Home invasion
A bullet for a Boer
and kill farmer,
kill a white
still rages on from
the ruling party
where members are singing it
from the age of eight
and in a rural district
a home invasion takes place
in the middle of the night
a male family member
is shot through the shoulder
tied up with wire
bashed with a baseball bat,
chopped with a panga-blade
and before getting to hospital
he is dead.
The woman in the house
is led to a room
where they are tied up
and are raped
and everything valuable
is carried away
And the incapable police
can find nobody
and the killers go free
and are still missing
like my two stolen cars.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Related quotes
They came in the middle of the night (in reply to Daniel P. Kunene)
They came in the middle of the night
in a huge crowd, almost like a lynching gang
the type who previously had torched,
burned their own alive
and in their hands were panga-blades,
spades, crowbars, pistols
and AK-47 sub-machineguns
and then there were the younger ones
who carried assegai spears and knives
and they were there to destroy home and hearth
to wipe the white farmer from the earth
singing: “a bullet for a white”
and had formed up like a ancient impi
in full might
and they assaulting the farmer, his children and wife
while shouting:
“Amandla! Amandla! Ngawethu! ”
and took law into their own hands,
robbed, tried to rape, to kill
while receiving an inhuman thrill from it.
[Reference: Do Not Ask Me by Daniel P. Kunene.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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The writing is on the wall
Now the writing is on the wall
and with the umpteenth killing
a know leader is dead
and dishonoured in hatred
and now the king ask for tranquillity
as if “give me my machinegun
and a bullet for a Boer
and kill a farmer, kill a white”
has no consequence
and I wonder what he wants to do
with his machinegun
(and at the court
blacks cheer killers as heroes)
or is the plan
to kill us one by one quietly?
Or is he begging for a chance
to let the army loose
on white people?
Is he still too stupid
to read the writing
of another blood river
coming almost unstoppable?
poem by Gert Strydom
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If words could kill
If words could kill,
then kill they will
without impunity
reaching out
and sucking in
and circle out.
Still a leader
prohibited by law
rages his hatred out
in a neighbouring country
and watch his words spread
by the media of his own land.
Now, a great man lies dead
who could have taken
his country to civil war,
but chose peace
and the Lord instead
chopped to pieces
with a Panga-blade
slaughtered without mercy
or conscience.
Where do we draw the line
and when and where
does the killings stop?
What will this government do
when civil war erupts
and military trained white men
take up the gun?
poem by Gert Strydom
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My God witnesses every thing
My God witnesses every thing,
the woman crying at night
about the child that she doesn’t get,
the robbers sneaking around in the day
driving away with stolen cars,
the poor living in shacks
who have to live on a paupers wage,
the farmer working in his fields
who goes home at dusk,
the barbarians that assault him later
and kill him with panga blades
and there’s nothing that passes by my Lord
and on His time His justice follows,
His salvation and wondrous deeds unfold
and every day He sets the way
that every one of us go on.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Not with a machinegun, but with a pen (in answer to Breyten Breytenbach)
Not with a machinegun, but with a pen
I write this prayer
since Your might is greater than any weapon:
What am I able to tell You, Jesus Christ,
almighty Creator, God and upper Lord,
I who are only an Afrikaner in my forties,
since You know every thing, even before it happens
and there’s nothing that I can teach You.
How my country was taken away
by people who pray to ancestral spirits
(who probably are demons) ,
that a man with more than one wife
sit in the highest chair,
that I still pay taxes
when and where I have a job
and that it is difficult times
and work is very scarce
for a white man.
Would I have to tell about a government
that sings give me my machinegun
and a bullet for a Boer
and kill the farmer,
kill the white
as You know every thing.
That my people were disarmed
by the government
and by barbarians
are hacked into pieces
with panga-blades and axes
like you were sacrificed
and even in death
they are humiliated
by pulling their pants down
like You had to hang naked on the cross,
that women are raped
as if every white woman
is a sex slave
belonging to the hordes
that they still throw knucklebones
and think that it brings them invincibility
and freedom from blame.
l’Envoi
All that I am really asking
is that all of these deeds
and the things that they do, say and sing
go into the cup of Your wrath
and please help
my people and me
to serve You better
that the wide world
(like with our ancestors)
can see Your might and salvation.
[References: nie met die pen nie maar met die masjiengeweer by Breyten Breytenbach. Murder on Eugene Terreblance. Murder and violence on white people.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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I will tell everyone
Pull a machinegun, a pistol,
a panga-blade, a knife
and say: “white man give me a reason
to kill you today.”
Rob my cars,
take whatever belongs to me
and even if the police
cannot catch the criminals
and the government looks the other way
as if the robberies, the killings
are not happening
and while I am still living
I will tell everyone, the whole world
about the gangster’s paradise that I live in.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The nights I tried to kill myself
I tried to kill my self a few nights ago
I cut my Wrists
And tied a loose around my neck.
Still I did not succeed
I was stopped yet again
By the police
Sticking their nose in.
I tried to kill myself
What is it with people?
Why cant they see what I see?
Why can they not let me go?
Why did they have to save me?
On the nights I tried to kill myself.
poem by Amy Louise Kerswell
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A Shot
There was a shot,
A shot fleeing through the dark night,
And all around was still
For fear of being found
As it whistled past the widows
Of every man, woman, child.
Searching.
Looking to rip and tear and kill,
And penetrate
The innocent flesh
Of any being, anywhere at all
There was a shot,
The sound came cracking through my dreams,
Impersonal and deadly
And hunting for the flesh
Of anyone who ever felt
Who ever laughed and sang,
Hunting,
Getting ready for the kill.
I will not let them die,
The ones who,
When the time comes,
Will live and love and grow.
I step out into the treacle night
And the bullet thuds home.
poem by Clover West
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The Day They Robbed Me Of My Life (In Answer To Don Mattera)
Black people have got power
in this government that rules,
to sing songs of hatred
like kill the Boer, kill the farmer,
kill the white man
and to sit back in comfortable chairs,
while pillage, rape, torture
and robberies takes place
and then when crime is out of control
to be about it totally amazed
Black people have got power
in this government that rules,
to destroy a lifetime’s career,
years of study at university,
years of experience
of doing a person’s utter best
in moments with affirmative action
and turning lives into nothing but dust.
poem by Gert Strydom
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SS Single Shot Executioners
to save ammunition
SS executioners
used one bullet
a single bullet
to kill a victim
SS killers
would attempt
to kill mothers
with small children
with a single shot
by shooting
the child first
the bullet passing
through child's
body into mothers
Copyright © Terence George Craddock
See also The Holocaust Files!
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Home invasion in Springs
Masked like the black criminals
that robs you of your car
and just there and there promises you death,
they arrived
with a mini bus taxi on the farm,
drove right through the farm gate
and at the front door
jumped out of the kombi
with five steps intruded into the house
to bring death to the farmer,
to rape the wife
and daughter.
The farmer heard the crash
at the gate,
he realized that it was big trouble
heard them in their own language command
to kill, while shot upon shot
was ringing from the front porch
and he though about the obliteration
of his whole family.
His wife was too far away
in the lounge busy with sewing
and he heard his daughter rushing screaming
to her mother
turned about hurried to the gun safe
and got hold of a pump action shotgun
with LG cartridges
and rushed down the hallway.
In the lounge four black criminals
aimed pistols at his daughter and wife
told them to strip themselves bare
and when they did not want to
one said to the others in his language
to kill them
while the farmer was sneaking
closer at the back of the lounge suite.
Just one glance from the farmer
made his wife and daughter fall to the ground
two shots came from the shotgun
lifting two of the gangsters right from their feet
and the other two started shooting
into the ceiling
and the wall of the lounge
and when the farmer fired again
they fled in fear to the outside
turning around to fire at the farmer
and another one dropped in his tracks,
the other ran wounded into the cornfield.
At the start the police, wanted to arrest
the farmer for the murder of the robbers,
but there was more than enough evidence
that it was self-defence,
even the farm workers
were witnesses
about the shooting, threat
of the robbers
and by his actions
the farmer saved himself, his wife and daughter
and the labourers praised him
as a kind and a just man
but at the church
some members regarded the farmer
as a mass killer
who had determined the fate of others with a shotgun.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Tied To The 90s
Were tied to the 90s
In the middle
Its terribly frightening
Im takin it fast
Takin it slow
Theres thunder and lightning
Its terribly frightening
Lord knows
Where it goes
But I know
That if so
Well I want to tell you
Were tired of the 90s
Were tired of the 90s
But were tied to the 90s
Tied to the 90s
Remember the 80s
They were something
Were worse than the 90s
Were stuck in a path
Where fashion is fast
And nothin is lasting
Its all ghetto blasting
And lord knows
Where it goes
But I know
That if so well I want to tell you
Were tired of the 90s
Were tired of the 90s
Tied to the 90s
Middle 8
Were tired of the 90s
Were tired of the 90s
Were tired of the 90s
But were tied to the 90s
Oh were tied to the 90s
Were tied of the 90s
Were tired of the nines
Tied to the nines
Tied to the 90s
song performed by by Travis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Red Blood & Black Tears Part 4
in the darkness of her room,
calming her self,
she has been raped,
bashed,
and cut all over,
shes telling her self,
that there is no help for her now,
her lover was dead,
she had no family,
no life,
and no one to help her,
she was all alone,
then there was a knock at the door,
she ran for it,
she got there,
it was the doctor who help her love and her-self,
he said,
your husband die of a Disease,
a poison had killed him,
for one of his knifes,
he told her to stop or she might be the same,
as he walked away,
she walked back inside,
with a smile on her face,
she was pleased,
that her husband did not kill himself,
and that there was somebody who cared,
she started to think,
about was the doctor had said,
should she stay the same,
or change to a everyday person,
she was thinking,
and thinking,
the she said,
I will...
poem by Harley Morriss
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Women Can't Drive
It’s NOT against the law
BUT women can’t drive –
DON’t ask why
Women must be driven
by husband
or adult male member in their family
or by male chauffer
or by male chauvinist
STOP! Woman driver protester
It’s not against the law
BUT police looking for you
Why?
Women can’t drive
poem by Raj Arumugam
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Lola She Liked A Look Through The Window
Into a colour lit night
Her dresses white hands transparent
A through thought penetrate glitter of the glass
Her colours were made of the white washed walls
She echoed a raven ebony tied hair
She echoed a raven a raven and a woman
Both fragile thin bird like thinning lines
Of a double sword beak singing the mask of light
Did she see the masts the sails or the ships
Did she spill the white cloud dress down her hips
Did she seal the colours long dead fading on her lips
Or simply tied everything within the clasp of her hands
Resting nestling in the calm white lap
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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How Mother Made Us A Home
our navels were cut
and they were tied
on one of the strong
walls of this house
where we were born
and since then
mother takes pride
about our missing
a home that where
ever we are scattered
by fate we always come
back and feel and fill
what is missing inside
us.This is home.
This is where mother
died and father too
and the rest of us
shall also be buried
here when we finally
die. This is country.
This is life and
This is death. This
is our meaning and
This is where we shall
always be forever.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Kill The Sun
Its good to have a window on the world
And to live deep in the heart of the beast in the sun
Night after night, I do the same damn thing
Do the weirdness dance, for those who cant
Its getting to the point where I cant take it anymore
Waking up at 3 pm
In a thrashed bedroom, sharp with needles and knives
Reach for the crutches that keep in motion
Vague memories that keep me alive
Like when she used to call me baby
All alone in our room, in the middle of the night
Kill the sun, yes, kill the sun
Kill the sun
Come on, come on, stop the light
Yes, I ve got sunshine
Its a suicide song in the back of my mind
Pure white evilwrapped around my eyes
Yeah Ive got all the cities of light to live in
I dont even want no part
Hard is the fall
Cold is the bite
Kill the sun, yeah come on stop the light...
Kill the night
song performed by by Everclear
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Vengeful Poem
you ask if you can burn
a house
then to answer it
you burned one
the family house
where your mom died a week ago
was ashed
you father left
unable to stand you
you handed your arms
they will not take it
they confess
they still love you
when the police officer charged you with arson
they put you in a place where no one knows you
they still protect
as their own brother by blood
all that you have in mind is an escape
you want to burn another house
one day
you told the man next door that you can kill him
he told your brother
who asked you about your scheme
of your first premeditated murder
you said you want to try if you can really kill a man
with your bare hands
you have become uncontrollable
now a lesson must be given to you
you will be captured in this poem
it is inside a rectangular perimeter
there is no exit
now our world shall be calm
and it will be peaceful upon its bed of grass
because
this poem also knows how to kill
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Here Comes President Kill Again
Here comes president kill again,
Surrounded by all of his killing men.
Telling us who, why, where and when,
President kill wants killing again.
Hooray, ring out the bells,
King conscience is dead.
Hooray, now back in your cells,
Weve president kill instead.
Here comes president kill again.
Broadcasting from his killing den.
Dressed in pounds and dollars and yen,
President kill wants killing again.
Hooray, hang out the flags,
Queen caring is dead.
Hooray, well stack body bags,
For president kill instead.
Aint democracy wonderful?
Them russians cant win!
Aint democracy wonderful?
Lets us vote someone like that in.
Here comes president kill again,
From pure white house to number 10.
Taking lives with a smoking pen,
President kill wants killing again.
Hooray, everythings great,
Now president kill is dead.
Hooray, Ill bet you cant wait,
To vote for president kill instead...
song performed by by Xtc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Here Comes President Kill Again
Here comes president kill again,
Surrounded by all of his killing men.
Telling us who, why, where and when,
President kill wants killing again.
Hooray, ring out the bells,
King conscience is dead.
Hooray, now back in your cells,
Weve president kill instead.
Here comes president kill again.
Broadcasting from his killing den.
Dressed in pounds and dollars and yen,
President kill wants killing again.
Hooray, hang out the flags,
Queen caring is dead.
Hooray, well stack body bags,
For president kill instead.
Aint democracy wonderful?
Them russians cant win!
Aint democracy wonderful?
Lets us vote someone like that in.
Here comes president kill again,
From pure white house to number 10.
Taking lives with a smoking pen,
President kill wants killing again.
Hooray, everythings great,
Now president kill is dead.
Hooray, Ill bet you cant wait,
To vote for president kill instead...
song performed by by Xtc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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