My balcony looks into the building next door
Which was at one time an architectural wonder
Home to a family, maybe
Or a solitary man
With too much money to buy happiness
Now its roof caves inward
And the neglect it has felt through the years is apparent in the
Ivy crawling up its walls
Only the moon and the cool breeze keep me company
It's the time of night when
The crowd of young people
Who drink away their troubles many a mundane night
Have been tucked away in their final destinations
And the city sleeps
Fills my ears
Fills my mind
I close my eyes
Breathe in the salty air floating
Pass me on its way from the sea
It's on quiet nights like these
I am utterly
I don't want to run
I don't want to shoot
I don't want to run from the police
I don't want to loot
I don't want a gangster's life
I don't want to have to look over my shoulder at night
Growing up in the big city
Born of a family in the dirt
Never much money to anybody
But it seems none of my cousins really learned
But I'm not like them, I'm not about that
I never was keen of violence
Always hated hate and loved love
Never got how they all missed this
Never understood how they could want that kind of life
Because I'd be a bum on the street
Begging for a penny or two
Before I was to go out and hurt someone who didn't deserve it
Or trick someone into thinking something false
I don't like to deceive, I hate it
But do many people think it's right
Crime doesn't pay, you can't win
There's nothing to a life of sin
At the end if the day you're left with shit
Your hearts turned to an empty black pit
Paper notes are nothing without the air that fuels their journey
From hand to hand, money to palm, no, I want that inbetween
That fair exchange, that feel good feeling.
I have faith in that ease.
But you are blind to what I see
You believe it's brought everything, this paper wrapped in thorns.
Independence, equality and within us, no judgement or scorn
I laugh even though it hurts from the lungs you've torn
Your air isn't fit to breathe anymore
From firestarters to materials, from nowhere at all to experiences
The answer lies not within the devious
So I wait
A precarious balance to one day think you can pay off fate
You hold it tight, until the moment comes.
Through snow, through sleet, sunshine and rain.
You'll have that goodie today.
And nothing can stop you but a lack of change.
When life and death is trivial, you can hear the quarters coming
You're full to the brim with it
But it's nothing.
An overflow of twinkling coins and shiny bills
It's the journey, the reward, that brings those thrills.
I want to remove the middle man, the mad man, the money mind-set banned
And instantly connect those two generous hands
Together we'll make it happen, let's start with a global call
Inexpensive and cheap, abundance and freedom is solved
Monsanto the monster hiding beneath our countries bed
The internet our new best friend
It is our turn now, to bring this to an end
Poverty and addiction is a just a bad dream, wake up!
It's never too late to have had enough
As a child, I often looked up to the stars
But my eyes were often distracted by the man-made stars
Blinded for a few moments was I by these worshipped faces
Scanning them for a pure light, such as those above
But, human nature is to always seek more
More, that they were never able or willing to give
So I stopped looking.
I turned my gaze back to the vast skies
Never looking for satisfaction nor perfection
But I wait, with complete serenity
Opening myself to whatever wonders the untouched space may offer,
The little treasures that money cannot ever buy,
And constant reminders of the things I already have
But may have forgotten.
A cool breeze that embraces me, as his arms do
Endless skies are my love for him
That no eyes nor any means can ever measure
And beyond, the eternal presence of the universe
Always ready to keep me afloat, should gravity weigh down unforgivingly
That space, those million globes of light, my family.
Our blood is fuel to the forever burning flames
And even when out of view, they are ever present
You sneer at my stupidity, stars die you whisper
And state that I am destined to fall back into your clutches.
My dear, they do not die!
They create a path for me and others to walk on
To bask in more radiance and unconditional love
With stars that glow even brighter
Shining down on all those who look up.
do you still despise your father
because he had another woman,
& left you & your brother for her?
"oh no, now, no one will ever care"
do you still resent your mother
because she turned a blind eye
& collasped with shame when it came to light?
"oh no, I'll be more unyielding than that"
& so it is no small wonder to me
that when you gaze at yourself
you must see the whore that you are
you still take his money after all.
that sort of self-disgust must be
pretty hard to swallow, digest.
no wonder, you're always hungry & hollow
oh you'll consume anything he pays for
(I, myself, must admit I made the mistake of
finding an abyss inside a void)
but spaces are not always places
aches are not always pains
I loved you once
but I won't ever again
A vehicle rumbled along a sorry excuse for a road,
A convoy trailing behind it
A soldier looked out his window
Watching the dust swirl up in clouds beneath the
Heavy vehicle's tires
He said nothing to his partner and they rode in silence
He, thinking of his perfect baby
Whom he had not yet gotten to feel the warmth of
In his arms
And his partner, he was sure
Had nothing but the image of his fiancée racing through his mind
She was all he ever talked about
They were close
As close as a pair of friends could possibly be
But rides were becoming increasingly more solemn
Unspoken yearning for home had become almost unbearable
These days the soldier missed home so much
And longed so badly for his wife's warm embrace
That he swore he could feel his heart aching
The solemn silence was broken as something caught the soldier's eye
The convoy came to a halt
The soldier jumped from his vehicle
His boots making a hard thud on the ground below
He called to a group of Afghani children who had been
Collecting shell casings they would later exchange for food
In the middle of the convoy's path
The children looked up, alarmed
And scurried away
The rumble of the military vehicles again resounded
Through the desert
And the convoy continued on its way
At the men in the strange uniforms
With the huge trucks,
A little Afghani girl
Caught a glimpse of the sunlight
Bouncing off of something
In the middle of the road
She rushed into the street to collect it
Thinking only of how pleased
Her mother would be
With all the money they would earn
From her painstaking hunt
The soldier saw the young girl
Dart into the path of the convoy
And leapt from the vehicle
The girl looked up in terror
As she saw the big trucks
The soldier leapt into
Of the oncoming sixteen-ton vehicle
Toppling the girl to the ground
As she sat up, out of the path of the convoy
Dusting her self off and
Trying to comprehend
What had just taken place
She looked into the road searching for her
And saw it
Reflecting the desert sunlight
Just inches from the still form
Of the soldier
Who had just
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?"
I didn't know exactly what your name was for a long while. You've been inside of me on numerous occasions. Sometimes when you visit, you stay for weeks, other times you might only visit for a day - whatever the length of your visit you never cease to leave me questioning my ..sanity (If sanity exists any more)?
I can’t tell whether you’re part of me, or if you’re merely a confused visitor, who happened to once find some empty cavity in me that could foster you for a while, and have since returned from mere convenience. Either way, I still haven’t yet decided whether I like your company or not. We shall see.
I appreciate that you never let me become too content. You omnipresently remind me that I do not deserve to be too happy, too blissfully at peace with my surroundings. I thank you for that. It reminds me what I need to do, who I need to help, what I should do, and who I should be helping.
I don’t like how guilty you make me feel. I don’t like how I've grown to become frightened of what you might, one day, make me become. You've made me think and consider things I've only ever shunned others for thinking and doing. Why the fuck do you do that? Do you know how confused it makes me? You've made me feel like I'm only controlling about 90% of what goes on up there. I hate that feeling. I'm still in control, I know that much - but even that measly 10% that you've taken from me makes me feel robbed.
You've made me doubt my aspirations. This is what I probably hate you the most for. I know I want to write. I want to write about the people who deserve to be written about. I want to sit with them, I want to watch and feel their suffering, and I want to somehow translate that into words and put it in print for the world to read. But I don’t want what I write to become merely a story to the people who read it. I want them to read it, and feel it seep into their skin. I want them to feel the pain of the people whose pain I am writing to them about. I never want what I make to simply become a ‘show’ to people. But I can’t do that. That’s not how people are made.
You make me think I adamantly hate people. I know I don’t, I hope I don’t - but you trick me into thinking it with such conviction that, when you decide to leave me, I'm left wondering whether it was really you or I who put that in my head in the first place.
There are bad people in the world. Hell, most of us are bad. We are horrible. Our morals and our beliefs turn us into things we never wanted to be, but somehow all ended up as. And once we've become a monster, very rarely can we become the pure, good, perfect things we were born as.
But, I know that some people have goodness in them. I hope that I am one of them. It frightens me like nothing else to think that, maybe, I am not a good person. That I am as disgusting as the people who switch the channel when something comes on their television that isn't a fictional drama, comedy, murder-mystery, whatever, because they find it unpleasant. Or because it doesn't effect them.
I don’t want to be just another person who donates money to charities, walks around in old, inexpensive clothing, volunteers and help people, and does it because she wants people to look at her and think “Damn, she’s a good person”. I don’t want people to think of me as a good person. I don’t want people to think of me at all. I don’t want people to know what I do, why I do it, or how I do it. I just want to do the things I can, have people benefit from them, then remember the THINGS. Not the face or the name of the person who did them.
I want a stranger to think “Someone gave a homeless person their shoes. I could do that. I could give a homeless person my shoes. I have another pair, I don’t need them. That’s what I’ll do” and do it. Then maybe someone will see them and do it also. But to think that someone would think of the deed then link it to me, or to a face generally - that repulses me. It repulses me into thinking that, somehow, every person nowadays is objectified, and every object is personified. And it’s terrifying.
I go to sleep every night with that thought in my head. I don’t know who to blame for putting it there. If it was you, Electra, just make it clear that that’s the case. I will forgive you. I will still let you come back when you have nowhere else to go. I would just like to know.
For now, that’s all I have to say to you. I hope your stay is comfortable, and you’re experiencing a pleasant refuge from whatever you are hiding from. When you next leave, please make sure to leave me what is mine. I often find myself feeling, after your visits, that part of what I had has left with you - which, generally wouldn't bother me, except I've never gotten those bits back.
Love, your ever-accommodating E.
I keep waiting and waiting for something miraculous to happen
Something that would light the fireworks buried 6 feet under
But this body, holds them, keeps the lighter at bay
Repeating it’s better that way, but I’m left wondering,
If these restrictions I have laid upon myself will ever let me fly
Fly into the city I have dreaming of my whole life, the city that never sleeps
These dreams, all so childish, and I’m just a girl trying to keep up-
With the vast expectations pressured into her tiny palms bearing the cloaked truths of life yet to be lived
I have a hate and love relationship with money
I have enough of it keep me alive, but never enough to live
Or maybe greed has poisoned the nerves, clasping my brain into its dirty hands
Maybe I’ll win a lottery, that will be miraculous enough, wont it?
I keep waiting for someone, someone who’ll plant a nuclear bomb inside me
At least I will jump out of my skin, and breathe free, as my body rests in peace
But life is unfair, so are the genes
And I’m not sure if savior exists, and I’m not sure how long will I live
Money snatched my dream right out my hands, and burnt my desire to exist
I tried, to dig up the fireworks, but it let me speculating if any have,
I found them, believing I have outlived the restrictions
But when I tried to light them, their tips turned out to be wet
It’s sad really, to realize after all these years, chasing after this dream, to end up knowing fate has its own evil way of working
And I’ll never have enough money to support these dreams, nor the talent, nor the confidence to be who I really want to be.
Money wants to be spent.
It sits in your pocket and bellows at you,
it tugs you into shops and boutiques
and weighs so heavy on your mind
that you gasp with relief
to be rid of it.
I don't like this, but I get it:
I accept the hypnosis
and resist when I can,
and perhaps it oils the system
which keeps me comfortable.
But I am fearful that our feel for time
is going the same way.
Hours are things to dispose of:
days, once spent, are lost and gone:
all our energies thrust us on
to the next thing, and the next.
There is no sense
no glorying in the growth
of knowledge, experience, wisdom.
No respect for things which have been
and thus we shuttle, rudderless and dumb,
Barren, and infinitely poor.