Postgraduate Diploma [Thotalanga]

Posted on Updated on told me of the sexual,
The political, the social, the cultural,
The works.
I walk from the Grandpass to Thotalanga, its 8.00,
I’m sweating to my slippers. Testicles hurt.

Dark shadows of the pavement, shade of trees,
Clusters of shapes, in groups,
A couple’s on a walk.
The yellow ethereal streetlamps distort the colours
And flash bare the dusk brown Thotalanga talk.

Will I be waylaid and pestered so that
I’ll lose the 6000 I’m carrying? Will my
Carcass lie scattered giving sup to marsh worms?
They call it Ego confronted, you’re middle class, lad –
Theory’s just a hard on your theorists had had.

I walk more away from the shadows, brisk,
In the yellow light, I’m wondering for a moment
What’s my Professor doing tonight?
They ain’t no need of our empowerment
They look life in the balls in streetlights. Yes, it hurts.

Earnest eyes, tired bodies await the late evening bus,
Silent and shelled in individual worlds.
I do not stop, I pass them past,
Cos, I realize that my bus ain’t come, it’s gone.
Like a thesis I’d rather go on and on.



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