Friday, 25 October 2013

The Horror of Us

When I was weeping for Qumquat the tears were pouring down my cheeks.
I was drawn up into the foetal position while the storm lashed at me from the outside.
When I cursed the ivory carver, sitting in the forest, I was so angry my nails cut blood into my palms,
dripping into the sand of the forest.

But this canned lion horror is different. It is a sick, nauseating, dizziness.  These are supposedly my people  (how utterly shameful) – not some poacher living in the forest. These are white people living on a farm waking up and eating breakfast and there are lions living in cages on their land, on Death Row. There are children living in those death camps, nonchalantly eating breakfast within close range of the Sad.  This is not the horror of Them. I cannot neatly put it away there with the horror of Them.

This is the horror of Us. What to do? The horror is inside me, talking to my shadow. I can only split apart from the inside. 
What will be left of me? It’s in me!

Prowling, angry, snarling at the edge of my light now burning brightly, now faltering…. 
it’s with me in the shower, in the dark hours…

It simply wants me. It wants my light, my pure. It wants to feed on it.
And I’m so tired. Maybe I could just go lie down there like a zebra calf, and wait for the neck blow. It will all be over. Why fight it? Maybe it could just be enough, this day, today, I just say enough pain. I really do not want to feel anymore, I can’t, I just cannot cry another tear.

Or I could say fuck you, you big horrible ugly bully coward!

How can I fight this big ugly bully of a man keeping lions in cages so his bank balance can grow by some foreign coward coming to shoot them so he can take their heads home to stick on his wall and boast about his hunt in Africa. How can his wife sleep with him – this dirty murderer – or does she only care for the endless visits to the hair stylists and plastic surgeons… never realising in that vacant cotton candy head that no amount of fucking with the outside will ever make the inside beautiful.

Your home, my lady, is a Death Camp. You are keeping the Free in chains. The price you will pay is unmentionable. There is a consciousness that someone like you just cannot comprehend.
And it is growing… the animals are communicating their pain along the astrals… you wonder why SA is such a violent country – look at what warden masters you are.

This is the energy you are anchoring here in this land…

keeping the free chained in misery
breeding slaves into the system
betraying them for some coward to shoot in a cage after you have drugged them or used dogs
and then after their heads go to some twit’s wall
you sell the bones and skins to China…

Is your nail polish, your hair streaks…. empty evil Queen of the West - is it worth the pain and bloodshed and betrayal?

And finally I confront him…

Lord of the Manor…
he walks in – the personification of all that was evil in my childhood and even now
thick legs
strong presence
the damsel in me is tempted
he could just lift me away
I could lay my head on his chest
if I just believed in him
like I used to

aha! but now I know the lie
step back
feel the misery seeping out of the cages
feel the death circling overhead

the Ugly
the Hard
the Greedy
the Bloodshed

can’t take the lies
can’t take the horror
turn to the mirror and fire the trigger

Christine Jordaan, 2013

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