hot toys green beret
[affmage source="amazon" results="1"]hot toys green beret[/affmage]
[affmage source="overstock" results="1"]hot toys green beret[/affmage]
[affmage source="cj" results="4"]hot toys green beret[/affmage]
tell me your views about this poem if you can, rate it out of 10 points?
Yesterday you moved into Anthony Mansions,
our old block of flats in central Johannesburg
where we Nigerians disappear. I showed you
the building that shifts and sighs in the wind,
should have been demolished long ago. Sewage
fills the basement, the corridors have cracks
that let in the light, the kitchen floors slippery
from leaking pipes. The lights flicker and go out,
and the lift stuck between the ninth and tenth floor
forever. Below it, empty mine shafts collapse,
rearranging the earth. The building judders
during earth tremors, promises to swallow us up,
to secrete us one kilometre below in the Earth’s
hot belly. Anxiety Mansions, you said, would be
a better name. We cannot leave because the street
outside is occupied by Onward Christians
in green berets firing salvos up the stairwell.
We walk along the bookshelves until your mother
gathers us up and points out the miniature poses
of aggression. Toy soldiers.
I like your fine sense of meter. You really must make your sentences fit your meter. This in not too hard to fix. Please do not be insulted if I point out that your ending needs work. I bet you already know that. With those fixes, it could score a lot higher.
