It was after the Second Anglo-Boer War. Some of the soldiers went to brothels and taverns and places as such. It reminded them of the vibes in canteens. One soldier named Jokas took the advice of several of his friends and bought a sex worker. He had been disappointed by the fact that his girlfriend married a lawyer. And so Jokas had his fun, this didn't last though for he still had the appetite for commitment.

So he kept returning to the same brothel - buying the same sex worker. In time they developed feelings for each other, writing letters and sending pictures when away to see relatives... but this wouldn't be as Dennis, a friend of his, introduced his cousin to Jokas. She was nice, had a decent job and was ready to settle. Her name was Anna. So Jokas stopped going to the brothel and opted to start a life with Anna, it seemed the sensible thing to do. Jokas moved with Anna, they both went overseas. Valerie was the name of the sex worker he had feelings for, what Jokas didn't know was that Valerie had fallen pregnant. A few years later she got a job at a bistro and lived in a vacant storage room with her son, Warkos. Warkos was raised in a bistro, there he got advice about life, culture and women from drunkards, thieves, policemen, lawyers and loafers. He had little formal education. He grew up resenting life and lacked a sense of belonging. He started being mischievous when he pick-pocketed a rich businessman, when he was only seven years old.

He used getting into trouble as an outlet for his anger and loneliness. His mother didn't keep men whom he could look up to. Although she began spending a lot of time alone and didn't care much about men, since her prostitution days. At age 14 Warkos met a girl with a strange name; Tellaby. Tellaby gave his life purpose at a time when he was suicidal.

She was a pretty, decent and very respectful girl who came from a well-to-do family. Days in the park with her was his escape, it gave him a sense of normality. However he would go back to the real world, back home his mom had been enduring depression and took up smoking. She was stressed by the fact that her boss kept abusing her (emotionally and verbally). Warkos formed a gang at age 16, he recruited a few dysfunctional teens in the neighborhood who spent most of their time loafing and stealing. His dream was to make enough money to buy his mother a house, find his father - so to find function; whatever that meant.

At age 17 Warkos got arrested for drug possession. He spent only 6months in prison as he had a witness who testified that the drugs were planted. The witness was paid by his gang of course. So he served 6 months for assaulting a police officer. All the while Tellaby got herself a boyfriend, he was a functional, smart boy who had a scholarship to study overseas at Oxford University. Tellaby's family approved of the relationship and pressured her to continue seeing him.

When Warkos got out, he heard the news and attempted to stab Tellaby's new boyfriend but was stopped by Tellaby... When Tellaby chose Eric, her new boyfriend, over him it was the end of his heaven and sense of normality. Drugs he found too dangerous and started researching fraud, he met a few intelligent con-men and together they forged cheques. In just one year he had about R500 000 and bought a nice cottage for his mom in the quiet small town of Andbury. This earned him prestigious status and he met with his gang again, had his mother's old boss murdered and took over the business. He ran three brothels and about five bars in three towns. He was only in his mid-twenties when he made his first million. He had a vice, to heal his pain of not feeling loved, and to forget about the pain and the void of not knowing his father he used heroin. Of course prestige comes with a price, there was a mob which was government-owned (secretly of course), it didn't like the growing competition, so when Warkos was 27, he was shot twice in the chest, once in the shoulder. The assassin was not found when the police investigated and he left few, if any, traces. Warkos survived the murder attempt after he was rushed to hospital, the bullets missed the heart but wounded his ribs.

Being housed was no longer safe for him so with his convoy, they moved from city to city, robbing banks and restaurants. At this time his gang earned notorious status. They were dubbed The Notorious Warks by journalists. On one heist he got shot on the arm and leg but this inspired him to earn even more power... A month later he funded a Black Resistance Movement, in papers they wrote about him as, "Warkos the Invincible Horse". Funding this political movement enabled him to expand his power and fight the force that was against him. He provided guns and grenades to a sect within the movement to attack government officials and invade and batter their homes. This moved to hijacking their cars. Soon this sect of guerillas had enough power to do crime in the cities, however they secretly met to be independent and not be under Warkos.

So among them there was an informer who leaked Warkos' whereabouts, he was shot twice in one shoulder but his men took cover and they escaped. Warkos, 29 years old, was getting tired of this violent life, he abandoned his gang and had a lump sum of money sent to his mother. He even investigated the whereabouts of Tellaby and stalked her for a while. He decided to go back where he grew up, he went to the storeroom which he and his mother lived in... In it was a locker; he opened the locker and found a box which had pictures and letters from his father, sent to his mother... In one letter was a poem written to his mother, Valerie, it read:

I have been fooled by ruling men
You believe in honour and glory
but you do not see the Be Lie in "believe"
and now I feel no better than these thieves
I only find comfort in being with you, Valerie.

At that moment he cried and kicked himself for he felt he had been living a shallow life... He thought to himself that his father was a good man and that he probably wouldn't be proud of him...

The next day he did nothing but think and that's when he got shot by Eric. He had been trying to get hold of Valerie as they (Eric and Valerie) were in the country to celebrate Easter... Eric found out and because he despised him with a passion he got word out to the police but the police feared him so they had to use an intelligent strategy; Eric insisted that it be him who murders Warkos as he will have done his country a great honour. So he came as a paying customer at the tavern/bistro, all the other customers left, as well as the staff. Warkos was unmoved by this, as he was deep in thoughts. This became easy for Eric, never had anyone been murdered with such pleasure... It is documented that Warkos' last words, softly and lazily uttered, were: "Where's Tellaby?"

People the world over suffer
They suffer from:
Hard circumstances, warring institutions,
Famine, lack of education,
Drugs and abuse, poverty, the list is endless.
But they are also addicted...addicted to hope.
Hope that things will improve
Hope that their dreams will one day be realized
Hope that what is so hard will finally be a hurtle passed
Hope is their mind's addiction, the fuel for whatever
It is they are striving for
If the temporary satiation of a drug is finally found,
Then their hope for the drug and their hope for the feeling
And their hope for the escape from reality are fueling them.
If they are struggling to make ends meet, to feed themselves,
clothe their children, escape the debt collector, find a place to sleep
Their hope is to not to have to face these same issues
Every day for as many days as they have living.
If suffering from illness, they hope for healing or death
Hope is their addiction when the young children sit in hot, enclosed spaces
Ill, hungry, malnourished, traumatised
Hope for something better, better than what is before them
Hopelessness is acceptance, it is living in the day to day
Knowing what is is, what can't be changed can't be changed
what can be changed for the better,
Well steps towards that then are slowly taken
And the absolute beauty of life, the wonder of these moments
Begin to sparkle and shine in a way that is subtly impressive
Small is sometimes the most beautiful of all
it is solid, it is simple, it is a sturdy brick upon which one can
Always grasp and stand upon...over and over and over
Refreshing and truly adventurous
To see the nature and artifice of the path one is walking
Realizing that each step is a changing landscape
Of environment, perspective, emotion, situation
When one is down they look up with hope, their addiction solidly in place,
To get to the top of the mountain for a finer view
An accomplishment and relief at having succeeded
but the top is always just the pinnacle
And hope to remain affixed in such a perilous place
Is not in actuality possible
Be it a very violent gust that blows you off,
For we all know the wind vortices are something fierce in mountainous terrain,
Or a misstep, a loss of footing as the ground suddenly whithers away,
Perhaps the grasping hands of others trying to join you,
Their hope addiction now at an all-time high because they
Are. Right. There.
Clawing like animals for the last little handhold to hoist themselves up
And in shouldering themselves into a stand,
They accidentally knock you off, or not accidentally perhaps.
Whatever the case, hope addiction swings back into full force
and if it doesn't motivate, it at least satiates the mind
But hope addiction is also deceptive,
It rallies the wild dreams and ignites the heart with delusions
When hopelessness and acceptance and disconnect are a wiser course
For to live on hope addiction alone is not sustaining
It isn't real.
When alternatives and different paths may be wiser, better
To begin walking upon for now
Hope addiction can be misleading, blinding
He beauty of hopelessness is looking then without the hope addiction
At the possibility that this new path, albeit much different from the other
Is only visible up to a few steps ahead
Does it curve? Does it stop? Does it merge further down
With the original path or perhaps another different one?
Hope addiction...I have been addicted to hope
We all have, it is beautiful and it is scary
I live in hopelessness...content, happy, busy, progressing, adventurous, never knowing what little chocolate from the box of life my day is going to taste like.
I must admit though, one a day is not enough to really enjoy a full day...fully.

What do you do when finally you realize what death is? You have so much planned for the future, but never know what your fate is.
You finally realize how people would feel if you actually did it. But you're so sad and buried ssooo deep into your problems you don't give a shit. You don't care what they would say, how they would feel. It's all just a mess waiting to unpeel. You can't dig yourself out, you feel it's the only way. Cloud of judgement, jumbles of depression planted in your brain, you can't get out. Its deeper than being able to just shout. You think maybe its a disease? Maybe it's a dream? But it's real life and it all hurts more than a feen.
You start to wonder who matters and who doesn't. Put them in a list. But no one's on the list.. It doesn't make sense, you can't comprehend, so oh, go along, it's your mind after all. You follow along because you think it's normal. You suppose everyone goes through this, it's just a phase. It could be more horrible.
Cloud of judgement, memories erase, jumbles controlling your mind. You lost your chance to get out, there's no more time. You worry, stress, fight, deny. But that does nothing but fills up more jumbles in your mind.
You start to think too much, you cry inside. The thought of it all is too intertwined. You stand up and try to chop the walls down, but here comes ANOTHER thing, and turns it all around. You search for ideas, look deep in the mug. But all you can think of, are new types of drugs. You resist as long as you can, but eventually flip open that illegal ban.
You mess it up more, JUMBLES GALORE..
Suddenly...you become empty. You get so confused, all of the jumbles have finally fused. You start to feel nothing, it all becomes numb. You want nothing, than to just be done.
So you plan, plot, think, think, and think. That's all you ever do, it's what it's come down to. You're so sad, you don't have a clue. And that's all it ever is, you're just depressed, so lost in the mess.

old makeup spilled on my floor
dirty clothes strewn on my floor

You can hardly see the carpet for all the clothes carelessly being trodden on.

Blue holiday lights are strung around the mirror.

I am watching Andy Warhol eating a hamburger
I am watching Andy Warhol eating a hamburger
on a new, thousand dollar laptop, slick-as-a-whistle, paid with a magnetic swipe.

For the past six months,
I have had less than four hundred $
combined in checking and savings,
and that number dwindles by the day.

I have no groceries,
but I've got fistfuls of orange prescription bottles,
and I was handing pills out like treats and candy.

(but they are needed, much and every day)

Where did all these bills come from?
Money is paper, but it means things.
Suddenly, it costs money to breathe.

Eating? Oh pshaw, that costs money, time, and the store's six blocks away.
We can subside on government cheese, beans, and the fiery licks of whiskey.

I pout on my throne of dirty cotton, thinking
"I get what I ask for, when I ask, and it always comes--at a price!" I sigh.

It's always over a hundred dollars more than I could spare
and brings bad luck, moreso than a couple broken mirrors would,
smashed over a the front of your mother's blackest cat.

"Quick! Let's do designer drugs with the paltry change given by our parents, given as allowance!
I wouldn't feel like I wasn't nothing, nothing at all," I say, batting my eyelashes, "Wouldn't they feel proud of our feelings of entitlement to the greater things in life and consciously responsible adult-like decisions?"

I crack open my father's checking account with that swipe of a magnetic strip,
it makes me seem responsible when he sees I just use it for pills and foodstuff.

(I prove I love him, and he loves me in this way)

Now, together, we will buy strawberries with his money, until our lips are pink.
They must be four dollars, at the very least, then we eat like the bourgeoisie (!)

I kiss the cheeks of my reflection in the bathroom
"Como ca va, darling? Comme si comme sa. . ."
I lick my lips, put on red lipstick and then blot,
tousling my hair, tipsy, as I touch up my face by
licking the tips of eyeliner up like a cat's little tail,
the ends of eyes, coated with eyeliner as black as
my tightest velvet pants and dark, dark heart.

We go together. You and me.

Lying on the floor, holding hands, in vinyl bliss
listening to the crooning of sweet Francoise Hardy,
and the addictions of the near-dead soul of Lou Reed

You should move to a big city
and I'll come call, prepaid, with
a voice that is thick and ripped,
from expensive French cigarettes
chattering of sugar-white beaches
as I cross the seas all on a plane,
burning money all along the way
all the while drunk on red wine,
twirling my fingers around, with
bags under eyes, a little anemic

(I think it adds to the glamour)

We will go out to a dimly lit place
We will go out dancing then after

I will put on dab perfume under my ears and on my wrists,
I will wear black tights for pants, but first, do a little cocaine
and you will fasten the clasp on my silver necklace tonight,
while I smoke, before helping me put on my favorite fur

And we will go see Andy, at the factory
I hear he's doing something
with that Basquiat fellow (!)

I will go follow false luxuries, come with me.
I will gamble with you in Monte Carlo or Las Vegas,

just as long as you pay my rent at $695 per month,
and keep pretending,
until I die, or overdose, or something.

I was almost happy once. I was on the edge of a bridge, fingertips grasping to the side when I smiled.
I smiled at the possibility of being free from the pain but then as I slid closer to the end I saw my family and felt their pain and I opened my eyes and I pulled myself up. I was almost happy once.
I looked in the mirror and told myself that it wasn't for me it was for their sake I stay because if it was for me i'd be long gone in that deep bay but for them I stay strong and I hold up my head and I pull down my sleeves. I was almost happy once. They tell you it gets better so you look to the sky and you think of the future and you kiss it goodbye not thinking of the ones who are here on the ground who are crying and wondering how they had never found all the cuts on your thighs or the drugs that you hide. I was almost happy once. I clung to that railing with tears on my cheeks as the wind whipped at my hair and took my will to speak when a person who knew me not grasped at my hand and told me "Don't you dare let go of me now, none of this is worth it come with me and you'll see." I looked in their eyes and found that the key wasn't to find the happiness in me. I was almost happy once.

I like girls
Who are off the hook
And off the chain
And off everything
Except potentially
Drugs.

It was just a little test for myself
Sometimes I like to do that, throw little challenges here and there
I wanted to see if I could do what most girls fail at
I wondered if I could spend the night with the cutest guy in school and not get attached
A little drugs, a little drinking, the rest of the night together making memories he wouldn't remember

But I woke up in the morning and left, freaking out
I picked up my clothes and tried to put them on silently so I wouldn't wake him up
I didn't want him to be angry
He truly does have the most beautiful face I've ever seen
Before I snuck out the door left ajar,
I peeked back at him
I'd never seen his hair product-less and messy like that
I'd never seen his face so far away, thousands of miles in dreams and thoughts
This man who drank and swore and didn't seem to have any soul at all
Then looked to me like a beautiful, vulnerable child

I knew I had to get out before the feelings came so I ditched that room as fast as possible
I hopped over unconscious bodies still recovering from the haze of the previous night's party
I finally found an empty recliner
And dozed off

I woke up two hours later in a fright
I was in a room full of people I didn't even like
Why did I go to that party anyway
Those were not my people
Drugs and drinking were not my thing
Oh, now I remember
It was his birthday party
He who held me like a baby after a night of acts that would make any mother cringe
I knew this recliner was a bad idea and wondered if there was any way I could get back in bed with that beautiful boy
I knew I'd always regret it if I didn't

I opened the door as silently as possible
and crawled back under those thick white sheets
I tried to lay as far away as possible,
because people who don't have feelings for each other do not need to hold each other more than necessary
And he had none for me
And I could not have feelings for him
Just when I felt a hollow sadness strike
He reached out his foot and placed it adjacent to mine, a small gesture
I let his instep match mine and sighed inexorably with content
This little touch filled me with a happiness I'd never known
No feelings though, remember?
I chased that thought away and let my other foot get tangled up in his
My legs followed and soon we were cuddled up again
I peeked at him again and saw a trace of a smile on that (hungover and half-asleep, but beautiful) face
I wanted to kiss him but I wasn't sure if that was allowed
So I just pressed my smile against his arm
We laid there forever it seemed

Eventually though, he held me out at arms length and leaned away from me and began to cough
He coughed a few times and apologized,
then coughed just a few more
Then he went back to sleep

I can't explain the way I felt when those coughs hit him
I wanted to reach out and hold him
I know he smokes way too much
But I felt like it was my fault his lungs weren't perfect
I wanted to protect him from all things bad like coughing
All the signs were there before, now that I look back
But that's the exact moment when I knew feelings were going to be a problem