It gets awfully lonely
Like screaming
Screaming lonely
Screaming down dream alley
Screaming of blues, like none can hear
But you hear me clear and loud
Echoing loud
Like it’s for you I scream.


I talk to myself when I write
Shout and scream to myself
Then to myself
Scream and shout
Shouting a prayer
Screaming noises
Knowing this way I tell
The world about still lives
Even maybe
Just to scream and shout


Is it I lack the musician’s contact
Or, is it true, the writer
(except the trinity with God, the machine and he)
incestuous silhouettes
to each other scream and shout,
to me shout and scream
pry and mate,
inbred deformities of loneliness.


             Bloke Modisane (South Africa)