Thursday, 18 May 2017


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

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

How high would I
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
are my soul -
who I've been
since birth.
even before.

They, can
easily say
things that
define them
But still
to get me


- 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
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

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

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

The 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.

Monday, 15 May 2017


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.

Thursday, 11 May 2017

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
so that I could
not see
the perpetrators
of the wounds

A thousand
paper cut
deeply -

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 -

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

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

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

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