Breyten Breytenbach
who will be / the last to fall?
when I arrive in the lecture hall
I see wiser heads nodding in my direction
with an all-knowing smirk or two
here and there a backhanded titter
as if in anticipation of whatever old dog
flushed from the bush when the stone is thrown:
who do these people think I am – Breyten Breytenbach?
while waiting for the presentation to shape
in the presence of tongues still softly clicking palates
to search for the sweet gossip marrow
I realize with a suppressed sob
that I actually pity the slob
but when he prances and prattles on stage
mumblestumbling laboriously to make a case
for the double negation of engagement,
and particularly once he takes cover
behind the biarticulation of empty embodiment
(and forgets the pure light of song)
as he trashes about to snatch image from thought,
I resolve to let him dig his own hole
roomy enough to be a grave
poor shit / so full of / hollow utterances:
let him save face
and commit his own explanation.
I will not try
to take
his place