Julius Malema

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Malema, my Noah’s Ark.
My Jonah’s Whale.
The Johannesburg people’s patriarch.
My country of ice cream.
He has a daughter. A son.
He has left me far behind.
I have gone retrograde in a blink.
Malema is the swimmer
In the dark. Hanging on to
Pillars of salt, glaciers and the sea
In his dreams. His goal
Is to capture his granadilla
Country repeatedly. She does
Not burn the copper pots.
She is the type of woman
That will save for a rainy day.
To me she has a kind of mysterious
Air. To me all women
Have a mysterious air.
To go on into the wild.
On that wild goose chase
Called romanticism or romantic
Love will surely mean
The death of life as I know it.
I remember the cement garden
In Johannesburg. Pity then
That I find my mouse feet,
My mouse voice, my tiny head,
In a cement bucket here in my hometown.
His head though is it full of politics.

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