when the wind comes to life
and twirls round the dancing curtains
in a storm of grey
like a puppet-master welcoming in the cold
giving it a home
along the ridges of my skull

when the wind blows
and puffs coughing cigar clouds
conquering the sunless sky
dimming entire constellations
my jaw begins to ache
as I pull out
tooth by tooth
to try repair the dark
but all that’s left
is an aching abyss
staring out into
the endless night

My fingers drift uncertainly
mind humming
pencil tapping
thoughts tip-toing across a wooden floor at midnight
down the creaking stairs
through the wheezing door
under the swaying leaves of a dancing willow
the windows gasp for air

the wind is thick with mucus
coughing up a storm
the day is bright
not a cloud in sight
but its not safe to leave
you see:
the sky forgot his mask

wisps of grey float over the dying willow
arrogant and stark
(not so cheap) cheap ciggies
the new *****
for a people sleepwalking through life

over across the highway
in a corrugated iron temple
baby suckles mother
as she hums his fears away
Thula Sana
Thula Sana
It is going to be ok

I see her through my window
Across the empty highway
Gentle eyes gazing at me
As she hums the fears away
Hush my little baby
It is going to be ok

The world burned

It was a pleasure to burn.
To see things eaten, to see things blackened and changed.
We set the world alight you see
For a day the world burned
Sparkled glimmering charcoal
Crowds of ash carried by the “winds of change”
For a day the world descended into chaos
Not the chaos we had grown accustomed to
But a new chaos
A chaos that screamed: I am here
Dousing the world in petrol
And singing to the flames: We are here
To let the voiceless tell their stories
(By rewriting them in our narrative)
For a day the world descended into chaos

Silence.
In the catacombs beneath the noise
Where the old chaos reigned
A silent indifference
seeping through the faded whimpers
We burn to forget the suffering
To remind the world that we are here
That we exist amongst the chaos
For a day the world burned
And with it- their stories.

I riffle through a paper bag
as the lights begin to dim
my hand contorts to fit its shape
bending in the dulling light
like an origami octopus
but I do not have eight legs

the crinkle of rough paper
grates the crumpled air
long and equal slices
a communion for the holy
gathered round in prayer

"For the bag formed us
made us
bred us from a mixture of gases
and sliced us with His loving paper hand
For the bag brought us here now
Here and now
Now and here"

(it remained unaware)

They chanted in a circle
and circled in a chant
blowing beds of burnt orange
in a dance of auburn incense

(it lay lifeless upon the granite counter)

and when the hysteria
like the sun
began to fade

and when they stopped singing
for the day
but promised to reconvene
the next
it did not know.