Nimbus

Glossy
sinuous locks
frame your
pointy little
face in
thick black
wisps.

Oh, what I'd
give to run
my hands
through the
strands of
your soul.

Mirrors

Entering a hologram

of perception 

and morphed 

deception.

There is only

one way to 

know what is real.

That is: to touch
(palms to thighs), 

to breathe (nose
to abdomen), and to

feel (in the way
only you can) for
your own

heartbeat.

The Falsitude of Creating

Is it possible to 

write and not be

a thief? Or is the 

very act of existing

stealing from the lived 

experiences of others -

not always those 

brighter or bolder, but

those dull and dimwitted 

too. Stealing. From those 

with everything. And 

stealing, even more, from 

those with nothing.

Perhaps this is the true

nature of the world.

Theft. By each and for 

each. Until we sit together

under a common blanket

of creativity - each weave

threaded by yarn stolen

from her neighbour's wheel.

On the Anniversary of My Death

The 19th of May 2002. I died a
certain death. You killed me. You,
the man I didn't trust but had no
choice except to. You broke not
only my skull but my spirit and my
soul, for at least a hundred years.

Today. The 19th of May 2023. I sit
adjourn to you. Why? I ask myself.
I don't know. I'm almost pleased at
the thought of your death, I think. No,
I correct myself. I couldn't be. I still
don't know that you weren't pleased
about mine.

What I do know is that neither of us
asked for this. You didn't want to break
my skull nor do I want your chest cavity
sawed open.

The difference is you made a choice. I
was endowed with a burden, that came
wrapped in a deceptive silk bow. In it
three adjoining parts;
                         forgiveness,
                                  responsibility,
and the smallest but strongest called
                                                          love.

Learnt Language

After being
held
captive
for
an entire
existence.

You've become so
accustomed to
the pain
that instead of
wailing a
grimace forms
on your face
as natural
as a smile
and tension
pulls
the corners
of your
mouth closed.

The whip cracks
skin open and
a sting
permeates. Blood
barely
drips
before the
next crack strikes -
Effortless. Fluid.

Whip-pa.
Whip-pa.
Whip-pa.

All of a
sudden you
realise that
the lashes
and lacerations
are at your own
account.

It's not a betrayal
of your
body unto
itself.

But the only
language
it's ever
learnt
to speak.

Wings

So much of my
energy,
life force,
chi,
is used
in daily combat
against
the oppressor.

What would happen
if for one second
I expended all
that energy
inward.

How high would I
soar
until they
decided to clip my
wings and have me
plummet to
the ground?

What's in a name?

Mine. Has
three syllables,
whose sounds
combined
are my soul -
who I've been
since birth.
Maybe
even before.

They, can
easily say
things that
define them
like:
aveugle 
and
sourd. 

But still
dare
to get me
wrong.

Oasis

- Within -

Darkness. A room,
a field, an expanse of
black. Inside it a
certainty, that things
are not okay. Never
will be. Quick
sand at the center, a
box - made of the bones
of ox. Without a
key. Demons
dance inside it. All
night
and rest in the day.

- Without-

Sitting in the
inflection of the
valley. Calves
folded in, neck
extended over
knees. Spiritual tremors
overtaking breathing -
involuntarily. Hair flowing
upside down into
the pool of salt water
streaming out of
eyes.

Mountainous walls
rising above in
all directions. Bare back
facing the distant,
unreachable sky. Not
being broken. Just
being.

Dew gliding seamlessly
out of glossy ducts
into the swirl of vivid
algae kissing legs.
The box one with
the pebbles - a granite carbon
complement - softened and
smoothed over eons by
gentle streams of
water.

An animal. Nursing its
wound. Naked. Bare bottom
folded into a an acute hug
of self-preservation. Blinking
and realising that
no matter how hollow
or cold or dark the box is.
It is a part of this oasis:
the hideous marriage
of demons, mountains,
quick sand, the sky, ox bone,
salt water and human blood.

This. Oasis.
Here. Where
the animal
is abundant. Rich.

Mural

For at least nine years,

he stood, in his woolen

hat at the concrete corner

junction asking strangers

for money. His dwarfism,

may have been the reason

for his struggle. Or just one

part of the injustice of being

born coloured into this sick

society. The years embedded

wrinkles onto his eyes. And 

now he's become immortalised,

by a mural in Oranjezicht.

Magnificent Splendour

Splendour. Tiny waves lapping - not crashing - against the shore. Toes digging deep into grainy sand. Sweaty hands on the face of a rock, knees bent, body heavy. Squinting in response to the glare as a large glint of sunshine pokes through a thick grey cloud. Splendour. Not a child's laugh, but the throaty giggle made when defenses come down in front of a lover. The sound of the black keys piercing gently through the white when a piano is played. What a daisy looks like when held up against the blue sky. The sun bouncing off your best friend's eyelashes. Sharp canine's sparkling as you throw your head back in laughter. Splendour. Sensory seduction at the birth of spring. Swallows in a swoop above pylons at dusk. The light touch of your sand papery palms on my cheek. Splendour.

Gift from the Sun

Does it make you feel
powerful? This distancing
you do. Withdrawing from
the full brightness of the sun,
not to hide in shade - or rest -
but to enclose yourself in
a molehill of experience.

Don't you know that the sun's
sole purpose is to highlight the
vivid blue of the sea thrashing itself
against that one jagged cliff. Gifting
you with the luxury of watching it
from above - or immersing
yourself in it forever.

Monsters sans masks

My eyes
were stitched
closed
so that I could
not see
the perpetrators
of the wounds

A thousand
paper cut
lacerations
stung
deeply -
everywhere

Confused -
unable to
make sense
of where they
came from

Not realising they
were there
until I felt
them come
alive with
the lifeblood
of a hot burn
days later

Bathing them
in salt water -
solitary - until they
would heal. It
became ritual -
Recovery

Then one day -
body
piercing all over -
My hands reached
up of their own
volition

And picked each
stitch carefully
from
my eyes - Pus
oozing out through
scabs and crusts

Lids heavy, my
retina adjusted.
The slime
coagulated
to the bottom

And for the first
time I saw their
truly
hideous faces
and set myself
free

Ma (Grandmother)

Your cataracts blinded
you from seeing what
your son had
become. The torment
he inflicted on the
five women
in his
life.

Your big curly white hair,
wild and unruly, like your
spirit in the face of
late night screaming
matches.

The FBI are not after you,
mummy, he would say.
No-one is trying to steal
your identity.

My teenage
angst led only to
anger. Seeing you
as a burden.

I sit here, in wonder,
at the woman you
must have been.

What it took for you to
raise a house full of children,
a child yourself, a victim of
a bearded patriarch with a red
hot staff in his hand.

His death, leaving you with nine
mouths to feed, then their
premature deaths.
Rebellious entitled sons.

If only you lived another life.
I like to imagine your potential.
Then I remember that you
do. Through me.

Not for a second, do I forget
that my life started in
your womb.

Letter to my (broken) beloved

I knew you, from before
the moment you tottered

taking your first steps

toward your mama. 

I followed you, a 

bird perched on your 

shoulder, chirping

as you picked up

the scissors to cut your

hair yourself. Little 
hands trembling. 

I held you. By the 
arms, stopping you
pulling brows from
your face, only moments 
after your first fight 
with sweet Adele. 

I never left your side when

you immersed yourself in the

joyous pleasures of young 

adulthood. Waiting for you

to return home so I could stroke 

your hair, and wipe the expired 
mascara from beneath your eyes. 

Then, when you stumbled over

your own feet into your first 
true love I drew arcs over 

your head with my toes,
making a halo for you.You 
never needed to look up,

but I was always there. 

And I’ll be there - I am 
here - now that that love 
has morphed into nothing 
more than the withered root 
of an orchard still attached to

beautiful but

already dead blooms.

Rage (Part I)

Head heavy. Cranium
full of lead. Frontal
cortex bursting
with pressure.
Rage.
Fills my body.

Rage. From the
numbness in the tips
of my fingers to
the roots of the
ache in my lower
back.  Rage. Is the
sound of the scratched
echo that plays
inside me.

Rage. At the thieves
who've stolen my
emotional land. At
those oblivious
to the difficulties
of our condition.
At those who
dare to be
their authentic
selves without
consequence.

Rage. At the
injustice of this
affliction.
Rage. At it all.

Except
there is
no rage
towards
my melanin.

The Opening

I have
never
felt
a
vulnerability
like
this
before.

A listless
ache
behind my
eyes
and a raw
opening of
every
door
inside me.

People
wandering
through
the corridors
of my soul
while I watch
from below.
Mute.

Emptiness
follows their
footsteps as
I float
ceaselessly
through
space.

The Rose Garden

I stood naked on the 

ground, feet sinking into

the sponge of the dewy

grass. He met me there

and sprinkled the seeds

around me, in a loose circle.

We agreed to water it

together

The sun set on that 

summer and the roots

that sprouted began to 

spread. with each sun

set and rise millimeters

of green veins were

added. We learned that 

for the roses to flourish 

they would need support

so we added a metallic 

arch over my head - naked 

body still enduring seasonal

shifts

With autumn came the first

buds, the bloom glorious.

Tiny blushing drops eventually 

spread open, filling my nostrils with 

the scent of molasses. My thighs 

and hips were covered in dustings 

of nectar as he pruned, watered

and tended to the new born

sprouts

It continued this way - and 

by the seventh cycle the archway

was laden with the weight of 

roses so dense that a single

flower

would weigh down 

the cup of your palm

As the garden flourished, I kept

looking up in awe of the beauty 

that we nurtured, only rarely ever

taking note of the large and heavy vines

that entwined around my waist 

and breasts, coiled around my feet -

cramping  my calves and aching my

back

It was a byproduct of the beauty, 

a cost at which the garden came. 

In the winter I even took solace in

the tight green shelter - it offered

welcome protection from the frosty cold. 

I was safe.

But all this time, I failed to see that

as the roses grew so too did the jagged,

thick and sturdy thorns. Blinded by the

velvet plush petals, it took me by surprise

how the thorns stealthily grew so large

that they barely noticeably pierced their way 

through my rib cage, puncturing my lungs.

Making it

              impossible 

                               for me 

                                          to breathe.

Emmanuel

He stood
beneath the street lamp
in broad day light
jeans, if you could call them that
aged from all wear and no wash, day
after day, to the point where
the jeans - which were
once blue - were as gray as
the dreads atop his head as
the trainers which bled
crusted feet from the sides, as
the oversized utility jersey
he wore.

He talked
in tongues. Sporadic teeth brittle
and gray too -a mad man  -
except he was not mad.
Everyone else was. Everyone
had driven him to this, the
white Range Rover revved passed
and the ghost inside it didn't half
look up to notice either the street
lamp or the thing
beside it.

Thing.
A man with a face, a
soul, a name - once a child
with love and a tinge of
mischief in his heart.
The ghosts took
it out of him. Killed him
slowly, without the reprieve of
death. Stole his dreams so that
the only dream he had was the
nightmare of living
once he came down from
three days ago's tik.

He may have had a child
or three - two girls and
a boy, but the mother
took them back to the Eastern
Cape where they could have had
a better life - less corrupt she said,  less
of the evil Sattan of this city.
(One wondered if she was referring
to the ghosts, who trolled the
streets opulently - probably not. No-one
saw these ghosts as satanic. Not even
he. He never questioned their existence.)
He listlessly conceded to her choice
one Sunday afternoon, half mumbling
half shouting at her while
foaming at the mouth - knowing he
was unable to stop them from leaving.

He continued his monologue -
no-one listened. Not even the street
lamp, or the gray walls surrounding
the newly laid tennis courts or
the street.

I watched for fifteen minutes, then left.