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Tapiwanaishe Pamacheche Books

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“What is left is smell of coffee and our little conversations we used to speak about. I am left with the coffee you used to love affogato. With a novel you said I must buy you, I read Jane Ayre once an autumn gathering my pain to the seas of melancholy. Have you ever thought of dancing under the lame light? In this cafe I am left with conversations and smells of coffee and I still remember your smell vividly!”

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“Amanis a spiritual being made to.be an alloy of all the metals that have no value of diamonds or rubies. Man are taught to be malleable not brittle. My father told me never entertain a whore while drinking wine, always entertain your wife after a round of Pinot noir. If you have to buy a slice of flesh don't eat the stake, look for a boney meat. Never smoke thus ungentle and uncouth you are pleasing capitalism of unethics and destroying your lungs. After drinking whiskey, and always drink Scottish, if you are poor enough try Canadian. If you want to be a sage Japanese taste crazy but it makes you a man. Boys are not made but they are roasted in fires of bellies and they stay in barrels for maturity. Spend hours reading Greek philosophy, African methodologies and read the holy Bible. In doing business always despise free lunch and never drink brandy, sometimes act like a Vatican and be an integrity vulture. Stoicism is the ultimate master. Avoid to step on great man shoe and always be water.”

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“Felt the pain of Edgar Allen Poe. Annabel Lee loved when novelty, cherished when she was a mere greenhorn. Loved her so affectionately, like an Agape. Described her love with the halo moon, took her to the kingdom by the sea. Enshrined your love for her with the stars, the sun remained envious. Your love made angels green eyed, created a havoc in the heaven places. Annabel Lee you left him young And it killed him.”

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“Animal a spiritual being made to.be an alloy of all the metals that have no value of diamonds or rubies. Man are taught to be malleable not brittle. My father told me never entertain a whore while drinking wine, always entertain your wife after a round of Pinot noir. If you have to buy a slice of flesh don't eat the stake, look for a boney meat. Never smoke thus ungentle and uncouth you are pleasing capitalism of unethics and destroying your lungs. After drinking whiskey, and always drink Scottish, if you are poor enough try Canadian. If you want to be a sage Japanese taste crazy but it makes you a man. Boys are not made but they are roasted in fires of bellies and they stay in barrels for maturity. Spend hours reading Greek philosophy, African methodologies and read the holy Bible. In doing business always despise free lunch and never drink brandy, sometimes act like a Vatican and be an integrity vulture. Stoicism is the ultimate master. Avoid to step on great man shoe and always be water.”

ArtPhilosophyPsychologyTapiwanaishe Pamacheche
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“A story told in pieces Skies broken Biomes created under such pains The body building unique tumors The turmoil just constantly eats The pain sighs and comes back beats Under this spell, under this pieces I want to live, I want to be bones The cancer, the breast cancer survivor I survived, in the loss of my left I suffered but i survived I lost the right I fought never failed but under such anguish I survived..”

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“Mother! Ripped apart. Reaped stones of poverty, weeds that sprouted. Grown to fast, crowned young mother. HIV reaped the harvest of my parents left me with nothing but toddler to take care of. Robbed my youth and my hey days, left naked among a thousand suns. The splendor, the splendor of pain. My face is beautiful broken pottery, a poetry art scene. The screams inside ravage and rammer the very child born along thorns of anguish.”

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“1 prefer scotch to Irish. And I plough my own garden. There is this music in the mud, mulching the pains of weed. They need to grow have you ever wondered? My mother was born in a hut, my daughter in a hospital what a transition, there was a time I was under the bridge, with green shoots of wars flandering, my head ringing. And after that, there is woman, a woman with topaz eyes died in the winter of the sun, some dull evening. made love with her soul, now in my blood she lives what a cost. Under certain smiles and growing madness... I have trouble to sleep I have chose to study Latin, and practice the virtues of stoicism and the principle of Moses.”

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“She was that lass I loved to admire when she plucked roses in her Charlotte novels she beamed like sunflower, when she laughed at romantic lines, I loved her little sequin nuggets those fine details about her, those indefinite little prose. Her smell made me wonder, Do books have frankincense? I loved to stare at her favourite book by”

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“Hannah do you even know the meaning of evening silences? Watching the ebb, the halo hanging upon your eyes? Hannah do we even know the love we twined in those pines? We walked with veils like of virgin shyness? Those constellation, those stars that gleam and thrill, those seamless touches, those eyes, shyness and sheen, those Hannah, those nights painted by Vincent Van Gogh, those nights I took you in my arms and held you like an eg”

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“A dance with the clouds. After this dance what next. When charcoal becomes ambers and fire remind us about sweet melodies. When human emotions stop to sing and we marry our sins. A dance in between fences and living inside furnaces. A million stars had dropped, a million moons spurred hope under our broken shadows. I remain here, I remain dancing with the clouds.”

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“Hear me now Right here I should speak Right here I should cry Right here I should shout Right here I should soak Hear me now ah! The sky of death Lives parish on the hand of death People die on the earth without sound Hear me now ah! Voices fade without hope Voices fade without an ear, Voices fade without anyone Hear me now ah! I should speak! Hear me now ah! I should cry! Hear me now ah! I should shout! Hear me now ah! I should soak! Speak! The mournful earth is bleeding Cry! The heavens are dark and dead Shout! Should we mend? Soak let the river abide with my soul”

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“I’m black that’s what runs deep inside my soul. I’m Nile that what makes me perennial I’m Okavango that’s what makes me mysterious I’m the lake Tanganyika thus what bellows deep inside I’m black,I’m deep jet I’m Chinhoyi thus what makes me constant I’m Kalahari thus what makes me amazing I’m black as an onyx I’m coal that’s what makes me thermal”

African LiteratureAfrican ArtAfrican PoetryDepth Of ColourDefinition Of ColourSpears Of Africa
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“Petunias The mind filled, littered and polluted by black petunias The horror of the naked decaying sun over our heads Graves crumbling, hills erecting, mountains sinking The stinking, smelling melodious melodies Yarrows growing in my heart Rage on my body Anger on my soul Darkness of all the hate Manifesting Xyris the abandoned beauty Eyes dogged and damned!”

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“I WAS ABUSED! I WAS A VICTIM OF ABUSE. HE SPIT SPUT, DOGGED MY SPINE, DAMAGED MY RIB, PUNCHED MY FACE, RIPPED MY CLOTHES OFF. MOURNED ON MY BODY, SQUEEZED MY SKIN, PIMPED AND POUNDED THROUGH IT, CUT MY HYMEN INTO TINY PIECES OF FLESH, GONG GONG THE CATHOLIC BELL. RUN THROUGH ME, POISED AND MY BACK WAS HIS BRIDGE. PRUNED MY UNRIPE SKIN, FETISH ON MY SKIN I WAS THERE WATCHING HIM. SEPARATED FROM MY BODY AND SOUL. A VINE WITH OUT FLAVOR THAT WHAT HE LEFT. A VINE WITHOUT TASTE THAT WHAT HE LEFT.”

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“Are we above or is just another story? Is it human nature? Is it just a norm? Is it segregation causing these deadly wars? Is poverty leading us to the stagnant sea of prostitution? Is the pauperism playing a role in tarnishing our image? Is paucity injecting a lethal poison in our morals? Is penury eating civilization and destroying families? Is the prison meant for classes in the society? Is bribery a new Godly law? Are drugs manufactured for us to numb the pain? Are we scared of reality? Is it true that fathers are disappearing in the society podium? Is it true that the lack of manhood is the root of all question marks? Is it true that the adequate fathers in the society are destroying the sanity of children? Is it true that our uncontrollable passions are born because we lack a muse”

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“Do you remember the first time I met you?, In June in the bleak of winter. I looked at you at an acute angle, your eyes glued at Mark Rothko painting, I told you I am a fun of his painting, I told you how he committed suicide, I told you how he saw the world and you said I am speaking lies, you said I must work more on my dating skills, you said people who love painting are lacking romance, you told me people obsessed in painting are lacking emotions.... I told you I had found you statue glued thus means you slot the same line with me. You live in my light and compliment my deaths.....”

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