Was dit my sonde
om te droom, te wens?
Was dit wreed om te
verwag dat jy my
iewers in jou soet
woorde sou vind?
Kyk ek dalk na jou
met die oorhoofse
afwagting van 'n kind?

Sal jy met sjarme
my kan vermaak of
is teaterkuns
'n masker vir jou haat?

Ek smag na jou taal,
jou moedertong in
my uitgehongerde mond.
Oh die beeld-
wat ons
met sulks silwer stem
kan skep!

*** sal jou brief my vind?
Sal daar 'n tuin ontstaan
as ek jou antwoord naslaan?
Se jy sal bly, net vir my!
Se my brandewyn asem
het jou inner kind bevry!
Se net jy is lief vir my-
en ons sal saam
die tonnel-oog wereld
met soet liefde en
dronkmans woorde verlei.

Skryf saam met my in
hierdie silwertong,
en kyk *** die wereld
in afwagting verstar.

Die liefde wil blom
wanneer twee skrywers
bymekaarkom.

Die wereld raak nat,
met die geuiter,
van ons silwer tong.

she’s the girl who sets a room on fire with laughs or real flame,
         and she stands in that same flame; ranting about herself
         with blissful intention:
                        aries.
she’s the girl who mows the lawn all day to throw a memorable party
          on perfectly pitched grass; but then spends the entire party
          with that one guy on that one roof, just the two of them:
                        taurus.
she’s the girl who ***** you fiercest only to then display sudden and
          crippling bouts of madness; she’s one of a kind, or two of a kind,
          and she means some kind of love:
                        gemini.
she’s the girl who you fall for so easily, and she falls for you so easily,
          and everything is a dream; but a dream transforms, seasons transform,
          and the peopled cities with them:
                        cancer.
she’s the girl who steals the show every time, and she leans on you
          when  she’s tired and lonely; she reads science fiction books
          and tells you all the endings, strange planets fixtured in her dreams:
                        leo.
she’s the girl who thinks too much, drinks too much, and weighs you for all
           your words; but words are her demise as she digs her arms deeper
           into the dirt to catch that feeling:
                        virgo.
she’s the girl who piles a shrine of shiny occult objects and spools through
          men like shiny other objects; she has a beautiful heart, holy or not,
          but without a doubt, entirely stylish:
                        libra.
she’s the girl who doesn't believe a ******* thing you say but kisses you
          harder when you say it; she takes you up the hill to her folks
          and they sacrifice you for blood mana:
                        scorpio.
she’s the girl who knows you best and knows even better she’s far beyond
         the depths of your league; she has deafening dreams, with or without
         you in them; for ruins she will climb or create:
                        sagittarius.
she’s the girl who buys the popcorn and eats the popcorn and sulks on
         the couch while tonguing kernels out of her teeth; she will never
         truly love you, just the idea of you:
                        capricorn.
she’s the girl who saves your life with a tracheotomy when you nearly die
         on that plum street seed; she will leave you for a another man, a man
         with a good rifle and a warm little tent:
                        aquarius.
she’s the girl who sees synchronicity in all things, all life, all dreams
         and emanations; she will love you until the smell of mexico drags her
         away upon a neverending weekend:
                        pisces.

Mother fish sees her eggs devoured
by alligator that gulps everything on the sand
save her own eggs and children.

Mother fish cries her eyes out
and seems not to be heard
neither by the heaven,
nor by the sea (their common abode),
that bore them, and now assists to her boredom
indifferently and silently,

which silence she condemns and curses.
She goes to the beach; she weeps
and seeks revenge in vain.
Now she sees a python that creeps
from the bush around the beach.

The creature she has never seen before,
as immense as the world,
eyes first the alligator
whose blood becomes as cold
as the ice under the sea.

They stare at each other
like someone intruder,
at a home where he is not wished as guest,
who faces the anger
of the owner who would not him host
but from there him usher out.

They look at each other
with sulks on their ugly faces
and fear as each one faces
this kind one for the first time.
However intimidations from each party
can’t touch the other party.

The cold war ends and becomes hot:
The Python and the alligator
get ready to come at each other
like warriors of different kings
ready to defend their kingdoms’ colors,
ready to defend the pride of their lords,
and ready to die for their honour
though they’d prefer to live
unnoticed and live longer.

Furious, the python throws her head up,
her dart flies like flash out and in
between the jaws of horrible sight,
and the beast tests she’s still unrivaled in
cruelty. She gets ready to attack.
As for the alligator, all her muscles she does check,
her arms dig into the sand,
And she flies to crunch the enemy.

She bites hard the neck of the python,
yet her teeth can’t tear the strong scales
of the mammoth reptile.
The python pretends to be provoked;
She wildly crawls and coils around the alligator
and holds tight her body from the tail to the head.
And alligator’s jaws, strong to weaker preys,
become useless.

Her mouth opens wide and starts to swallow the alligator
as the latter did when she chewed the eggs and children of the fish.
From distance the fish watches, admires
and enjoys the scene as the python
seems to be her avenger.

In the end the whole body of the fallen fighter
disappears into the trunk of the strange predator.
Then the fish wonders, “Am I avenged
or this strange creature merely needed food
as did the poor alligator
when she thought to rule over
our lives and made my children her food,
causing my eyes to shed floods of tears,
that she did not notice ‘cause mixed
with the waters?
And she ignored the mightier one existed.”

In conclusion the fish realizes
were herself or her children the first seen by the python,
they would face the same fate as the alligator she cursed
and that alligator’s killer may not be by the Maker blessed.
The most powerful predator
cannot be of the fauna liberator.

The greatest warriors
fight to shed the blood of their victims.
Only their aim they follow,
and they turn deaf their ears to the tears
of any fellow.
And as the fish thinks of this predator,
no ****** war winner will rule better
than a beaten dictator.

Gloomy  morning attempts,
lazily an abstract,
on the damp canvas
eastern sky extends,
halfheartedly smearing,
dark monsoon clouds
along with some white and grey patches,
then slowly, warms up to a red mood;
as if by a second thought
adds full of flight of birds,
for an effect.

Avian splay, what a display!

The sun visibly gets pale,
upset being just a part of the picture,
unable to dominate, as his usual practice.
Not at all pleased at the emerging picture,
he sulks at the prospect,
of more dull, vain clouds rushing in,
spoiling the composition with their-
chance  megalomaniacal dominance.

Here come I to my own again,
Fed, forgiven and known again,
Claimed by bone of my bone again
And cheered by flesh of my flesh.
The fatted calf is dressed for me,
But the husks have greater zest for me,
I think my pigs will be best for me,
So I’m off to the Yards afresh.

I never was very refined, you see,
(And it weighs on my brother’s mind, you see)
But there’s no reproach among swine, d’you see,
For being a bit of a swine.
So I’m off with wallet and staff to eat
The bread that is three parts chaff to wheat,
But glory be!—there’s a laugh to it,
Which isn’t the case when we dine.

My father glooms and advises me,
My brother sulks and despises me,
And Mother catechises me
Till I want to go out and swear.
And, in spite of the butler’s gravity,
I know that the servants have it I
Am a monster of moral depravity,
And I’m ****** if I think it’s fair!

I wasted my substance, I know I did,
On riotous living, so I did,
But there’s nothing on record to show I did
Worse than my betters have done.
They talk of the money I spent out there—
They hint at the pace that I went out there—
But they all forget I was sent out there
Alone as a rich man’s son.

So I was a mark for plunder at once,
And lost my cash (can you wonder?) at once,
But I didn’t give up and knock under at once,
I worked in the Yards, for a spell,
Where I spent my nights and my days with hogs.
And shared their milk and maize with hogs,
Till, I guess, I have learned what pays with hogs
And—I have that knowledge to sell!

So back I go to my job again,
Not so easy to rob again,
Or quite so ready to sob again
On any neck that’s around.
I’m leaving, Pater.  Good-bye to you!
God bless you, Mater! I’ll write to you!
I wouldn’t be impolite to you,
But, Brother, you are a hound!

I hate you.
I hate so many things about you i cannot recall a single word in my vocabulary that can even begin to grasp the amount of hatred i have for you.
I hate the way you walk. The way you talk. The way you dress I hate all of it. Why? Let me explain.

I hate the way you walk. The way your body sulks forward as if the entire world was on your shoulders and not a soul on this planet would lift even a finger to help carry your burdens.

I hate the way you talk. Not about others but about yourself. The way the pain in your words seems to seep out even as you try to mask it with the I'm alright or I'll be fine.

I hate the way you dress. How beautiful your clothes look on you. How every shade of green blue and red seem to be just enough to hide all the little bits of insecurity you harbour underneath. I hate how much time you put into shopping for clothes, thinking about how gorgeous the material is. The softness of the fabric. Thinking that while you wear such amazing, stunning clothing, the body beneath is will never be enough for anyone. Never be enough for you. I hate the way you dress because every piece of clothing you buy, you don’t buy to accent you. You buy it as armour to shield away your beautiful heart that you think is ugly.

I hate your eyes. The way every time I stare at them I see someone who's lost all hope. I hate the way you look into the world as if it was made of black and white. I hate that I have the unfortunate privilege to stare into the eyes of one so broken and so blind to the beauty that is you.

I hate your lips. I hate the way they seem to curve down at the edges, as if any semblance of happiness has been ****** out of your once beautiful shining lips. I hate how every time I look at them I'm reminded that your blind eyes don't realize that those lips are the missing puzzle piece to someone else's.

I hate your ears. Yes. Even your ears. I hate how every time someone speaks to you all you hear are your mistakes. I hate how your ears mangle and twist words of praise and love into indistinguishable words that amount to nothing more than babble or a language unbeknownst to you.

I hate your smile. I hate the way your teeth shine perfectly in the light but your eyes betray that smile as fake. I hate how your smile never conveys a true happiness. I hate how your smile though so beautiful at face value, has never comes from the bottom of your heart.

I hate your laugh I hate how even when you laugh, the forcefulness of your laugh is subtle, but to me its existence is as obvious as a red smudge on a white shirt. I hear it. Every time. You think nobody hears it, but i hear the pain in your laugh.

I hate your body. I hate the way your body curves. How every hair and every odd mark on your skin is suddenly a sin that needs to be atoned for. I hate how your body is so beautiful and perfect the way that it is, and I hate how even if you want to change it, you never find the courage to even though you're highly capable of it.

I hate your hands. I hate how when you look into your hands even if they may be small or big, you truly believe that nobody on this Earth would dare hold them. That somehow, someway you've contracted some sort of disease that has made your hands untouchable to anyone else. That just like your lips you truly believe nobody would dare lock their hands in yours.

I hate you. I hate how beautiful you are. I hate how you can't see it. I hate your loneliness. I hate how every day I need to watch as little bits of you float away and dissolve into nothing. I hate that I ultimately can't do anything for you to make you see any of this. I hate how all I can do is write this stupid poem at 3 17 in the morning and hope and pray that by some ******* miracle maybe I can ignite some sort of light in your heart. That maybe for a second, just one second, you can look away from this poem and realize one color in your black and white world. Maybe you realize the blue of your wall. Maybe you realize the color of your skin. Maybe you realize the green of the grass outside.
Maybe you realize the small pond of blue in an endless horizon of grey clouds.

Maybe in the end I hate you so much because you hate yourself so much.
Maybe in the end I hate you so much because you don't believe

How much I love you.

+
A bed-sits high and dry,marooned on a sandbank of night.
As  radio 4-casts its nets to isolated ships like me that rudderless drift on into the light.

Still dark outside,no sounds,save the distant echoing bark of a hungry fox ----streets away.
Another dawn ripped blackbin bag of a day creeps and ouzes in

Heavy unfocused lids fogged in the steamy smokeyness of tea and a first ***    
plenty of time            plenty of time.
Time before the world wakes to the morning pips and its flushing, brushing, rushing sounds

A greyness gathers just beyound my pained curtains, as with a silent sigh a roosted blackbird clears its fasted throat.

Then as if by magic I 'm carried, scimming high above and beyound this mooring set in a silvered sea,on a welcomed mantra known to all.

As if a calling pray at day break,following each word in a moment subline
               Un angle vole                                                          un angle vole.

Rockall - Malin - Hebrides
         Humber - Fisher - German bight
               Thames - Dover - Wight.

Each single secert understood and noted only by a few as I glide over in paced, pausey surf rolling words

North northeast - 994 - Falling slowly - Low pressure moving away - Gales 8 very poor - Backing 3-4 later - Mainly good - Becoming variable - Syclonic later - Increasing 6-7 mainly west - Swally showers for a time - Fair - Good.

Oh so good, each pure English comforting sounds heard over lapping waves of air.

The bushy wet nosed fox sulks and cowers away from the breaking sun, as the blackbird draws a dewdropped breath though golden nib and tapping gently, call a hidden choir into song just for me.

Reminding me of the things I'd for gotten I care about.

Sharp timed unwelcomed pips flood the ears to prise open sticky eyes from promised dreams and spoon-cuddles warm
As I set forth on wetted pavements, ready to decline into my charted day.  

Yet smiling as if blessed and no longer alone
            But filled with early morning salty thoughts of strangers
        
                  I
                     have
                                yet
                                       to
                                            meet

let me paint my morning for you
I'm alone, in my room
it's a stormy summer morning
And we are sitting around talking

today we're wondering what to do.
Depression sulks deep into the sheets
"why get up! you don't have plans"
and the alarm begins to buzz
Optimist whimpers "its still early, I can get up and get rolling" but no one is moving
Hopeless Romantic dreams "maybe the mail man will come through and ask me how I'm doing"

Our America sulks in the gutters,

   in the rotten alleyways of those living in the shadows.

As corporations, as greed, as self-obsession

damages our life web.

Our America loves the lonely dying child,

as suburban 'mother's **** the illegal pool boy.

Our America peers through holey, worn fabrics

as bare-fleshed youth slaughter for

sweatshop brands.

Our America becomes the past

                     becomes unknown

                     becomes a dead fad

as mysterious men lure the idea of a future.

He has never been like other little boys
That play so happily with their toys
He is different is young Raymond Bliss
He wants to grow up to be....a mad scientist

While others play with toy soldiers and cars
Or pretend to be astronauts in the stars
Little Raymond is chasing his pet cat instead
Determined he will catch him and cut off his head

He tried getting the dog who put up a fight
Poor Raymond gave up when he got a nasty bite
So he dug up his hamster, who passed away when overfed
He tied the body to a car battery to try and raise the dead

Unfortunately the dead hamster fizzled and went pop
It made Raymond jump in fright, it made him hop
So he decided to dig up the goldfish as well
Then he decided against it, because of the smell

Now there are plans drawn up, to be unfurled
His evil scheme now hatched to take over the world
Raymond wants to set vampire robot bunnies on man kind
It is just a shame because his pocket money he can not find

His mother says "time for bed" so he sulks up to his room
This his prison from whence he plots doom and gloom
He is a very strange boy is little Raymond Bliss
Determined to be the most evil mad scientist

In this place
The air is so dry that water sulks.
The sky is a viscous brown mosaic.
The sulfurous fumes of old suffering linger.

A woman stares as if trying to unsee creation.
Words on a man’s tongue sound
like rhythmic coughing.
At the only stoplight
the crosswalk sign flashes “Don’t waltz.”

Strangers recoil from me
as if from an embarrassing stain.

People stream to the town square
for some indecipherable ritual.
Probably a funeral for the sun
or a snake oil sale.

Welcome to humankind’s true garden.
Not paradise but a place of desolation,
and what comes after is not exile but striving
and getting the hell out.

So long, mom and dad.

Knuppeldik gaan slaap die stad
na 'n feesmaal van smaak en kleur
vloei die reuke deur die strate
in 'n Brown se beweging van geur.

Alle trommels , trommeldik maar maak 'n lee geraas
en in die donker , agterstrate begin die ander nou te aas

Kom die honger hande uit die sakke
en krap met rook-geel vingernael
soek die skummel in die swartsak
vir 'n laaste dissipelsmaal.

Maar jy is skille , jy is doppe
jy is alles wat laat gril
nie genoeg vir koningstafels maar vir my
net genoeg om die  knaagdiere te stil.

Onerfare soos ek is , vat my hongerbrein ook mis
watter mens kan so dan lewe? watter mens kan so dan eet?
van die lykswa en die straatveers
het hierdie boemelaar vergeet.
Ek is mens en nie 'n vark nie,
(al moet 'n mens ook eet).

En stil vergaan die boemelaar
wat kieskeur ook wou wees,
nog 'n straatkind se ou lykie
nog 'n honger kinder gees...

ek wat was het mos gesien
*** kos op tafels lyk,
en het sodanig hart verloor
op kosse kleur en ruik.

Met 'n bord vol knubbels le die lykie
voor hom , onaangeraak.
Al was kos ook wat kos was daar
het hy te lief vir die droom geraak.

Eerder kwyn en dood verslaan
as om die droom te ruineer.
Eerder dood van honger,
as om hierdie kos , as sulks te eer.

High above the ultra-white plateau
a vultures wheels in an amino helix
above a dead horse. Branded upon its left flank is the word
“Mulatto”.
In the forest far below
an ilex rattles for the dead.
The river, pregnant with shrapnel
sulks and stagnates, her belly full of lead.
The plains are cratered as the Moon
the purple heather soothes the raw stone wound
and whispers that the fighting will be over
very soon, and all the scars will heal.
Their fires have turned our bones to meal.

The mountain gods are sighing now
and dying now, the endless sky their tomb.
Rainclouds loom, seething with disdain
and seek to quench the hungry yellow grass.
Rain lashes through the mountain pass.

Rainwater sifts into the soil
and we do not forget.
Blood chapel-sacred, black as oil
and we do not forget.
Shrapnel is sown like seeds into the spoil
and we do not forget.

Raindrops glisten as they slide down her soaked profile
And slowly make their way down to assault her blouse and the floor
The crumpled up letter from the military sulks in the corner
Sneering at the ex-fiancee's plight

Your Crystal like body,
Shinning with cracks.
malicious sparkles.
Sharp facets.
Every chip, every drop,
That should have crystallized,
And then dropped off.
Has not.

Gorge on pain,
Revel in confusion,
Misery isn’t hereditary Like your back.
You can be happy.
Not seek out pain.
Is this what you want?

The girl I loved,
Is gone and missed.
Replaced by a miser of woes,
An unhappy beast.
That spits and sulks
Gone are the purrs.
The felicity.
The light.
I dated a wannabe corpse,
Not something I like,
Revel in your pain,
You can do it without me.
Everything brings you down,
Especially me,
That seems how you like it to be.

The girl I loved,
  Is gone and dead,
As are we,
Stop ******* with my head.

Love me.
Hate me.
Do both,
I don’t care.
Do whatever you want,
I’m not there

The Siren's song swimming into my ears,
sweetly against the harsh instrumental.
The angelic vocals flood all who hear;
a love of a melody so gentle.

Hair long and dark as the lyrics she sings,
eyes a bold green and skin a soft, pale tone.
A Goddess of elegance beauty brings,
whose talent does her no justice alone.

But nurture does as it will always do:
A son born from such grandeur; a Lion.
The immaculate voice is all but through;
A respite of lull sulks from the scion.

The achievements of song left in her wake;
I'll wait evermore, as long as it takes.

Shock firstly
followed by awe

a crow's mocking
caw

as the blouse comes off &
then the bra

tossed now
nonchalantly aside

the flighty flirty skirt
yanked down

and of course the knickers
...follows.

Blouse and skir
leaping over the wall

bra being worn
by an apple tree

the knickers being led up
the garden path.

"Ok..!" I say "...oK!"
"Enough is ENOUGH!"

The wind is in a silly mood.
I chase it chasing me

I trying to catch
the scattered clothes.

The line looking
almost naked.

"** **!" shouts the wind
enjoying itself immensely.

All that remains toeing the line
are a blue boxers and yellow socks

who have manfully withstood
the wind's assaults.

The wind chanting:
"Get them off..get them off!"

like a drunk punter
at a striptease show.

The wind drops and

drops the stolen items.

The line smiling
with all of its skewed pegs

looking shameful and
gormless

at the wind's
misdemeanour.

"I was only trying it on!"
sulks the wind.

"Trying to get in touch with
my feminine side!"

Knickers in hand
I slam the door

in its protesting
face.

"A cross dressing wind...
....that's all I need!"

Who could they get to bury you?
Where all that once was
Was buried in the sorrowful minds of man
A telling of the past
In common tongue never to last
Oh honey sweet nectar
Dripping from the finger tips of broken glass angels
Flying from the dust of butterfly wings
Each impression of their worth
Tainting their already tattooed image
Brought on by the pages of worn book
Ragged idea oh' praised culture stinking
Of old dirt and ancient ways
Needed heart prints the ways of love
In my tunnel vision like mind
A pressing bare foot on the soil
Of the man who awaits by the gate
Decisions of fortitude made from the ones
Behind clean white sheets black ink and disguise
Signing off while signing in to a party
Being thrown by their own magistrates son in law
Formulaic monstrosities engrossed in imaginations
Of a mind demented twisted tickling with forbidden homosexual feverishness
And as the metal glares in the hot doubting sun
Where the clouds drift like conveyor belts
Built from hands that are a long way from alive
And the ticket tape that makes the old one's chest cave
And the young men in their ways sway
Loneliness tightens around the trigger of your plastic gun
As the police men's runners caress the metal badges
Of men in mustache claiming they are the rightful gunners
Each beat on this Earth vibrates through and around me
Like music that was never meant to be heard
Trickling neath' tons of lava encased dirt
Each reel of the film calling out to be saved for the eye
Will make the work done hail justice and not strife
Listen to the call of the dying lion
Alone without family or pride
No tree to find shelter underneath or star to guide its way
No river with possible forgiveness
No grass to make one last bed
All bread has been burnt all grain buried and lost
The clothes upon thy' skin looks of silken diamond
Makes me query if you lady are the real thing?
And yet you move in front of me like I do myself
I am now in a world I can say I have never felt
With your bed sheets on fire
As your necklace reflects the moon
And that you never seem to tire
Praying that soon will never come true
But prayers rest on a ashen oak tabletop
Among the dreams spoken softly near midnight
No, the love here we know cannot stop
Lo' death would be all that could halt it
Heathens begin their descent for all to watch and to win
For where, my lady, can I stop so you may begin?
But why is the stage where only actor may work?
How the circle doth ensnare yet release you
Simultaneously enriching one's life as well as all that be around
Sad eyed for the mad cries out for all that live in the lie
And the drum of the former poets dying
In streets penniless without pen, paper, or dreaded faith
Why have the Gods broken their pact to man?,
Leaving all that wished it not to be
Naked and weaponless staring faded ill ghost
Harps you play the final ballad
Pen you write the final sentence
Voice you sing the final note
And actor you say the final line
A breath inhales released into the passing wind
Heartbeat echo blood sport of the quill
Shakespeare sulks in the pages of his work
Men forget they are men
Women remember they live for but once
The tied and tired we
Dance on glorious horizon
Hot and
Ready to live

I never sleep upon the night I hunt upon
The solitude of this time where the darkness
Sulks upon shadows and I am an obstruction
Of all that wishes to bleed upon nights tide.

Ever keeping those that bled innocence on
The earth, always do they fear the presence
Never sensing the reverend of death. I am
There sentence to that eternal damnation.

The Cimmerian shade where all that is ceaseless
Creeps upon clinging earths grave, whispered
Death emanates but is buried upon earths breath
A final moment the oblivions eternal gaze.

I am the imperishable true that haunts those
Who penetrate the innocence that seeks solitude
In the places that never wish to see there truth.
We all hide something in the shadows grave.

All that thrives in the twilight of mans insecurities,
Where hidden things hide, know that their are things
That even the onyx fears for all that is blinded from
Lights gaze fears our continued eternal gaze.

Nine years later
Would I rather not have met you?
Seven years later
Would I rather not have fallen in love?
Six years later
Are second chances worth giving?
One year later
Fool me three times and I am a joke

I am not the ghost I thought I was
You are the ghost instead
Ghost that runs in my veins
Ghost that still inhabits my dreams
Ghost I often think about
I need to lay your ghost to rest

Because now you are happy
Now you are whole
I am the one who sulks in darkness and hates their own reflection
I am he who writes about time that passes and love that fades
I am the deathly cliché of a boy who once  loved a girl and now is nothing more than a phantom
What difference is there between the phantom I have become and the ghost you are to me?
Can I exorcise these spirits?
Can my conscious return to solid form?
What chains do I rattle except for those I forged with my own bad timing my own poor choices and my own disillusion?

I must lay your ghost to rest before it kills me
But I can't bring myself to do it
In quiet moments I bridge our past failures to future hopes and my present becomes limbo
I can barely look people in the eye anymore
I avoid it so they can't see that I am never truly there
I made you this ghost in my mind
You and I made me a phantom
You won't forgive me and that's ok
I can't forget you
And I will have to learn
How to make it work
Ghosts are only as real as your willingness to let them into your mind
The door has long been open
And you are always welcome in

ARTIST AT WORK

I trace
with trembling fingertip

the naked calligraphy
of your body

my hands
creating you

out of this darkness

so that dawn
finds you

drawn with such
exquisite passion

that it tells
the sun

to look:
‘Look!‘

And the sun
reaching in the window

can not help but touch
to see if you are real.

‘Hands off!‘
I warn.
‘She’s mine!‘

And the sun
sulks

as I cover you up
my masterpiece

and finally exhausted I
... fall asleep.

A flasher opens
his trench coat,
the ladies laugh
out loud,
HOW SMALL IS THAT
Is it that  COLD
the ladies are
heard shouting
out, the flasher
embarrassed sulks
away, with his belittled
ego and his tiny
mushroom under
his rain coat, never
was he seen again.

Flawed eventless, the muck to the mire
To the river crimson with lustful haze.
Supressed desire flows like light, rapture to the gaze.
Feverd, clamy, tossing, turning
Lying wrestless on the floor.
Sarrow slips, through the cracks,
to come smashing through the door.

Famin parched, the scream to the cry,
to the path trampled in fits of rage.
Unrelenting fire, burns like ice, denile in a cage.
Calm, relaxed, watching, breathing,
Standing idle at the sash.
Anguish waits at beck and call
to come crashing  through the glass.

Hidden in a seamless world of delight and joy and glee
A fractured cloud of misery waits
to have its cake and thee,
to reval as it sulks with company.
Ever growing spawned by fear, deathly silent in its' plea
Eating away at the sinews of faith,
dispair awaits its' time to flea.

Akin to death, friend to evil, slient screaming in its' vain
Dissolving with trust the passion of the lust
Envy plies to its bain.
Passion and fire, burning desire, these monsters are not the same.
All too familiar, confusing just the same, betrayed by flesh.
What is there cannot be had, for surely this is no game.

Jy het die reg tot lewe
Oh grondwet, die dood lag jou uit!
Die sardoniese blik
van 'n gesteelde besluit,
**** jy nie die klop-klop van vier perde hoef
wyle die openbaring in
jou blaaie kom poef.

Skaam jy jou nie
vir sulks blatante leuen,
of het jy jou ore aan Satan verleen
toe jy jou hoop soos saad versprei
om naief- die jeug, in die versoekingte lei.

Ons eet karkas-krummels
as 'n daaglikse brood
Terwyl jy ons verseker
dat jy die waarheid ontbloot
soos die arme tiener meisie,
geryp; en nou - dood.

Jou bedoelings was goed,
maar jou kakpraat te groot.

Imagine for a moment that the weather is a ******

She is bored as she peels off the chipping paint on my window
and with eyebrow raised flicks the pieces at my bed
(the same bed I am lying on)

I hear the woosh and flutter of her dress
as she parades and struts around.
She is purposely blowing cigarette smoke to my face
like a high and mighty *****
with painted lips and black stockings.

I pay her no heed

She screams and ruffles the trees for attention
flinging branches and leaves in a fit
she speaks and her spit hits my eyes in little droplets.

Her heavy breathing
and banging of doors and windows
is becoming a little too dramatic

I close the window again,
I've closed it a million times
and with her dainty fingers she pries it open to peek

she sulks in a corner
eyeing me crossly
annoyed at my reading
my writing
my contemplation

and true to her nature

          she does it all again...

She lives with her '70s condescending mom,
And her Gods are nonbelievers.
She sulks, swears 'n spits in air
Squandering in profound style
As she wears plaid shirts to
Jimmy Choos,
"feeds her cat, eats her dog",
Keeps a job, quits on true love,
Flirts in no faith with
the guys in the gym,
overlooks men at the bar,
Smiles at the kid in the park,
Laughs at celebrities' mishap,
Sleeps to Indie pop Rock
post two whisky shots.
But hey, she's too far from
any breakdown.