Howling In The Midnight Streets of Cape Town

You parade around us
In grand processions,
Calling us,
“Hope,”

But I’ll tell you what we’re really like:

We sneak Castle’s into jars
And burn them in broad daylight.

We hurl bats into composed skylines.

We eat your stomped cigarette butts from the pavement,
And plant pens into your garden.

We ignite your mattress with primitive catastrophes.

We hail taxis, and shove horses into them—
To spite your constant fences.

We stack those laptops you bought us into racist and fractured cemeteries,

We are the shivers in your shudders,
The fading tattoos on your shoulder,
The spikes you impale your checks on.

We are the figments, and fragments of your political and parental resignations.

We’ll unlatch our armor and ship ourselves back into the Middle East, belts filled with
Your weeping Prayers.

And—if it pleases you—
Tape a couple of our newspaper clippings onto your fridge.