Status Updates From Cemetery of Mind: Selected ...

to love is to die. And, as Sylvia Path said, dying is an art.

Flashbacks exist only on the other side
Of the fence. where I have not been
Which is where I am. Your face of heavy rain Drenched my history to a limp blanket.

“The effort of a scream of despair.”

“Dawn is more dead skin
To peel off my hands, my feet
On a park bench in the cemetery,
The clock ticking exactly
The mental inches I must discard
Into the wastepaper basket.”

I am having so many thoughts

I live like a folded newspaper // Abandoned on the front lawn of a deserted dream. // "The people as a whole // Must come before individuals."

Marechera's poetry is just as idiosyncratic and shifty as his prose. A little bit more off the rails and much more coded. This was Marechera's intention. He claims that poetry comes out of the stream of consciousness and hardly ever is there a ebb to the flow. War, God and Nature are at odds in these poems and often times their dissonant nature becomes beautiful.