I just heard that P.W. Botha died. I had to think for a minute. Who was P.W. Botha?. Then I remembered his nickname was Pik and he wore golden slippers. I had written a poem inspired by the evil bastard back in 1985.
Pik's golden slipper
Steps gently 'neath the canopied elm-
The myth of the realm satiated in early light.
Cokenosers, aciddrippers, headachers, skinsplitters, bonegrinders of the uppercrust covered in the stick, leaf and dew of NIGHT.
Showers of a happy mood
Showers of a summer's news in Johanesburg, in Bethanie....on the farm.
The hair and fabric of another time. An ideology of nostalgia- year and year and year in and out, sending butterfly and bead spewing out my mouth- heartbeats of love.
The wising and wishing for another passion.
(A lexicon of fashion).
The rise of sincerity in "The Family of Man" (in the future) fried like the armies of the world...in the pan.
A passion for morals or
A knowing of the score
And once more, an interdiction of complacency...an intuition of WAR.