i was telling her about the funeral last night; i forgot the details of your hands! (how come she never told you about her trouble with varicose veins?). who knows? you might still be here at a time such as this, last year!
he explains why the baby they cooked wasn’t enough for everyone– so they slaughtered the mother; no one ate– the meat was too red and her wounds known for gangrene
“granny refuses to eat meat that kills itself”; and this is not the type that needs saving from ditches.
(are you afraid; you might go to jail for all the murders you’ve committed with your eyes, mfowethu?)
anyway: the funeral
“ambiiye kwoo maisaa nyama sya nziniko”
so we cut the baby’s toes tutengeze mshikaki— the gods have been mad for moons; we have a reason:
our insatiable fathers have eaten all the kids– ona kau ingi syaiye ivuthavuthi
running towards futures already past.
berlin smells like delhi pain, MRIs, CT Scans, X-Rays, the only evidence you have that i lived, here.
i still do not know how to unblock a toilet without smelling shit from the previous tenant, but do not think of that till after the grave has been fully covered.
anyway: the funeral
the pastor with donkey ears keeps referencing wathi namba itatu, as if we didn’t know that no eye has ever seen god and that my aunt died again to help him rehearse your funeral! (do you think this guitar is out of tune, too?)
i would like to put into circulation objects of this kind:
ashtrays of pain and glasses empty with darkness, so that you lose nothing when i die.
bodies that die with too much cinnamon in their gut might never be eaten by ants
you have used up all your future; no point being afraid of waking up dead!
the cracks on oxford street will swallow you up; his heart will be too dead to remember you weren’t human
sometimes, my tongue will ask for ice-cream then i remembered:
borzutzky’s children had no milk
what horror to not know the name of the person who made this coffin?