A popular afro-musician was interviewed some days back, asked how many children he has fathered, his reply; I don't know. He did manage to remember that he is legally married to seven women whom he parades, like a butcher parades fresh meat. Its really none of my business how many children a pop artiste decides to father. What makes me so mad is the idea that these women all step out to be photographed like some cute antique, bought and showcased in a museum. Only this was not a museum show, it was a one man's house show.
Monday 10 November 2014
Saturday 8 November 2014
DEAR MAMA
Dear mama,
I write this in tears of pain from the encaged walls of my premature grave. How quickly you seem to forget that black day you sneaked out of the safe hands of morality, dashed for the club, dressed in a bum-hugging crazy-tight mini-skirt looking for some love, dancing wild to the energetic rock & roll escaping from the speakers of the boom boxes. Inspiration sprung from the shots emptied down your throat, venom caged in enchanting glasses served from over the bar. High on rum and low on your senses, mama, you danced away sanity and flushed modesty down the drain.
I write this in tears of pain from the encaged walls of my premature grave. How quickly you seem to forget that black day you sneaked out of the safe hands of morality, dashed for the club, dressed in a bum-hugging crazy-tight mini-skirt looking for some love, dancing wild to the energetic rock & roll escaping from the speakers of the boom boxes. Inspiration sprung from the shots emptied down your throat, venom caged in enchanting glasses served from over the bar. High on rum and low on your senses, mama, you danced away sanity and flushed modesty down the drain.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)