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by the Poet Tray-Pound


Sleep is no longer so sweet. My body is stagnant, and the world seems still, but my mind is not at rest. I hear the owl hoot, and the winter wind blow, I hear the screeching of distant cars, and the sirens of night police.

The morning has finally arrived, but my soul remains dark, and my mood is dull. Sleep has been a stranger to me for a while now. I wonder how long it will be before my body reacts to this frustration, before my mind retreats into a deep dark sanctuary of insanity. I appreciate the sunlight of themorning, as it removes my fear of the dark, but the realities I have to face everyday bring something worse than fear. they bring insecurity.

The ghetto is alive again. From a distance one might actually mistake it for a beautiful place. Old ladies carrying bread loaves and milk, rush home to feed their children. Men are running to the pick-up points, hoping that constriction companies will give them work. Grocery shops display their "coca-cola" signs, and commuter taxis follow each other on the highway like train trams. In the midst of the commotion, little brown birds are perched on electric cables, watching the slum come back to life.

I see the vibrant colours of my surroundings. School children wearing their khaki uniforms and blue blazers; milk men in red overalls and yellow caps, are busy delivering their consignments, and news paper vendors are selling the "rainbow nation" to unsuspecting believers. Smartly dressed young men and women are boarding town-bound buses. they are going to look for work.

That time I dread so much has completed it's cycle, and returned. Once again I have to face a writer's worst nightmare: creative blackout. For weeks now I've been working on a story, intended to enlighten readers on the ghetto life-style. The life of gang rivalries, street protests, and love affairs within this atmosphere of poverty. My intention was create an image of the sweet sorrow my people live in this over-populated habitat. but now, I feel as if I have run out of words.

After a breakfast of bread and porridge, I sit down and get back to work. At all costs, I have to write something today. I have to dig deep into my experience of my surroundings, and extract all emotions that have had an effect on me.my pen is moving again.

I remember one night, while roaming the streets of the location. I ventured into a bar, and came across a woman with an inviting posture, that made her seem somewhat licentious; she was a prostitute. She sat alone, at the bar, slowly sipping a concoction that must have contained a cola. She wore a black dress, with long stockings that hid in her boots. Her skin was a few shades lighter than mine, and slightly shone in the fluorescent atmosphere. She immediately caught my attention as a man, but aroused my interest as a writer. I approached her, and politely introduced myself, but she quickly dismissed my gentlemanly etiquette with a cold-hearted remark: "how much do you have?" Immediately I responded, "five hundred rands." "Let's go," she whispered"

I sat in my room and watched her remove her clothes. She wore no bra, and no panties. Her breasts were slightly infirm, and her eyes were dark and heavy. she looked tired. Temptation ran through my loins, my thoughts became selfish and wicked. I wanted to violate her. She looked vulnerable, lying on the bed, naked. She opted not to remove her boots, and gave me a firm invitation, "take me quickly."

My belt is unbuckled, and my jeans are undone. Condom sheath is over my erection, my legs squat slightly, in preparation for penetration. We both hold our breath, and embrace this moment of lust. My senses have been overtaken... with each pant of breath I exhale, my nasal cavity inhales the sensuous scent of her body, that rich opulent scent, that has overtaken my senses. My shivers and her shivers are vibrating as one; her moans are satisfaction to my ego, and her movements make me feel like a lion, triumphant over his prey.

She briskly manoeuvures herself , sits on top of me, and makes herself comfortable. Every movement she makes is a bombardment to my loins. again and again she bombards my inner fire. I feel my physique responding, I feel the vibrations of viscosity channelling themselves, my destruction is coming, with every bombardment, it gets closer and closer. harder, quicker , nearer, better. I brace myself for the explosion.

She is dressed now, while I lie naked and lifeless in bed. "Nice place," she comments. " Nice guys like you shouldn't have to spend time with us." " Here is my address, maybe we can do business again sometime."

I'm sitting on my front porch, almost six months later, holding the address. Later today, I will visit her.

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