Our third installment of Anti-Genre is a thoughtful, unflinching rumination on death and the transforming moments that surround it, by Gavin Mndawe. *** Beautiful Funeral Atoms roam round a tomb stone It takes more than a fool to know That funerals are for fools alone It is said that he’s dead What an illusion though I don’t consider it the end Maybe diffusion or moving along It’s sad that he’s dead At least it wasn’t by noose or sword Besides, the silver cord must be torn For the core to be loosed Man, you’re manure For intangible germination Ritual killing of kings Is sacrificial flogging Facing pressure They make impressions Not seeing beyond the vision Of decomposition And the end of anything definite And comprehended In a hundredth of a second Also known as ‘jiffy’ Let the dead in the spirit Bury corpses of the flesh Sacrificing in spite of the tension There’s a limping longing for lightning To reanimate him They say there’s never life Without the latter Reason why it’s got wings And a net to snatch us That’s liberation and captive Birth only took us backwards Chaos has been there Since day one Before expiry-date-slapped Sun Whose fuel will run out Was spun by the spit of the one When worlds weren’t whirled Into the wild It is the sentiment of Darwinism Representative of ascension One...Read More
Author: Gavin Mndawe
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