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N1 Roadhouse Muse

Aryan Kaganof

Driving along the N9 between Graaf
Reinet and oblivion.
Wondering where the poet ends
and the poem begins?
Is it the rasp of vowels in my throat
or the dance of grammar on my tongue?
Both demanding to be released
into the perfumed ear of my cold,
capricious muse. Driving past
the Goods Motel, sun shirking to the left
of the road. Wondering if you're
wearing anything. If your nipples are erect.
Wanting to whisper my travel poems into
the valley between your aureolae and
Graaf
Reinet.

It's dark by the time
I reach the N1.
Drinking fresh filter coffee
in the Colesberg Wimpy, my mission
to truck on through to Bloemfontein,
meet Marvin at the Mystic Boer, score
twenty grams of Special K, deliver
to the Hillbrow Tower before sunrise.
Might go visit my Dad, bitch with him
about how nothing's what it used to be.
Nothing except your tiny toes
that don't touch the ground
and your neon glowing aureolae.




LitNet: 25 August 2004

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