egoli swallows, we claim but die.
he vomits us into seas that swallow & vomit us into distant lands.
lands that unfreed our ancestors and shackle their descendants.
lands that demand that we speak imperial. englishness swelling up, taking up spaces that our souls occupied. before.
a year and three attempted suicides later, i return. to a city appalled by its own and cats that maraud streets for left-over hangovers & sexing that mentions no consent.
egoli your after-taste is a teaser for rev. bani-bani‘s miracle-healing crusade caught up in cushions of irrelevances of clientele legal‘s “misfortunes can befall anyone”.
(would jesus be an appropriate insurance policy for azania’s children tired of funeral covers profiting from black death?)
i like to think of myself as a stubborn non-human organism experiencing existential nightmares as though i were human. after numerous almost-failed attempts at long-form, i now call myself a poet (which i use as an excuse to be cynical about life).