And now –
has it come to this?
We’re right next to one another, but so far apart.
Two lovebirds, transmitted by signal, breaking up.
No, four lovebirds – breaking up – becoming a sardine run
without ever reaching the other one’s shore.
I’m against love, the whole multiplication thing:
The Vatican’s never-ending bakery, as well as the fish shop
Your pricked-up breasts don’t fool me,
you’re just panelbeating your armour.
The metaphors have become soldiers, the gestures are all stretchers
and you’re a babushka-doll
of never-ending napoleons, one smaller than the other.
Strip the peacemakers naked and throw them out the windows –
Hot Cross buns first! I don’t care about the middle ground.
Let’s split up. The nice thing about dividing
the atom is that you can trust it, a million times over.
Our sweet words? They’ve soured –
the poisonous petit fours of a deserted voodoo ritual.
The only good thing about this is to see
how the counsellors and the priests flee,
those black peacocks in their useless sandals.
I’m against love. Let the continents drift apart.
Let them shape new worlds. New discoverers.
I’m against sense. I’m against confusion too.
Just the other day they crossed a pig’s egg
with a human sperm. I’m all for it.
Thank you mister girl deamons,
missus colonel flying fish,
for raining frogs on the ventriloquist,
for chaining the juggler
to the orchard of suspended oranges.
And the bangees that mounted the Trappist;
one can never trust a nightmare.
Now I’m at square one again –
you stole my Three Monkeys!
Baby Zeus, Mother Sun,
you were my photostatted little pantheon
blown to life by the wind,
but the temple is now torn and aflutter with wings.
What has become of us? Where are the memories?
We are frozen at one another’s throats
like eagles in the coat-of-arms
of a family that became extinct.
It is becoming summer on the highveld, where we both live.
They call this region the Cradle of Humanity,
where the first hominids roamed. Another year is passing.
The skeletons of primordial tigers lie packed up
in the limestone, like virtual grand pianos.
The naked savannah sings. And the lightning flashes
like my computer screen, the moment I store this sentence.
Scurrying stockbrokers of the young republic,
flighting new markets, are crushing the primitive skulls underfoot.
But while everything starts to live again, our love has died.
The grey guinea fowl are coming out of the grass, in their graphite shawls.
These are the peacocks, the down fireworks of long, long ago –
that have dulled on the retinas of two corpses, that are ours.
Love: the hidden categories,
the painted doors of the honey catacombs,
And now this. Damn it. Fuck it. Persecution.
Time: a stone of petrified strawberries;
the picnic basket that got stolen by a baboon
near Sterkfontein Caves,
and the vanished couple.
Yes this. Damn. –
We are sleeping at the bottom of a sea.
Our faces are looking in opposite directions,
two profiles embossed on separate coins.
Our hair that would lift in the breeze of the present
is now minted on the wind of eternity.
We are a lost treasure.
The ship went aground in foul weather.
But one day, on a clear day in the distant future
two skindivers, a boy and a girl,
two beautiful lovers in the shallow water,
will discover you and me again
with their brand-new bodies
and retrieve us
from this forgotten wreck.