Literary discussion

Reading the poem slowly
Words enunciated loyally
She grapples with content
Rolls around the rhythm
Reads to the very end

Discussion?
NO! - I’m not at school
Questions?
NO! - You know I don’t like poetry
Thoughts?
NO! - I don’t think Sundays

perfect coronation - by charli wiggill

grasping at solitude on my angular wooden deck
braving the sun with the rain in check
at the height of my trance a beggar man appears
ghastly filthy sight confirming my fears

hobbles unsteadily to our sidewalked garbage bags
gobbles smelly leftovers and pockets stubbed out fags
rummages and scratches through scraps of our pride
my wealthy, healthy acidpity blown open wide

amongst potato peelings and spent coffee grounds
muffled yelps of delight and other cheery sounds
he speedsorts through the mess post-haste
the quickpiled treasure a testament to waste

handle-less coffee mug raises a whoop of cheer
at long last the proud owner of something dear
like a disco-pirate; neon orange sunglasses, one lens amiss
with grand fanfare both jovial and jaunty, he blows me a kiss

joint from last night’s roast is grabbed
nibbling on sinew and fat, he’s nabbed
a broken Barbie crown, bejewelled and gold
450 carat plastic ruby – a sight to behold

as he staggers and he swaggers to the neighbour’s pile
ahobble and awobble with a pompous old king style
explosive angercompassion I yell, “What the heck…”
quickasaflash, “marram, I’m so sorry burrum outta wek”
(and “marram, I’m so hepppeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”)

so with great aplomb he chasses to the next rubbish box
gold crown balanced precariously atop his dirty dreadlocks
a fading torment from my weak conscience
forever erasednot from my bleak existence

deep valleys and guided foxes* - by charli wiggill

whilst canines cower
and children cheer
man is again at war

belligerent bombs blast the sky
contemptuous crackers crackle incessantly
delinquent divas dive dynamically, and
efficient explosions graffiti the vast darkness

firecrackers flicker, fizzle, then pop
rapid fire ricochets, spitting spectrum sparks
rabid rockets ejaculate all over the clouds
fire fountains first scald, then singe the moon

with Catherine-wheelscartwheelingcrazily
and this cacophonyofmagnificentmunitions -
Durban (and her dogs)
identify with Dafur, Iraq… Palestine

but the god of the animals
greets with silence the violence
of the moment


*don’t be fooled by the title

carguard - by charli wiggill

sun and rain
again and again
he hovers

day and night
dusk and firstlight
he hovers

every cloud offers
the silvered edge
of pennies from heaven

or a darkgloomy
frown of insult
smashed down onto the tar

after helping dispense
stuffed shopping bags
into cavernous carpeted cars

he pushes the awkward trolley
against its better judgement
battles it to allotted space

then hovers at our taillight
beckons with comicflailingarms
handstops the traffic with panache

as windowwhirrs, rushesover capinhand
excruciatinglypolitely, he catches the coin
heartfelt “Gotblesstyoo” for all of tworand

for us, the fanatics
who worship at malls
imbeciles; the credit card calls

Local Erections - by charli wiggill, 15 February 2006

Dedicated, not to our leaders who are true, but to the politicians whose salaries we pay…
abrupt overnight profusion of posters
wanted for your ward placards
(just like in the untamed west)
and brash erectioneering
pimping gimmicks and gadgets -
legalising abortion – what is our cut
procuring peaceful war machines – what is our cut
serving beetroot and African potato - what is our cut
ignoring Baba Robert up north – what is our cut
unequal non-equal equality – what is our cut
unrascist non-racist racism – what is our cut
but your Honour – what is our cut…

when voting
pick your prick
a mistaken cross
(not a tick; get it?)
once erected
some proud members,
huge in stature
stand to be counted
many, less endowed, flaccid
bald head down in the back benches
some swapping parties
some swapping partners
some swapping conjugal rights
for very adult childish games

those upstanding
discuss
pubic amenities
tax cuts
the unkindest cut of all
circumscribe, the cock and bull
while others just work
on keeping up with the Zumas
(quite hard to do… no really!)

at the end of the day
politicians are just like penises:
for the most part – unavailable,
shrouded behind zippers with
two indolent guards just hanging around
at pubic expense
promising big things, but
on delivery
frequently rather disappointing
frequently shooting from the hip
frequently missing the whole –
point
frequently abandoning pregnant pauses
and many bastardised laws

and, mostly, the public get exactly what they want -
after lame pick-up lines,
productive propositioning,
stripping off the truth,
a little fumbling and foreplay,
then voted into orifice –
we get soundly screwed
oh - and the biggest prick usually wins anyway!

current account - by charli wiggill

with rich and varied
struggle history
feted internationally
South Africa is blessed

many Robben Island graduates
orchestrate a peaceful revolution
advise world bodies in various affairs
glorious leaders amongst men

sitting with a blank cheque
able to fill in any future
masses scribble a bouncer
placing balance in the red

certain account holders
deposit an expired cheque
African Renaissance not considered
banking integrity never questioned

other account holders, many
deposit a false cheque
moral balance never considered
banking integrity never questioned

of all possible transactions
positive inter-account transfers
probable interest on investments
is this the sum of our current account!

two questionable cheques –
one dud
one stale,
neither signed on policy!

with two unsigned cheques
battling it out in the ledgers
banking regulations are flouted
future policy lies disguised

account holders are uninformed
or apparently do not really care
so many possibles for excellence
yet our account hangs in the balance