What do you

Get
When precision
Is
Not Present For The
Most basic concepts of shape and of
Form? When
The simple curve defies
Its artificers?

Night-time dreamer, day time training shoe technician
Danny slinks home in a harsh wool worker’s jacket
Through the racket of those who can’t hack it,
But take a crack at it anyway.

Worker-caste since parents past,
Dan the man, can! Or so he plans
To break through the snobs and nobs
Who look down their gouted noses at him.


All silk and shiny
Whatsits climb upon the looking glass of class,
And attempt fast passes at the crass masses
Making the sunlight seem a little whiter.

Like cockroaches cloaked in wispy darkness,
They scurry and curry favour with my unsung ear
Where it becomes clear they near what they want: the Fear
Of the tiny crawlers, dream-time trawlers, full moon howlers.

The Whatsits don’t take the to time pause;
They drink at the pale dark streams
That only barely separate the me from the you from the who
And the secret me’s I hide from all but my heart’s blind eye.

That scarf that I wore yesterday dies in the half-lit twilight
Of the Whatsit realm that is quickly becoming my usurped mind.
Memories of mother and fond fall-aways with father
Make plump the puny parasitic plunderers.

And in a moment, I stop being me
And see the final grainy memory
Slink away on the bony shoulders of the steeds
Of the Whatsit realm. I hardly notice it go.

We're very prone to clutter, us humans. We fill our houses with bits and pieces we don't need now, and perhaps never have. We attach false values to objects, and continually doubt the value of our own memory. Sentimentality gets in the way of what really matters.

But worse than physical clutter, is the mental variety. Our thoughts stick to and clog the narrow channels through which we act. Thoughts of silly things, what's for dinner, how much guitar strings cost, if this scarf brings out my eyes, the Celtic score, and other trivialities.

We forget about other people, and how much they are or may be suffering. Perhaps we forget on purpose, because such knowledge darkens our persepective of the world, or we don't want to shoulder any responsability for such things; I do not know.

But what i do know, is that it isn't good enough. As a race, we should be ashamed. People die of starvation and disease, children are beaten by their would-be gaurdians, and victims are punished through the wrongful employment of justice.

And we are pre-disposed with stupid, stupid things like tinsel, fairy lights, turkey and presents. We drive ourselves to near-poverty, to indulge ourselves, and no one else.

Stephen Biko, a prominent activist and political leader in the Anti-Apertheid movement, began his campaign from University. He was on the path to a comfortable and peaceful life, at least as comfortable as a black South African could be at that time. He turned his back on that future, in favour for one that might help save his less fortunate countymen.

On the twelfth of September 1977, Biko died shortly after arriving at a hospital. His escort claimed it was the result of a hunger strike. But later evidence revealed that he had died of serious injuries to the head, and that he had earlier been tied to a window-grille for 24 hours.

At no time did Stephen Biko give up, and save himself the suffering his oppressors had so long awaited to deliver him into. He could have denounced his cause, andlived his life quietly. But he did not, because he had a conscience.

Think on that for a while. Could you be a Stephen Biko?

Why not?