Thoughts of a Rusty Nail (Recently Hit on the Head)

One of my favourite African writers, Dambudzo Marechera, wrote;

The brain is stuttering. The days are reduced to rubble. There is nothing to Rain but water. Tell it the way it tastes. Pronounce it the way it touches. Let the singular fragrance waft softly into syllables. I am the end of the tunnel in my beginning. The answer to a question forgotten long ago.

I am the room in which something stirs, whispering my name. Your bare arm encircles not my body but a deadly vision of the image of you. 

From the difficult dark, points of light project thought into speech, into terrain of terror, mystery of commonsense.

I am the small scream underneath the bolt of the Sky.

Toasted and battered I await your voluptuous lips, your small cutting teeth, the raw sweet reeling leap into ecstasy  prelude to bathroom anxieties  Memories too hot to touch, that black-red magma which underlines every minute, feeling there is no purpose but to wait for purpose...

Till I resist to reason the irrational symbol of no regret.

History on three feet crawls toward the dungheap, the rubbish pit of all my yesterday's names. The final word does not belong to the Worm. The last word is desolation.

But first, to bound the bone in lemonlbright sunlightA pause...

To gain, under destiny's lampshade, a permanent intensity, dare I hesitate?To cry, what no scream ever whispered, to shrill, to how what no dread bombardment ever shuddered!

Fear is no small thing under the microscope. Fear is the flesh, the gorgeous dress my skeleton wears. 

From 'Scrapiron Blues', his compilation of short stories and poems.