Headphones edged with brio,
bulging over skirted sofas.
Sport is the new sex.
Dogs versus coyotes on the tight
end of the stereo.
Hazard lights stitch footsubishis and TV
chicken into seams of Nokia eleven hundred housing.
In loose sprays, cracked for patches
of grey I save English names one cocktail
at a time. Tusky Big Brother Africa house
mates sniff my lemon bracts. I’m middle
middle-class with a chance of un|dress
codes. Raglan sleeves, push-up bras, harem
culottes, wine-glass heels and a backpack full
of silence. I will never wear myself out
trying to get rich.
Hash Tag, YouCantThreatenThePoor
How about it, then?
Shall I serve a late helping of morning;
slop poached pinks and yolky yellows
onto thick slices of doughy landscape?
Shall I take the day off and a bus buried
by a loud pedal to a faded scrawl?
Invite your size-six Adam’s apple to my capacity
building workshop?
Shall I slaughter a mannequin?
Upload the video on YouTube?—YouGroup?—YouThink?
YouCome?—YouGrab?—YouCantOrderFrenchFriesWithThat?
Shall I read you some bumper sticker advice,
im|press you with my flaky fonts and American’t accent?
Save you fifty on a bootlegged DVD?
Hash Tag, TheSystemIsStupid
About the Poet
Davina Kawuma was born in Lusaka and grew up in Kampala. She used to be afraid of poetry but not anymore. She wishes she had written Godhorse, The Laugher, The Blue Bouquet, Black Mamba Boy, Desertion, Perfume and House of Leaves. In her perfect world, she would write novellas during her lunch break and publish them before going to bed. Davina has written articles for African Woman and is working on a collection of short stories.
Deducted from Suubi.
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