First he was a god
then a mythical hero
In acquiescence
I offered myself
and became
a magical scroll
to be enunciated by
his little mouth
Or fondled by
hyperactive
fingers, overlong
and nuanced yellow
As reward he
Invited me on
A hallowed quest
Scattered like Osiris
Remnants of himself
to be discovered
and restored
but at my approach
he turned to dust
the quest was cursed
Death will always be
his domain of choice
Only myself I unearthed,
discarded,prettily
painted and on
a rickety shelf
Dec 27, 2025
Dec 27, 2025 at 7:16 AM UTC
In Africa
the rain
Is not subtle
It is a fierce
woman that
blurs the lines
demands attention
pounds her fist
a whiplash voice
to nourish
to feed
her children
or in spells
of howling rage
will drown
their little
faces
Dec 5, 2025
Dec 5, 2025 at 5:51 AM UTC
the poem does
not belong to me
( I am distraught )
a constipated
sentence
fill this void a
****** page
a coveted
space of
impotence
even if I foretell
the poem
it is not mine
it resides
as an infant
of words
in the world of
crossings of
in between
perhaps if I'm
worthy
I will be chosen
and hear
the music
it is over
yonder
a cadence
of thoughts
reposing unborn
souls
in serpentine waves
of dream
stained colour
Im rendered
bare
defeated
and will
admit:
the creativity
I seek
is sadly
just
a subterfuge
to loiter by
the entrance
of that
cosmic world
Nov 30, 2025
Nov 30, 2025 at 2:04 AM UTC
I have become a
lover
no longer ridiculous
or poor
Or even dead
My little bottom
Is now being
stroked
ever so very
gently
Nov 29, 2025
Nov 29, 2025 at 10:13 AM UTC
What happens when we
deny our shadows?
when we incarcerate darkness
In the sequestered basement
of our mind..
one day they become real
very sneakily they solidify
and grow, and lo and behold
now they are Trump, Netanyahu
vying for your smile, your
very soul
Like an old friend you try
to place, recognition is not
instant,but familiarity makes
you pliant, evil must be good,
the franchise of sin is abject
disavowal
Your once ***** secrets
and tainted virtue are
giddily appeased in the
bleak light of day:"they
speak the truth!"you exclaim
I can feel it in my core, of all
that is good”
but I can assure you, it's
only the shadows..
Yin becomes Yang
if you don't catch it.
Nov 29, 2025
Nov 29, 2025 at 7:41 AM UTC
you don't have to mask for me
Its obsolete
I have already
unravelled
into sea spray
the undulating
poetry
of the sea
-the sand craves
the rhythm
of my
seductive
elocution
although with
repetitive
verse
I pulverise it
to nothing-
currently I
inhabit
an immortal wave
it's perfect
form a recital of
the universe
thus free at last
I become
a saga of
this endless
storm
of gain and
loss
Nov 17, 2025
Nov 17, 2025 at 8:29 AM UTC
the gods
we all worship are
children and rightly so!
the awe I feel the
reverence you bring
to these beings of
little borrowed universes'
depositing their alien
light their sparkling love
to a world uncharted
to parents unknown
but now we defecate
in their sacred places
and offerings are
rotting on the alters
the holy wall is bloated
with little toes
and tiny fingers
And so what to say about Palestine?
We are all cursed
We are all cursed
Nov 17, 2025
Nov 17, 2025 at 7:38 AM UTC
It used to be:
A delicate constitution, frayed nerves
perhaps hysteria…
as a woman ( Frued accused)
you are prone to it
And these days:
Is it AdHd, Autism?
or the hypersensitive person..
my homeopathic doctor prescribes
some pills and suggests
this most likely
But it is irrelevant
Because the centre of me, cannot be pinpointed, it is too allusive
to be read and dissected
Instead it becomes something else
now it expands to become
my wooden room
It metamorphoses into crust filled
dishes, the sticky floor,
a mysterious puddle, fruit flies
already in languid pursuit
In fact every detail in the room are
consciousness infused
my runaway self blesses each object
godlike with
self reproaching prattle
The yellowing broccoli chastises itself
it should have gone in the fridge
apparently the household doesn't
compost anymore
Oh the indignity of being food waste!
The sink roof drives itself crazy with
discordant squeaking
it blames the racket on the wind
it must be tone death
The noise is deafening, my body is
curled up in a ball, rocking
In rhythm to cacophonous
whispers
But silence does eventually come:
Even in the greying water of too old
dishes, the room
cautiously intuit a change
What is hideous blurs
and the contour of beauty
finds shape
an emerging sun, the room is in awe
In the light I see myself
reflected,
now standing in the centre
Of this
wooden house
Nov 15, 2025
Nov 15, 2025 at 10:14 AM UTC
It is as it should be:
I manage a
morsel of impuissant gum
the axe fleetingly whistles
it's regrets
but neglects to see it
It could be a tear, you see, or the
virtuous wound of the denounced
martyr, but now its just gum
awkwardly sticking
to the exposed member of this
bling garish steel
Still I can't deny the inevitability:
I have through connected
rings a way into the universe
(a reluctant Oracle: PTSD flashes
of my body tied up, shaved into
oblivion)
But maybe its right for these limbs
to be used, goddess or *****
becoming whatever you entice
it to be, opening up in gaping welcome,
an oscillating entrance for the
multitude
or the discerning blade sizing up
my flesh,scavenging exclusively
for artful gains in my delightful
corpse… a choleric eye, hostile
hands, a body circumspectly in
gesture of deviance
It is as it should be:
Symbiotic hands whittle away
slivers of death, tenderly
sandpapering errant shards
from my now raging
living face
to once again behold
the seasons
Nov 15, 2025
Nov 15, 2025 at 9:31 AM UTC