zimBOBwe

and other stories... zimBOBwe Church of the allday Reformation/Out to Lunch roll-over/ play-dead... ...good bye the struggle goes on (untitled) a loose gun and a banjo

fox © 2004

zimBOBwe Kusiri kufa ndekupi? Shona – Would any other death be different from this?

"In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree: Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man

Down to a sunless sea..." Samuel Taylor Coleride, Kubla Khan In Zanu du did Freedom's Son His presidential home decree: Once Rhodes, the founding father, banned Chimurenga's hard won land

reclaimed for democracy. So forty-four acres of wooded ground With walls and fences protected round: And there were two dams with 'dozers being filled, Where swam many a buried detainee; And farms lost calling countless to the hills, A siren song for beloved Zimbabwe. But oh! that steep political chasm which granted Border Gezi's Green Bombers a certain cover! A savage place! as grossly misconstrued As e'er beneath an orange moon and daunted By youths misguided by the power structure!

And from this chasm, with ceaseless poverty deep'ning, As if this earth in its final moments was weeping, A mighty people momentarily were forced: Amid arid claims for land which theirs was first Huge discrepencies in the economic float And 'mid the tyrant's bluff at once for ever, It flung up entirely the sacred tether That binds men of like in principal together Through razor wire the social contract torn, And in the age of redistribution born That beast that feeds on empty wastes, Fat cats and the bastard proliforates, And 'mid this turmult Freedom heard from far Ancestral voices advocating war!

The shadow of the ruling party

Bloated as the calves of slaves; Growing with the death of millions Gold in the coffers of the few it spares. It is that miracle of avarice, A sunny facade, and heart of ice!

A shimmer in the heat-torn haze In a vision once I saw: It was a reborn southern land, And there within her bounty stayed Children on the verge of rage, Their listless hate, their tales of woe And grew a new love thereupon. To such a deep delight they told me That with voices loud and strong, They could bring such change upon A land undone by avarice! And all who've heard should gather here, And all should cry, "Deliver her!" His china eyes, that Hitler stare! Send the Hague up to that house, Return the state to those who've fled, For he their country dry hath bled, And spilt the milk of Paradise.

Church of the allday Reformation/ Out to Lunch the western dialectic, or community upliftment pogoms the constant flow of diahorrea from the media

being 1. the profile of a serial leader during

the much lau(n)dered auditary committee year-end hedge book highlight sports package

broadcast, gratified egos on the sponsor pages : adbreak breaker-suits and boiler trophies, drug-inducted investment portfolios –

crumbling fractal dominoes on worm infested webpage blasphemies (pheromone memos) & wallstreet madison avenue company walrus values, policies of impeechment

on the pavement squatters trade tractured to sections of election pamphlets flattered in a stiff breeze

communism rules marxism sucks socialist fundamentalism

u r aOK. cut the crap and feed the masses on themselves for another 50 years

marching orders from above, your GOD is LOVE

war castrate the generals and make them all females bitch whip the popular degenerates the masters of the chrome and chromosone universe demand an audience – do not feed the Lions (during the following hours)

being an account or an accountant that is the enron

the suburban water foecal count

and/or another vice presidential inquisition into the off-with-his-head-set arms deal acquisition,

placing the pieces where we find them in the easter hunt for the modern soul huge big chocolate apples hung with string on deckchairs in transatlantic music videos at some or other time in history the dinosaurs had to deal with these same social conundrums–

feel the earth reverberate on heat, a comet the size of a mammary lands just South of Brakpan, Ohio on a summer afternoon all those still living with aids could just makeout the headline on mainstream television: UFO denies the existence of the USA. George Bush elected to serve another eclaire, being a smuggled jetliner through arab custom bearing the Kiss of XRist the heartbeef handshake and oil pores texan businessmen addedvalue servicing the world on cubancigars as the thirdreich conquers mars with dollarsigns & copulation controls as the Church of the allday Reformation/ adjourns Out to Lunch, and the people pace back and forth within their decendant generations

roll-over/ play-dead... ...good bye dream of taxi-death along these hurtling Joburg streets of motion and commotion, the join of coin and blood – placenta to the birth, angels and engines in heat dream of taxi-death, of chrome-fringed government & the victims of executive golf, trapped upon the endless grass verge or somewhere in the rough turned upside down a spinning wheel thrashes at the sun a mother’s emptiness in her arms and her chest carries her voice from the desert clear as a pebble sharp as a stone alone as the tennants of silence strangers accumulate in a summer field beside a gormless dog and shredded radial belt truck tire walls nothing gets through, words fall in a dozen neat languages along as many straight lines within the remedial orange

the struggle goes on the storm might be over but now the droughts have come the struggle goes on as against drowning I mean, take today I take a piss at this urinal the guy behind me in the cubicle starts crying, three quick sobs then done, and I leave to catch what ten years ago would have been a black taxi where now, from within, in my white-economic disempowerment I am still a white Label, everytime I buy south african it feels as if I'm paying Bobby Mugabes Anti-Apartheid Bill and my president just shutsthefuckupon a jet to Haiiti to France & then Somali back from chile back from bali and Mexican Cancun where all this goon cando is propup the G20. Plus, now I must vote, & every cross against the post Like some long Forgottenghost will rise upon the stone a cancer and a freedom the storm might be over but the rains have still to come and the struggle still goes on as against drowning in Zimbabwe they eat the dust of Revolution they smear it in their children's eyes that they might fear the whiteman (eventhough every fucker is an african, pale as the Nile and on the Ivory Coast

and on the ivory coast european descendants of the darkest diaspora return to cull dis order & complicate mass murder on African time the time it takes a child, with dust smeared in his eyes to handle a new weapon, fire with discretion reload with conviction, grow with the guerillas in the dust comrades reaching out to their comrades & their spades africa is full of spades instant aids fills all those holes in african time and once the storm is over, and twice the storm is over and again the storm which is over which is over & still the struggle like a desert in a cloud the sound of a fish through a tree america doesnt understand george bush doesnt understand even if george bush understood, george bush doesnt under stand, a man must fight for his country, even when it is not his country, even when it is not his fight - a man must fight Go deliver that in african time to the Watchers on the Hill, make them understand you come (and go) alone that the rains follow no man, that drought is a curse entire families bury in their backyards

and africa is the white man's treasure, and africa was the white man's throne here he could come to do whatever he was not allowed to do back home, a continent of holes and non-holes of evened over earth africa was the white man's lab-rat, his labcoat hung on the splintering arms of God, and the natives then beaten with wooden crosses with nails ah how the blood must flow to make a river so, the red tongues of serpent-flavoured apples worms grow round in the heat to eat their own faeces how africa cries a distended mosquito in the purple babe of the night how the struggle goes on as against drowning under someone else's thumb the gods press your eyelids full with dust

swallowed by shopping malls other people emerge packaged unfrozen and redrawn according to some or other pleasant thing women on heels and old ladies recoloured in the neon of their youth, on display for all to see still up and running in this strange scenery I suddenly need to feel before I die that every member of the human race decoloured & reclassed every empowered customer every new customer that walks between these invisibles doors be forever turned or not to be released at all, to wander as an old lady torn between youth and truth like a bloody rag between two dogs these cornered corridors these endless crayon vaults of platinum diamond scars on the well honed wood the forests in living rooms and bedrooms giving birth to a new legion of spenders born accredited and able to walk endlessly in a shiny crowd without ever even touching elbows

a loose gun and a banjo heroes of the african half-pipe, a loose gun and a banjo Don Kneepad and Joe soap, black as the ace of graves Come coining white credentials, & prison differentials hanging on the coat-tails of madiba & co., (a loose gun and a banjo...) S abc S adc State controlled Zimbabwe tv., the eritrea-press, the entire mess of african renaissance hungering on handouts, and double crossing standards maladministeration, the neighbouring inflation the death through inflitration, south african & nigerian car watch gods & drug-fuck Lords, ushered in through politicies and parastatal economies marginalising the Revolutionaries & depraving the wardance stance, a loose gun, a banjo the african solution to the death of constitution a song to sing when winds of change flutter brief upon the deafend ears the shut-sewn mouths, the wideopen-eyed, the dust-bowls of african death & dieting, the silence settles disquieting on a confused tradition discourse divorced from the truth a loose gun and a banjo, the new age bob’s your uncle the mobcop squads and the back-alley blow-torch jobs the Get-out-of-hague free card for Britains failing hero a loose gun and a sin, a banjo strumming grin Killing words and children thin, a nation of Q’s and R mugabe, africa’s favoured dignitary and france’s blushing pride a loose gun and a land grab fest a banjo and a condom dressed undressed blessed unblessed the people’s right freedom’s choice, confessed & gagged america, condoned and trust, the masses must accept the ritual slaughter, a loose gun god the father aids & ever-after a loose gun and a banjo, the Songs of hell and Congo an intrim agreement to appease the piece achievement to rush the rainbow in longgone the rains have pass’d to spread the crap even & grow a new world fodder (cannon color printer, exxon flavored winter...) with a little help from... the truth goes marching on.