Real people are never fake And fake people are never real. The zoning regulations of monochrome, Split like pre Mandela apartheid. Painted with the same brush But from different pots. Some daubed with the brilliance of perfection. As for us, the bristling feel of discolouration Covered with the gloopy residue of failurehood We walk with heads drawn low by markers That signed our certificates of not being part of them, The bright toothed, the smiling brigades of togetherness. Avoidance of contact with their sneering eyes And their reflective sheen, eyeballing our exclusion. And it’s all so black and white. They stand on a different canyonside, Elevated above our levels of stature. The gulf between, a sea of air to bridge. No foothold to start a stage of grappling, The distance too impenetrable. For we are us and they are Complete And we dare not speak of drifts of consciousness, Of night time stories and wisps of fleeting thoughts, Where we find ourselves leaving these shores In boats o