters 'You love me,"
And 'tries to speak through startled-buck stutters.'
but he worries not
he is Samson singing the song of the black swan riding crimson tides
in her presence,
He smiles in his solitude and murmurs, "one day is one day, skeem."
