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Truth is in the vomit.

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I’m stuck on a typewriter
Literary critic! I’m not the right (write) type
I brew a storm in a three legged pot
Village vibes got my pen screeching rural thought
And granny bomb graffiti with cow dung
I stitch my tongue back in my mouth
Bushveldt river bank free verse deposit
Breathing’s hard with a smoke necklace
Bantustan episodes of Biko’s ghost is Frank Talk
Kids fall in pit toilets and drown in faeces
Shock pumping like a communal water tap
Bring a bucket
Village tranquillity so moving it makes stomachs turn
And the truth is in the vomit.

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