Among artists, she is something of an anomaly—
Traditional and avant-garde, austere and baroque,
Yet a bona fide artist nonetheless.
Amid the cacophony of modernism,
Where iconoclasm gives Carte-blanche
To jettison all rules and form and coherence—
A kind of fauvist deja-vu in distorted echoes—
She, neither dilettante nor polemicist,
Has genuine elan, and force, and passion--
In contrast to pandemic, jaded ennui.
When Mandela died
The government lied
and lying still
as does he
Nothing moved
No one dared
but some stuff dies
and some are spared
but I was moved
no one touched
me, like he does
and no one loves you like I do
and no one sees Im blinded too
but I saw you nude
Your clothes were see through
Then.
This voyeurist
This polemicist
This iconoclast
(big names for a liar like me)
shriveled up inside
felt your broken mind
penetrate me, rape me
Committed suicide
Hope was hanging from a tree
The day Mandela died
Is lying still
the government and
...so do I