gleaming face

gentle wind strokes

winter mist

amidst the dusk spectrum

occasionally, the horn sings;

forward we must go.



from a poet

with silent tricks

to broadcast nonchalance

guiding lively slaves

through a path

scattered in pain

the brittle loc’d poet

says blow the horn.

my girlfriend is a situation
like mother
she speaks in episodes of jarring emotion
that i both despise and love
hours of confusion follow us
where our paths kiss
she tickles my bloodstream.

like mother
her dreams are flammable
bound by chains of rule
too vogue
tear the center spread, lover
start an ancient fire of rebellion.

she reeks of ivory towers, winery and sweat
enveloped in her sweet debris
a depository of nervousness
recurring desires when we meet
mother would be proud
while i push away her dreams
to the edge of the world.

nice-time girls abhor me
my situation has doubts
her flickers of love
could they fail to ignite
my warmth
in the chaos outside.

bland streets
give birth to austere
children playing with chalk
hopscotch horde
SAMO dropped the bomb

no place to sleep
cheese to eat
find the avant garde spirit
moving with fleas
friends are dogs
the genius notes
worlds explode from Manhattan to Midrand
the child casts spells with calloused hands

a nervous man
with his Bohemian fabric
emerges from the brothel of thought
no Warhol
just unpublished papers
in black banks

influence predates intelligence
when things fall apart
perish in art
juntas and intellectuals will critique
your gore will speak.

touching ourselves with our thoughts
we people are on our own
a defiant voice once said that
i jacked off
and woke up,
what a forsaken routine.
sleep is but a loud plea from me
chanting
while
life stands in the way
death ends it
arrogant headaches too
I guess I’m woke.
mzansi please
my eyes won’t stick together
tiny black crystals of water disrupt peace.
decadent birds heard
about me too
they try
I try.
sleep still jumps over me;
like the mad cow that kicks.
Tucked away behind four walls
I am the carnivorous bed rodent that kills.

a traveler lost
is a destination
out of reach
seeker of ancient patches of soil

the migrant soon discovers
borders separate levels of poverty
home is here
see

a destination out of reach
without fees
without land
without love
without humanity

do you know where
you are headed, traveler?
let us drink
more water and beer
and thank the ones with loose mouths
for their oral culture

ask those in front
for way of passage, they say
listen to the loose mouths traveler.

of what resides
inside of me and you
no mirror is required
disguised by habit,
face and clan
spirit is floating above soil breathing
be it aimlessly
on route to shop,
drink, snort, **** it off.
the world is born
and carried on heads
then a big bang
the end, credits from friends
breathing the same air
that laughed at agony
again and again
him and her,
time ***** out of us
that thing
we can’t see.