My pot is an old paint container
I do not know
who bought it
I do not know
whose house it decorated
I picked the empty tin
in cemetery lane.
My lamp, a paraffin lamp
is a used 280 ml bottle
labelled forty per cent alcohol
I do not know
who drank the alcohol
I picked the bottle in a trash bin.
My cup
is an old jam tin
I do not know who enjoyed the jam
I found the tin
in a storm-water drain.
My plate
is a motor car hub-cap cover
I do not know
whose car it belonged to.
I found a boy wheeling it, playing with it.
My house is built
of plastic over cardboard
I found the plastic being blown by the wind.
It's simple
I pick my life
as I go.
...

She wore bold colours
of broken patterns
as if she were
at war with herself.

Her amputated skirt
flirted with the wind
A decapitated hat
held by thin strings
hung at the back
of her neck
as she strutted away
in high-rise shoes
into the fiery glow
of the city sunset.
...

When he walks
he throws his legs out
with an abused energy
that is a liability
to his empty stomach.
The laughter of his voice
ascends on the dry
rough path of its sound.
He talks of his exploits
his many conquests
Yet down his neck
Run the dry tracks of his sweat,
his abandoned missions.

His smile is rehearsed
before an adamant mirror
that refuses to smile
His mind is a false city
in which
even the infants
refuse to play.
...

Here lie two doves
caught
in the crossfire
Mating
on the boughs of Entumbane
...

It was you
who I abhor
Comrade First Street
whose battles are fought
in your mouth
And whose strategies
are mapped on your face.

You talk of arms of war
with all your might
like a firing bazooka.
You repeat the name AK47
Like a burst of rounds
but when the police arrive
you jam
like a rusty FN rifle.
...