Tatamkuhlu Afrika
Small round hard stones click onomatopoeia
under my heels,
seeding grasses thrust
seeds personification
into trouser cuffs, cans,
trodden on, crunch
in tall, purple-flowering,
amiable weeds.

District Six.
No board says it is: doesn't need signs
but my feet know,
and my hands,
and the skin about my bones, shows that his anger affects all of his body
the soft labouring of my lungs,
and the hot, white, inwards turning
anger of my eyes.

Brash with glass,
name flaring like a flag,
it squats like an animal enjambement all throughout poem
in the grass and weeds,
incipient Port Jackson trees: were fake trees imported from Australia
new, up-market, haute cuisine,
guard at the gatepost,
whites only inn. pun

No sign says it is: he doesn't need proof it's his home
but we know where we belong.

I press my nose
to the clear panes, know, short clause
before I see them, there will be powerful facts
crushed ice white glass, regular punctuation
linen falls,
the single rose. imagry

Down the road, shows the social class
working man's cafe sells he doesn't defin black or white because he is neither
bunny chows.
Take it with you, eat
it at a plastic table's top,
wipe your fingers on your jeans,
spit a little on the floor:
it's in the bone. stereotype

I back from the glass,
boy again, insignificance
leaving small mean O
of small mean mouth.
Hands burn
for a stone, a bomb, violent imagry
to shiver down the glass.
Nothing's changed. feelings and views haven't changed

The poet returns to the waste land that was once his home and relives the anger he felt when the area was first destroyed.