Opgedra aan ‘n kind  wat gebliksem moet word.
Deur: Desperaatheid en vrees

Jy klim in en uit die ***** van bestaan,
beide die rede vir liefde en
die kind wat sy baar.

Jy is ‘n drievoud van godelike hervertellings
, want wie kan regtig liefde
in ‘n enkel sin verhaal?

Geminag , die seun van liefde en haat
- jou einste bestaan ,van die vroegste
paradoksale meesterstukke.

Verewig , verewig tot ‘n kind
tussen die Groottes wat
blindlings onder jou boogpunt swik.

Vir elke nasie ‘n ander droom
Vir elke geloof ‘n ander naam en
Vir elke mens ‘n ander god.

Amor , oh Amor!
Die sinnebeeld van liefde
wat die mendsom verbly

, maar Eros jou ramkat
jou hupse hygelbek!
Jou erotiese aanraak!
(die begeer ek)

En ek?
Met my koker van lig en van goud,
wat hulde blyk en bou en bring
maar bestorwe le voor my Laurel
oor ‘n lood-stomp pylpunt vir haar ‘n treuerlied sing!

Amor, Amor word wakker!
My son le liefdeloos in my bros hart
, wat instaan teen logika
– sterk op die oorlogspad!

Jy wat na my heuning reik
-met honger hande vieslik gryp
en ek wat jou met angel steek
in desperaatheid jou nat vel breek…

“Oh moeder”, roep die wetter na bo
vir die planete om aan te ****:
“Oh moeder, Oh liefde “ ,spat die sot se treur,
“ *** kan so bietjie , so klein – so seer!”

En die heumel druis soos die moeder lag
haar humor eg , maar haar woorde sag:
“ My naakseun, my hinksperd
My fallus met vlerke!
Jy ,nog ‘n roosknop.
gaan ook so te werke!
Aanvaar die poëtiese justitie
Stil nou liefstetjie
Lamtietie Damtietie …”

Amor, Amor!
Weerstaan tog skoonheid se wieggelied
en wees my genadig!

Begunstig my ten einde laaste
, selfs vader tyd is verveeld
met die son se enkelpad!

*** lank nog wil jy sluimer?

Amor, Amor!
Tel weer op jou leisels
en bring liefde op die wind
my wereld lê in afwagting
vir die dolfyn en sy kind!

Wees my genadig, Amor!
Deurboor my leemte met goud,
,want die bringer van lig is slapeloos
en my hart is droewig en koud.

Oh Amor, Amor!

Ek weet jys nog jonk,
maar *** speel jy dollos met lewe se vonk…

Amor, Amor!

Word wakker!

Amor…

Die donker dans in daai kind se oe
kyk *** die duiwel om hom draai en
walts met die doodsdonker nag
op die ritme van sy swak hart.

Die kind se swak hart
natuurlik bosluis die duiwel hom
toe op die bloedjie se bloed
tot sy are net gal spoeg.

Tant San se hy speel met vuur...
en sit op die doringdraad
tussen hierdie span en die ander
wie hy altwee lelik speel.

Oom Jaap se hy snuif hom slim
die gom is maar om sy hart weer
aanmekaar te plak en die spirits
vir die graffiti op sy spirit en sy soul

maar mens praat nie so van God se kind nie
die laaitjie praat met engele
en gaan eerder hemel toe as jy...
want geen mens gan tweekeer hell toe nie.

Hy wag net om te dooi...
Sjame , die arme kind.

your love tastes like sweetness
your lips also taste like sweetness,
darling

did you put a magic speel on me
because i am enchanted by you
and you're beauty

when you kissed me
your kiss was like a love potion

but i am worried that you will leave me
i am worried that your love
is poison.

Dis nou die tyd om te babbel
En my mond verby te praat
, want hulle sê mos
A drunk man's words is
A sober man's thoughts...
En wie weet dalk vind ek
Die antwoorde in ń diep gesprek met myself...

Sien ek is nie een van daardie
AA lappies wat skeinheilig
Sit en slukkies suip om
Geluk onder in die bottel
Op te spoor nie.
Ek rook skaamteloos en
Omhels die intense stank
Van 10 jaar se lewe wat ek
Mors en longkanker, want
Dit herrinner my an oupa se
Skoot en *** veilig ek was
In daardie asbak woonstel
Waar ek soos white-trash eers my brood moes inspekteer vir
Indringer kokkerotte wat ook
Maar net teen ons kompeteer het
Vir ń krummeltjie kos.

Ek babbel, want wat anders kan mens doen as vrees jou aangryp as die koue staal jou hande brand -
En nee ek praat nie van lemme en inspuitings nie,
Want lemme maak merke waarvan ek reeds te veel het wat nou oor my polse uitgesprei lê en my herrinner *** swak ek was, maar *** sterk ek was... en inspuitings los ek vir die dokters en susters en die bloeddiens
Wat my leeg wil tap om een of ander sad case se lewe te red met bloed van ń bloedjie wat self nog in die verdoemtenis rond dwaal.

Ek babbel, want dis social anxiety en scary stuff om in ń kring te sit en Russian roulette te speel met al 5 van die mense wat ander van jou verwag om te wees. Want wat gebeur as ek myself in hierdie hoerasie van persoonlikhede raakskiet. *** weet ek watter een is ek as elke een die sneller swaar trek en hoop en bid vir ń blank... *** weet ek.

Kliek...
Kliek...
Kliek...
Kliek...
Bang!!

En nou babbel ek maar weer
...
Want ek het so pas agtergekom ek weet ook nie juis *** dit voel om dood te wees nie.

Wie is ek...
-*** sal ek weet

Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
...

Ek weet.

ervaring het my beindruk                          experience has impressed me
en die fyn lyne                                             and the fine lines                    
is op my vel                                                  on my skin
ingedruk                                                    ­   pressed

                 as ek die lyne streel                           if i caress the lines
                         om hulle te laat                                 to make them
verdwyn                                                      dis­appear
                word ek bekalm                                                       i become calmed

               ontspanning loer in                                                  relaxation peers in
               soos 'n kleintjie                                                        ­  like a young child
                                          wie 'peek n boo'                                                             who plays
speel                                                           ­                    'peek n boo'

drome spoel                                                            ­      dreams spill
                  soos die trek van                                                       like the pull of
                                     die getye                                                            ­      the tides
'n hele oseaan                                                           ­    a whole ocean
                        van lewe                                                             ­            of life    
                                in die verlede                                                          ­    in the past
en 'n hele oseaan                                                          a­nd a whole ocean
                             wat voor my le                                                               ­ lies before me

niemand kan voorspel                                                      no one can predict
              wat sal gebeur nie                                                              ­  what will happen
                           
                 die lyne in my lewe word getrek                                          the lines in my life are drawn
deur die kunstenaar                                                       ­       by the artist
deur die digter                                                           ­            by the poet
deur die tuinier                                                          ­            by the gardener

Die ou kniee knak en kraak
en maak geraas
, maar sal sukkel-sukkel teen die rand
hou om jou te dra.
**** *** ek kriekbeen,
in die laatnag na jou vra.

My ribbes is marimbas,
uitgehonger vir die hokmaak
van 'n antieke snaardrom hart.
Wat nou met mening elke been
se noot raak slaan en hammer
asof opnuut gevorm en gespeen.

En tog die kop raas soos
basyn geskal en bomval,
want binne woed die stryd
van goed teen kwaad.
Ek speel vir jou 'n simfonie:
Die lirieke dalk af, maar tog op maat.

Ag ek's sommer simpel,
dis die liefde wat so praat...

-Ek en my geraamtes het soms ook 'n uitval

Verdoem deur drome van 'n wakker oog
gee ek in tot die eindelose gekarring.
Waaroor die ophef van 'n silwerdoek beeld
die trane en inspirasie , aangemeld -
en saamgesmelt in elke belydenis?

Ek spaar toe maar my knieë en sak neer
voor die rekenaar en fynkam
die intrieke sydrade van ons spinnerakke
Vergrootglas die letters, opsoek na:
'n Gebed vir - 'n Gebed vir hom...
NEE MY!

Toe speel my storie... Ag ek meen
Sy outobiografie af en ek's aleen.
Elke nou en dan en dan en wan
vee ek oor die rekenaar skerm en
skrik as ek sý gesig sien.

Hy wou dit nie aanvaar nie!
- ek wou regtig nie!
Hy wou verander!
-ek wou regtig graag verander...
ek... - ek bedoel hy;

Ons ma's was swertsend selfs
godslasterik lief vir ons en
haar stickynotes het ons oral vasgekeur
, want Levitikus!!!
Levitikus sê NEE...
Ma sê die Bybel sê:
"Ons is dood".
Ma se sy wil ons nie verloor nie.
Kom sy nie agter dat ons in
haar geweierde woorde versmoor nie.

My knieë is lank genoeg gespaar.
Na 90 minute se snikke en trane
val ek neer voor die Heer en
almal wat nog wil luister.
Ware ellende stort uit perelpoele
en plas neer op die koue wereld.
Uiteindelik bid ek vir hom, maar
my gebede is te laat - met so
dertig jaar of wat -.

Ek hoop iemand bid vir my...
ek hoop die gebede vind my
- maar vir my , betyds-.
Want ek sit met VIGS van die
siel. 'n Tipe kanker op sy eie 'n
lifelong companion om die eufemisme
mooi te stel...

Ek is Hy.
Hy is ek.
Ons is ons eie tipe mens.

Amen

Teen die hange van die berge-nag
Speel die donker op die ligte sag
Die kalm daal op die chaos-stad
Van klank en mense op elke kronkel pad
Dit voer jou mee in 'n sterre mat

In skoon lug met 'n oop kop
Kan gedagtes net vloei en skrop
Aan dinge wat is en kom
Aan mens wees, goed en krom
Aan die eenvoud en dit wat verstom

Woorde lê in 'n niks-wees dwaal
Dis rou, dit is maar net  -  dis kaal
Net om die stemme wat skree te verlos
Dinge wat 'n uitlaat soek in die kosmos
Dit het ink gevind, soos vuur in fynbos

Liefde is:

om die langpad Kaap toe deur te dring met Afrikaans is Groot treffers omdat jy sien *** Pappa sy vingers teen die maat van die ritme tik.

Dis om te weet dat Mamma wel omgee al is sy soms te besig om na jou gunsteling gedigte te luister.

Dis om saam met Boeties rugby te speel al wil jou lyf al vir jare nie meer hardloop en rond gestamp word nie.

Liefde woon hier
Tussen die gee en kry,
Tussen die op offeringe,
Tussen ons almal.

Vrees,
vir die geordende paar letters wat jou naam uitspel.

Vrees,
want jy bedreig my geluk soos 'n dors parasiet.

Vrees,
vir die monster wat jy in staat is om te wees.

Angs,
jy maak my bang, jou kaarte is onvoorspelbaar
en jy speel satireis sonder reels, grense of stippellyne vervaag
tussen wat joune is en wat bly eintlik myne.

Angs,
jy vat en gee dinge wat moes bly,
jy kom en gaan en verwoes
ons bly agter, 'n stukkie gronderosie
hou op,
want ek is nou moeg.

Angs,
want jou griewelike vure brand helder warm,
ek is bedek met die paraffien wat jy oor my uitgestort het.

Leuens,
jy wat gevul id met ongesonde nyd
raak jy nooit moeg,
om so vieslik te verwoes?

'n Onverdiende tug
beloon my met somber wanhoop
Ons almal nodig nou 'n bietjie rus,
die leemte wat jy vul sal ons nie maklik mis.

Vat ń slukkie verdriet
En ontnugter jou verstand
Tot dit niks meer
As net ń spookdorp is
Wat tolbos oor
Jou silwerdoek-lewe nie

Jy voed op energie
, maar in ń moeë wêreld
Teer jy jouself uit
Totdat honger straatkinders
Jou ribbes speel
soos marimbas
Vir net ń laaste trek.

Dalk is vandag
Net een van dáárdie dae
, waar jy my sou red
En jou skouers
my vertroosting sou wees-
Jou lippe my spiersalf
Vir ń hart wat seer
geklop is.

Een van daardie dae
, maar jy is nog een van
Dáárdie mense...

Een van mý dae...
Iets wat jy nie is nie-
Myne

pyramid, is that short of pencil-sharpener, an unmovable object, a Nevada experiment... (prolonged pause, also intended for a humidity of the questioning affect). quiet frankly you're making us look quiet silly give the mammalian status of sapiens; ****'s sake, Pythagoras spent a whole eternity contemplating a hypotenuse looking at the chiselled mountains of Giza - reputation wise you give monkeys a bad slogan - i.e. we evolved, evolved to build a temple of perpetual death: each slab housed the body of a labourer, and inside we just found a lot of poisonous powder ruminating to find the only basis for encrypting the whole affair, metaphysical borders, metaphysical by which i mean, due to Egyptology we have the museum-state that's Egypt, and the real life assertions without mint-condition comic book cults of mausoleum-states, known as Libya, Sudan and Israel; on that basis, a chicken and egg question, within etymological parameters, what came first, museum or mausoleum? see, history can be a Tchaikovsky affair, given etymology a dense shortening - a solid, rather than a **** when it comes to nationhood and patriotism and adherence to.*

a U.F.O. could have landed and we'd still
be printing dollars bills and admiring
that **** montem, seriously, bring out
a pencil sharpener, we need to revise Mont Blanc,
more like Mont Bonkers - a white kite hey hey **!
**** retardo and a *** and
a singalong that Napoleon never spotted:
the Ramones with pet cemetary - that's how it's
in Englanf (no speel or spelling mistake,
impromptu arcadia, banishing the surds stemming
from Hay, or a needle in the stack),
a tombstone for each house what would have been,
the riddle of life with the priority of death
having seconds - the nørden of Newcastle will know,
that the soofern fairies are all Arab or Tsar pawnbrokers
or transvestites (as they respected Kenneth Rexroth,
but Proust incubated in only two volumes
just ain't for me).

i only think of a japanese robot thinning air in marathons:
editing in secret, while i speel the acronym a.i.
into aerodynamic informatics
for a breeze and wavy hunches true:
i wondered - would this much assure
me to buy a mandolin?
i bought a mandolin once,
but instead of gobi dried up ****** - instead
i was lodged into essays
and existential qualms relieved:
entering a 1960s l.s.d. disco
to suit a broken heart for a tongue flip of disco into ****;
i thought of a flirt though,
played the mandolin in scotland,
beneath a window for a vine,
jagged & jarred the bricks with nails to climb & clutter,
and wished for serpentine thorns to clothe
excess sight with light through
spider's diadem kept, webbed;
landed a longshanks' bonus with excess strides
to counter the "debility"
of elongation instead; took two windmills with me
into don quixote, and out popped
the pepper queen of diamonds sneezing,
aged cougar.
so? my one grand delusion is a robot
precisely spelling me wok twang wrong;
i know i'm drunk, but that's hardly an excuse
to equate soberness with sanity
and stupidity clothed in spelling relieved, so simply undone
above the rubric of welcome detention in lines of surd names after mother smith.

If spelling was a marathon,
       you tripped over on


the first step..

I'm being watched by everyone- that's just how it feels
I say one thing, it's taken wrong, they go off on a speel
my whole life can depend on dirt they find under my shoe
It's scary to think that their eyes are on you
Every page of your life is somewhere on here
nothing's personal anymore, to make it quite clear.
It starts off as a friend but I see it as a monster
it can unravel you into a disaster.

I speak for those with prose
Not for the entertainment
of published trolls

We bare our thoughts
Our opinions
Our feelings
Our truths
Our ideas
Our souls

Because we choose to
Because we need to
Because we have to
Because we want to

We don't want to be famous
We don't want to be judged
We don't want to compete
We don't want to speel check

Our grammar is correct
Our diction is correct
Our styling are correct
Our poems are perfect!

Because that is how
we intended them
to be
We love them
JUST THE WAY THEY ARE!

Feel free to judge us
It is your god given right
But, keep your criticisms to yourself
Unless we ask for it

As you read these written words
You hear every single syllable
Echo in your head
You are now telling this to yourself

Thank you for listening

As I write this
I well know
To you
I can never show
The words of this poem
Are way too real
You won't understand
This heart full speel
I will start now
With how much you mean
Then I will tell
What I do dream
Please sit back
With open ears
As I imagine you'd do
If this was ever revealed
Here it goes so just listen
Open your ears
For what I say
Often brings me tears
And sometimes much pain
You mean all so much
To me, it's insane
I'm obsessed with your love
It fills my whole brain
Every smile you smile
Drives me so wild
And when we hug
My emotions, are riled
You wink
My heart blinks
I know you won't let me sink
When you're here
I feel whole
How great is your soul
You're different than others
So beautiful and kind
I just can't help it
You're on my mind all the time
I know it sounds sappy
But that's what you mean
And it makes me so happy
But I do have a dream
It's simple, it seems
Yet i can't change
Where your heart leans
I just wish you loved me
As dearly
As I do thee
I hope I'm the one
That makes your eyes gleam
That allows your smile
To appear on your face
And all your worries
I wish I could erase
I want so bad
To be the one on your mind
But if I am not
I guess that's fine
You, I cannot change
As much as I pleed
I know you shall remain
The amazing  person
I see

**** me... what a long title...
     anways...
i'm sitting on my windowsill, thinking: **** knows what...
  then it starts raining...
        i mean, its the springtime ****-down moment...
akin to an operatic crescendo!
           i swear the nights were warmer in april...
anyway... i'm downing my third bottle of czech beer...
outstreching my hand to catch the raindrops...
looking at the sky, saying: bruised, like the colour
of plums... and i'm catching these raindrops
with my outstretched hand...
      reminding myself regarding what i said...
ah... yes...                sunny...
                 that's what english humour does to you,
you become satirical... or just plain obnoxious...
       ridicule prone...       yeah....
                                            "sunny";
what a load of dangling ******* to muster,
  akin to the bells of st. paul's, dangling with their
ding-dongs like uvulas in the ****** throat of man...
        where's the choir of tonsils?
       and third parties, regarding the said "utensil"?
             it's ******* down, equivalent to an indian monsoon...
and all i can come up with it: oh look... it's "sunny".
ugh;
    the english are certainly stoics...
                       with such miserable weather, in spring,
who can blame them, not being pessimists.
  how else do "write" it?
                   oh, **** me, imagine existential books
written by the french, "borrowing" the spanish:
       inverted question mark:
                                                           ¿ego?
no, seriously, how to they speel.... spell it?
                          cheque? checkmate? just checking?
right, inverted commas... you need two?
                                                    so it's not a case of ditto?
chequers?
                     qua sirs?
                                                  checkers?­
it's still a mystery to me...
    it's ******* down, and it's late spring... and all i have
is the very english "optimism" of a one word answer:
          sunny!
                           yep... that's how it goes around here...
it's raining... but all you end up saying:
                                        oh look! it's sunny!
                     god, this is becoming really abysmal;
i'm starting to think that, slitting your own throat...
     isn't really that much of a bad option... it's the only option.
then again, the heat oozing from a place like texas
  or, nevada...      i'd be mad enough to cut my testicles
off, and start bashing my head with them, from the heat.

am looking for black one                        actualy i am not in her way                   but she always come in my way           mybe i've been cassed a black speel     so that i can not avoid         i wonder if God will support.

Zou dit gesprek al eens gevoerd zijn,
deze dag al eens beleefd.
Zouden anderen al geroerd zijn,
of zo gesidderd en gebeefd.

Zou dan niemand stil staan
bij waar ik lang in heb geloofd.
Zouden zij die heengaan
ook daar nog wachten in *** hoofd.

Het lijkt soms of ik als enige
die hersenkraker speel.
Misschien ligt dat niet aan anderen,
reflecteer ik zelf gewoon teveel.

Doe maar niet zo wondelikkend,
kijk maar niet zo schuldverstikkend.
Je overdrijft, moet trippelen om boven
te blijven met je kin. Zelfs de doven
kunnen horen dat het schort,
dat je mort, dat je knort, dat je adem stokt, je ogen mokken
en je zwarte, lange blonde lokken
samen hokken met het veulen aan de zijkant,
heulen met de vijand.

Ga nu maar zitten.
Drink een camille-thee.
Stop met vitten en speel
gewoon weer mee.