Prince Alfred Street, Grahamstown: Ploughmen may not always hear the forsaken cries— Deferred dreams are spread-eagled under the official Scalpel. It was tyre smoke earthed our minds.
Every day the rake scoops the scattered loves Of the quiet room. The soft and frail hands Flatten out the quivering letters, shy of noises.
• How can you describe yourself in a summarized manner? I like the idea of being an in-crowd person—I am gregarious. It’s only natural that at times I should want to cultivate privacy in order that I should feast upon my life, and maximize my moments of reflection—to write, really.
To Sihle Ntuli Brother, the cigarette touches the lips; And this life is wrenched from the tongue, As torque taking its toll on tyres.
I weep at my door trying to pick up the pieces of you you left scattered on my heart’s pain-tiled floor. trying to glue back the scattered glass of what used to be the windows to my soul
Perhaps, the only reason I believe people always leave is because I always do.