poem — marechera

Forgive the force
That broke my nose
The malice aforethought
That killed my father
The grim necessity
That made mother a whore of all seasons
The dubious acquired knowledge
That made the child his parents’ gadfly
The broken home
The broken cherished hope
Which to time gave its all
And from time now demands everything
Expects nothing
Is this of me the vision she despairs
The masochistic anarchy she constructs from my words
From my actions?
And I, like she expects,
Think of her of me
In terms of eaglet desire.

d c marchera


it’s like this (blood)

Blood, blood, blood racing through my temples, racing through my thighs, racing, racing blood everywhere. I’m astonished at the right wing men who cut off their ears, not at once, but piece by piece. They reduce their hearing capacity in this way, labelling everything which is not the dull pound of their own hearts to “nothing”. Thus they eliminate anything “shrill”.

And I? I wait here, silently, impassively, for the penny to drop.