Rob_Bruwer
Cape Town
https://www.buymeacoffee.com/poetryxtrinity / 'Pomegranate Mythology' & 'Dionysian Chronicles' available at all book places (on&offline) / / contact: / [email protected]
anything
and everything
just to feel alive
yet when time slows to a crawl
and I close my eyes, I realise
over and over
again and again...
All that i am and all
that i might ever be, is just
ash in the wind
a cloud of ash
blowing across a starless sky.
7d ago
May 26, 2026 at 11:31 PM UTC
i
haunting memories ooze from my pores
condensing in the heavy atmosphere.
wave after wave of ethereal static
flashes behind my eyes
pulling me above the serene rot
& the
percussive
drumming of the downpour outside.
spellbound in a dizzy trance
i stare into the reflective looking glass
waiting for the stranger
in the mirror to blink
first.
ii
sitting in a creaky rocking chair
watching black-&-white russian films
on a bulky, box, console television.
the fork pronged, bunny-ear antenna
and massive
protruding knobs and buttons
distract me, bathing in the salt-&-pepper static.
i peer to the left. on the rusted windowsill on the other side,
four empty glass bottles stand:
two green, two
clear - filling up
with the buckets of pouring rain. outside,
horses graze in the flooded marsh -
their soaked manes
falling flat against heavy necks
lasso tied, with a noose fixed to fence posts.
I pity yet envy their nylon-chained fate.
in the fireplace
embers of a coal fire flicker. ashy smoke
dances with the dust
suspended in the grey light
cast by the CRT TV screen. an aggressive glow, haunting.
iii
braving eden on margate street
reading...
writing...
painting...
moving and existing
through tinted layers.
six shillings a week for the meek, begging
to eat anointed fruit & man-made vegetables. swept up
in a tornado of unaccustomed genius
i sit singing. my blues bleeding into latin grooves
moving me through the dissonance
of frowning echoes.
iv
[front page]
crisis after crisis,
screams the black ink.
**** it.
another hundred-and-eighty dead.
bombed for attending school -
but the other news said brown girls
don't even get to choose.
someone's lying,
or, more likely,
I've lost my mind.
> 2nd page
I don't know who is worse....
Noem, or Noam ¿¿¿
Mar 11
Mar 11, 2026 at 6:55 PM UTC
beads of sweat
trickle down the nook of her neck
glistening on soft curves of static skin
hot with electric pulse under gliding fingertips.
beads of pearls
wrapped around her wrists
glimmer in dancing reflections
from burning flickers of candlelight.
beads of wax
drip down her arched spine
glinting as quivering hips sway
writhing in the gentle shock of pleasurable pain.
***
diving into trenches of pleasure
in her intoxicating salty skin
where sweet treasure lies
confined inside the pouting shell
glowing through refracted moonlight.
my lips trace from her navel
sailing along hipbone silky swell
as pointing toes curl
& waves reach breaking peak
under firm strokes
to the nocturne's crescendo.
Mar 10
Mar 10, 2026 at 2:18 PM UTC
i.
on the eve of the beginning
we swam in the vast nothingness of an eternal now
spellbound in the sea of retrograde amnesia
born into a plague
& primed by spacetime abstractions
ripped out of childlike purity
& morphed into a disfigured automaton species
stalking the asphalt planes of the panopticon
with heads hung by the burden of dim lit distractions
tailored for the livestock subscribed
to the web shaped shackles
at the foot of life's lonely mountain
the summit appears to rise & disappear
unscalable the snowcaps melts into the heavens
ii.
18 years of mapping the blank trackless pages
in my own odyssey
- a journey of expanding cartography
in the desolate wilderness of poetry & 21st century philosophy
- beyond the walls & platonic disfigured forms
my scourge is housebound
periodic slants in discourtesy by my menage
- in between motherly love & a motherly nudge
i'm half-shoved from my novel-aspiration-shaped nest
being served batch after batch of freshly baked
best-interest flavored advice
"join ben-dod in the finance game"
before reluctantly accepting with a patronizing
"im yirtzeh hashem".
a classic case of family tree suffering -
struck by a bout of root rot.
deep sigh in
mantra
slow sigh out
{mechanical cogs act as dials
on the dashboard of perception
yet the observer lies unbound
in the realm of the transcendental}
iii.
starring out the window
watching birds flutter in a mating dance
my gaze
collapses
drifting out of the frame & into an internal debate
to which i'm a spectator?
are we three, i wonder...
both participant(s) & mediator in the puzzling di(tri)alogue
centered on 'for' & 'against' a trip to the barber for a haircut
while the voices ramble on inside my fragmented mind
i let my attention step outside
taking flight with the ***** dancing budgies
running my hand though my hair
turning cold
what if i start balding?
on a seesaw swaying from
'greatest hit haircuts' highlight reels
to visions of the shiniest chrome dome in the city
lost...
blooming sunny weather
lost...
iv.
both long-hand & short-hand
revolve in an infinite circuit
high-brow & low-brow
hands all pointed at the gyrating face
who is the author of my dreams
& he who visits me when i am engulfed
by the busy swarm of creativity
mystical genie who appears from his cave
shaping syllables & words
out of the buzzing humdrum
clear as black ink on a white page...
it streams out of my hand
at a rate which i cling to
as i am whisked through
that flower garden of poetry
v.
Q. answer Fermi's paradox ::
~ we are the aliens
Mar 5
Mar 5, 2026 at 7:18 PM UTC
i
hid with society's
fractured casualties
smoking joints & cigarettes
while their cracked lips
whispered flaccid whiskey truths.
these digital mystics sit
choreographing calligraphic lyrics
tweaking in rot-infested basements
of city-centred detention apartments.
i slum in these dens
in dreaded denial
of my deals with devils
& midnight merchants
who push highs at faustian prices...
drifting through the shadows
selling crystal-ball 8-balls
behind jazz clubs
dressed as fortune-telling gypsies
they stalk me
for a pound of flesh
while i wait at a dried-up dock
for a phantom ship
that sank a lifetime ago.
Mar 4
Mar 4, 2026 at 9:39 PM UTC
the dark stormy seas within me
crash heavily
on the rocky shores of whiskey-filled
tumbling tides,
pooling under my tired,
black-ringed eyes.
i sit, singing phantom sailor songs
soaked in a verbose, morose static,
my disconnect stoked
by the shamanic groans
of a dying apartment fire.
sipping sherry warms me
after the last flames dissipate.
sopping
sobbing sounds
slide off the hymn-sheet of a starless mind
painted in the strokes of a tipsy lobotomy
erupting from the hollowed-out
sunken cathedral of my chest,
there is no treasure inside that cavity.
bobbing on walls of muddied water
in a raft crafted from splintered words
woven in white-lined
wide-eyed
chemical weariness... i seek the shores
of salvaged solace
in a hallucinatory paradise
begging for a shipwrecked
drunken deliverance.
i am no longer the captain of my own
destiny, trust sunk when an iceberg
ripped holes in and through
my identity. sadly, that ship sailed,
none survived. .
Mar 4
Mar 4, 2026 at 9:33 PM UTC
(i)
a satellite bridge made of bones
hangs over the cosmic ocean,
there we sit, skipping stones
reading parables of fish and loaves,
castaways, adrift a depleted ocean.
memories of fresh water and wine
in an age of salinity, facing eternal drought
in tidal synchronization
geometric oscillation, puzzle-piece limbs
stride hypnotized, in metronomic fashion
our seamless spikes and curves collide
inside-in, inside-out.
at first, my tentative, trembling tentacles
could only pluck petals,
now I harvest flowers in full bloom
while pruning your flowerbed in gardens among foxes
above your throne are mirrors of distortion,
****** skin retouched with gothic tattoo reflections
a shrine of mongoose skulls forms the frame of that strange looking-glass.
(ii)
she stellifies above rubble jenga
he stargazes from a fools tower
(would-be) king and (dowager) queen
of supernova kingdom
(iii)
dandelion narcolepsy spreads
like rice fields in monsoon season
ceremonius ritual like a cryptogram deciphered,
the artist of symbolic seduction
navigates and unwinds her corset,
santa maria arrival, the destination: ******* divine
hands juggle with ease
of seasoned trapeze expertise,
rhythm of a bluesman at crossroads
strumming, and sliding along
a fretboard spine
×××
she is forever
endless and enrobed
in sailor made knots
and tailormade ink blots
closed galactic streets meet
in a runway solstice
there,
i will kiss her feet
Mar 3
Mar 3, 2026 at 11:22 PM UTC
who flies the flag at half mast
for those cast aside as disposable trash?
pawn people in riot gear
quivering in bomb shelters
with their helmet heads
between the knees,
mumbling salvation pleas
from trembling lips.
oligarch puppets
and island class play-things,
thrown into the deep-end
on the front line
in the queue for slaughter.
flesh and bone capital
auctioned in middle-of-nowhere deserts
where cattle go to die,
and those that return are stained
by stamps of trauma.
homeless heroes
honored with a discharge
dressed as health-care despair
where medication could cost an arm
and a leg (if they've got any left to stand on).
remembrance candles are lit
alongside barbecues
on drunken holidays,
all for the fallen children
of unchained freedom speeches
and misaligned rallies, which would
lead to valleys of mass graves.
military budgets blown beyond
the reach of welfare and education
starved people
who struggle to read the telegrams,
and the scrolls of disillusioned honor rolls
engraved on pop-up tombstones.
those who have passed
by and through,
orders to disturb the peace,
rest in a pieces
fragments of humanity
that their families have lost
at the cost of stuffing
blood soaked money
into the wallets of weapon men,
sleeping easy with blind eyes shut,
dreaming of their next vacation
across the seas in paradise lost.
Mar 3
Mar 3, 2026 at 7:21 PM UTC
Suicide Note Anxiety
One copy-paste drunken night while I tried to write,
My most honest farewell to life; my magnum opus -
‘Ode to Hopelessness’; detailing my internal strife,
Of perpetual bided time, line by melancholic line.
I had seen more than enough, this was my bowing out -
I had fought off the cuff, this was my final bout.
Awkwardly I slouched, balancing pen and paper,
On a pillow as I wrote; seated at the foot of my bed.
My bare desk-less room, entirely ergonomically unsuitable;
Acting as a crucible of doomed creative peace,
Hamstringing my masterpiece, keeping one foot out of the grave,
Delaying the curtain fall that I craved.
Undeterred by back ache, accentuated by July's frost,
I soldiered on strong with my penchant pen march across the page;
Prophet of doom, romantic poet of gloom, cross-hung sage -
Laying waste to the blank space, slaying the canvas’ face of potential.
A firm rebuttal of existence with substantial dooming evidence,
My final revelation to the Gospel of Nihilism.
As the crescendo of my written swan song approached;
Proclamation of the submission to sorrow, admission of tomorrows veto -
I emptied the wine bottle into my highball glass, a toast to the past.
My last supper ritual without friend, lover or disciple;
Observation of the isolation that had become habitual, suitable for the occasion,
Appreciation and recognition of the Orsonwellian lonerism credo.
I dug in the bedside chest, searching for pharmaceutical treasures -
Lab created capsuled sleep facilitators, numbing agents of corporate agenda.
These venomless, vectorless powdered poisonous incapacitators -
Would close my final chapter with a Cleopatra styled farewell.
Into my hand I emptied the pillbox: insomnia's nemesis, synthetic slumber seductress;
Fluteless charmer hoping to induce a rest of eternal sunsets.
da mihi perpetua una dormienda
Feb 26
Feb 26, 2026 at 6:32 AM UTC
Clutch of Pearls
(haunted by Evelyn McHale)
How was he to ever say
what afterwards could not be said,
how was he to visit the empty crater
where your body no longer lay spread.
"Evelyn, mortal love
has far more life
than immortal heartbreak.
Your pain is real but distorts the way
you perceive the picture.
A mirror paints more truth than that which
whispers those things
of which you are terrified
... you were her daughter,
not your father's wife.
How do the living
approach the grammar of the fallen?
Foreign dimensions could never
map the directions back home.
Did it wound so deeply
that crashing from Luciferian height
seemed gentler than weight of tomorrow?
They called it sleep...
that terrible, curated sleep
your body arranged
upon the crumpled altar
of mangled steel, below the Empires statue
where yesterday's children are sacrificed
to the gods of tomorrow's trauma.
Those pearls, appearing deceptively soft,
unscratched, still glimmering
as a noose around your throat.
Satin gloves untorn.
Silken stockings unrun.
Ribboned heartstrings, forever undone.
Your picture, your grace -
perfect Roman discipline
even in eternal descent.
You burned your dress,
you burned them twice
one flame burned in khaki memory,
another torched the vows
promised by the gown charred, once white.
A lie is forgiven when what is broken
would never arrive,
your two rehearsals for a brighter future
were lost
to a one way bet on an immediate
departure.
You were a daughter,
not a bride to grief.
Not consort to despair...
yet, what is unquestionable
and stands with refute -
something paternal in the century
pressed its thumb on
and through you.
How are we to ever speak?
How are to see beyond the veil?
Haunted by the photograph
stained on my minds eye.
I'm terrorised by the human experience
your life, even in death, beautifully portrayed.
A student of the art which breaks time-space
shot your face, stellified.
His lens found your beautiful sleeping effigy before the sirens lit up your lifeless radiance.
Timeless cover on time magazine,
a photographer performed a resurrection.
Now undead, you haunt me. A photo frame trapped you in purgatory.
A photograph forever framed you.
Fixed you.
The image traveled faster than your name.
Beauty made scandal.
Stillness made spectacle.
A broken body
rendered symmetrical
by steel and chance.
It would have taken so little,
one interruption,
one hand at the shoulder,
one inconvenient kindness
to redraw the hour.
Instead, the car received you.
Metal flexed.
History did not.
Now you persist
not as pulse
but as composition.
Students lean closer.
Critics remark on the serenity.
No one can photograph
the final argument inside your chest.
How are we to speak of you?
Was there happiness once -
a brief republic of light
before the referendum of gravity?
We will never know.
We only know the image -
that immaculate collapse...
and the lie it tempts us to believe:
that death can look peaceful.
He would have begged, perhaps.
He would have promised
ordinary mornings,
unremarkable years.
He would have chosen you breathing
over you beautiful.
And here is the cruelty:
the world remembers the posture,
not the pain.
How are we to speak of you
without becoming accomplice
to the frame?
Pearls at your throat.
City beneath your back.
Silence perfected.
And all the living
left asking
whether love,
arriving one hour earlier,
might have been enough.
Feb 23
Feb 23, 2026 at 6:47 PM UTC