Met boeke vol helde, soos ek en jy
Potgieter, Trichardt, Smuts, Kruger selfs De LaRey
Almal met die doel, om hul volk te bevry,
Die Afrikaner, uit te brei
Om hul families, van leiding te bevry

Selfs, De LaRey
‘n Lafhart, wou eers nie beklei
Later die held, wat die boere, verder wou lei
Familie man, vader seun broer en gesant

Ja, die mense was ook bang
Maar met passie,
Met drang
Met dit wat slange vang
Het hulle als aangevang

Kyk na jou vriend
Kyk na jou maat
Kyk na die, anderkant die straat
Dis jy, wat hul toekoms baat
Dis jy, wat hul vereen, ou maat

Die Afrikaners, was plesierig
Dit, kan julle glo
Nou gevul, net met gierig
En al hul misnoe
Ja, dit kan julle glo

Waar is ons eendrag
Waar is ons mag
Waar is die dae, toe ons nog lekker kon lag
Waar is ons helde, van vandag

‘n Held, in elkeen wat die taal verstaan
Elkeen, wat n weg vir Afrikaans wil baan
Elk, wat sy man wil staan
vir die taal, wat min verstaan
‘n Kultuur, wat net ons verstaan

‘n Kultuur, so ryk aan helde soos ek en jy
Helde, wat die Afrikaner wil bevry
Helde, wat nie bang is om te baklei
Helde, soos ek en jy!

It's half past four and the Red Rose
is Doppler dashing across
bullying slow fourth class hikers bikers
who dare to share the bridge walkway.

Puffing pumping its steam sweat smoke
straining through the shielding lattice
smogging choking foot folk
who snort its sulphur scented smuts.

some days, his eyes are full with angst
his arms down his sides, with his fists as closed as his ears
and all I want to say is I know how it is
to be so angry you don't know where to go
because the whole world lights you up like a dry stick of explosives,
how it is to have your feelings being so big they start to feel
like extensions of your limbs,
waving uncontrollably
and all you can do to avoid their friction from setting you on fire
is either to cut them off or keep your arms down your sides

but I step aside, because he can no longer take in my words
his six year old eyes are filled with the nothingness of
an anger so big and unlabeled
but someday, I will tell him and he will understand
I will tell him that even though my blood is not in his veins,
I will cleanse it from soot and silt,
I will be his human shield from this world
I will tear kingdoms apart and slay every last creeper
just to help him level up

and I will uncontrollably, explosively and unconditionally
love him

//

vissa dagar är hans ögon fyllda med ångest
hans armar längs sidorna, med nävar lika hårt stängda som hans öron

och allt jag vill säga är att jag vet hur det är
att vara så arg att du inte vet vars du ska ta vägen,
för hela världen får en att tända som en torr bunt sprängämnen,
hur det är att ha känslor så stora att de börjar kännas
som förlängningar av dina egna armar och ben,
okontrollerbart viftande
och allt du kan göra för att förhindra att deras friktion tänder eld på dig
är att antingen hugga av dem eller hålla armarna längs sidorna

men jag går undan, för han kan inte ta in mina ord längre
hans sexåriga ögon fyllda med ingentinget
av en ilska så stor och oettikerad ilska

men någon dag ska jag berätta för honom och han ska förstå
jag ska berätta för honom att även fast mitt blod inte flyter genom hans artärer,
ska jag rensa det från smuts och sot,
jag ska vara hans mänskliga sköld från den här världen
jag ska slita kungariken itu och döda varenda creeper
bara för att hjälpa honom att levla upp

och jag ska okontrollerbart, explosivt och villkorslöst
älska honom

OUT of the testimony of such reluctant lips, out of the oaths and mouths of such scrupulous liars, out of perjurers whose hands swore by God to the white sun before all men,
  
Out of a rag saturated with smears and smuts gathered from the footbaths of kings and the **** cloths of ******, from the scabs of Babylon and Jerusalem to the scabs of London and New York,
  
From such a rag that has wiped the secret sores of kings and overlords across the milleniums of human marches and babblings,
  
From such a rag perhaps I shall wring one reluctant desperate drop of blood, one honest-to-God spot of red speaking a mother-heart.December, 1918.Christiania, Norway

I will knock out your teeth if you try to
take my love away from me— and if you
do it more than once I'll start setting
things on fire.
I'm telling you, I don't think I could ever love anyone ever again  , I don't know
I don't know

see, here's the thing
it's the Sunday morning before my birthday and I'm laying in bed eating leftover cold pizza and simultaneously thinking about all of the good and the bad. The ugly, the
uglier and the so ******* ugly it's
beautiful

and I've decided I am so much
more than those things you pinned to my
skin like medals or scars.
although , ironically
I have a bulletin in my room
filled with all the horrible things I'd like to say to you , over and over and over again but I probably never will

I hope she gives you an sti, but not enough to **** you.
I want to tie you to a chair and make you watch as I burn the place you call home , to the ground


I keep staring at works because
it's so **** hard trying to decipher what is true art and just plain trash when I gone through something like you
I'm stuck feeling like frames are jails for paintings , and oil takes way to much time for me to even bother



I went out last night
and the waiter charmed me into drinking a cocktail made up of late night mistakes and sin
and half way through the drink I realized I have a hard time doing anything that doesn't end up with me being alone questioning why nothing ever really turns out as you think it should
I'm with Lynn and Im half talking half rambling about how
my pet puppy ran away when I was 13 and I named him angel.
i think I named him that because , well
i always got the feeling I wasn't living life like I was supposed to, Mother raised me catholic but I raised myself to believe in nothing but broken fists , ceilings and the kind of angels that hold your hair back only cause it suits them.
and it never made sense to my mom
and it never made sense
because none of it ever does
there'll still be hobos on Jan smuts avenue sleepin under  roof folds
there'll still be daily suicides and hospital stories that'll make bodies and spirits alike collapse and high school drop outs with dreams bigger then whole buildings , there'll still be boys that eat your dignity for breakfast ad girls that will put then above their own morals
and in the end , I'll always be here standing , flipping the light switch wondering why nothing ever really turns out like you think it should

My mother never talked about her mother
because she passed on when I was five
and that’s when I learned,
that people do not live forever

I was not permanent
I was not an indelible mark  
I was merely grazing the earth
making small smuts in the soil
and moseying over leaves
as we yellowed
together

I dumped my dolls into a dark bin
and hid them away
because none of them blinked
none of them changed
none of them died
and I could not relate
to stagnant bits of plastic
anymore

My mother never talked about her mother’s hands
but I remembered them
Her palms had more ridges than mine
They were always cold
glacial troughs
telling stories
like maps of the past

I remember her incurable malady
like an empty cart trundling down
a pitted road
towards a parched body of water
that my mother later swamped
with creeks from her eyes

I’d spend sleepless nights
cradling warm bodies
I knew one day
would not cradle me back


I knew one day I’d be impregnated with wrinkles
and peppered with ill-favored liver spots
but this did not scare me
like it should have

It only scared me that
my mother never talked about her mother
because after she’d gone
she hadn’t much to say
about a part of her
that would always be missing

looking down saw grubby fingers,
smuts from the fire, cleared early.

spit and hanky  rub the mark away,
travel regardless. may be spring
that day.

cannot read your mind, sir, nor mind
the consequences of my stain.

i have sooty marks,the head is clear.

walk the canal path, eat cheese,
and softer figs.

oh my , these are the falling days,
the days of the life.

sbm.