Saturday, 22 April 2017

A Doctor's Visit

I spoke to my doctor about this affliction I
have. What is it, what is this thing, I asked,
that is contorting my insides, closing my gut
in on itself, distorting my organs by hollowing
them out until they are made up of nothing
but black ash.

It is a disease, she relayed, that is just beginning
in your belly, but is also creeping its way up into your
eyes and mind - you will see through a spotted
strained lens slit with deception and misperception.
You will think in circular fragments, which will
spread and mutate and continue to breed
enraged amoeba inside you.

She said that the amoeba would slowly fill out my
lungs. So that when I inhale, I will for a second
have the illusion of breathing, but I'll never be able
to exhale. Instead, I'll become a swallower of the
earth. It's pain. It's suffering too.

Slowly, it will make its way to my heart. Freezing
every sinewy tendon, so that each beat will become
tighter and every cord shorter and tauter. I asked her if
one day it would stop, and there would be a reprieve.
She said no. It wouldn't stop. At its worse the heart is
going to shrivel up, but somehow it will still sustain
life. Miraculous really, she mused.

I left hollower than when I arrived.
Noticing the cords shorten -
Even in death life wins.


The words will come
  the words will come 
  the words will come 
to me

They'll flow out of the tips 
   of my fingers
and bring redemption 
   to the shame 

The words will come 
  the words will come 
   and I'll be deaf no more 

I will hear my soul
So loud and clear 
  that it will never again 
    be taken away

Perfect earth

In a perfect world,
   walks on the beach
would culminate in
   toes covered in sand
   and a soul raked through
   silken shores

In a perfect world,
    staring at the sun
would mean
    our glory being
    reflected right back
    to it
with equal splendour

In a perfect world,
   a baby's laugh
   would reverberate
   through every suburb
ringing the
   meditation bell of joy
   in every man's heart

In a perfect world,
   the leaf that falls
   from the tree at autumn's
   first breath,
would land so softly that
  we would all feel a feather
  dust the side of our temple

In a perfect world,
   the almost silent drumming
   of rains
would quell all our fears.
    For eternity.


His heart
around his head

So that
he couldn't tell
the sound of the seagull
from the sea

Or the smell of freshly
baked baguette
from the charm of the
french woman
who handed
it to him
over the counter

He lived in
iterations -
of himself, of
his story, of his
of the world

And so many times
seagulls had almost
eaten bread
from his
bare hands,
but didn't

Friday, 21 April 2017

Heartbreak (Part I)

I wrote a little piece of prose on this the other day. At that time I thought the worst of it would be the gut wrenching feeling on the inside that something has been unfairly taken away from you. That you would just suffer with pangs of intense pain every now and then, and you would be more or less functional, and it would proceed like this for a few months until you calibrate to normal, slowly.

I was wrong.

Yesterday afternoon a wave of emotional exhaustion, so large that it drowned me, hit me. It's frustrating. I wish I could say I knew why it was so intense. I wish I understood the psyche more. It makes no sense in my rational mind that the removal of one person from my life could have such dire consequences. Especially because I am happy with the decision, especially because I was finding it hard to breathe in the relationship and this ending should be like a coming up for air. Nope. It's not.

Today, I literally can't move. Every part of my body feels like lead. I can't think. Haven't been able to for weeks now, since it happened. It's guilt inducing skipping work, but even basic tasks like making food or a cup of tea have become impossible. Today holding up a book is too heavy. Literally. I can't carry the book, and thank God for my computer, because all I need to do to use it is move my fingers to get it to work, which is about as much as I can do without collapsing. Not that there is anything to do on it. Social media sucks the life out of me. All I can ingest right now is poetry.

Everyone else looking in seems to realise that this is normal. It certainly doesn't fucking feel like it. It feels lonely and isolating. It feels like an extended purgatory. I can't watch stuff to distract because it is all too mind numbing, and there is inevitably some kind of romantic undercurrent. I am selective about music too. Fuck all these indie artists with their hopeful lyrics, and fuck Sufjan Stevens for romanticising heartbreak. No Sufjan, it doesn't work like thank. Praise the lord for Kendrick on Fear pleading with God to let him know why he has to suffer, then for the line that is the closest thing to any kind of  sad redemption one can expect in this shit show: "If I could smoke fear away, I'd roll that mothafucka up." Hallelujah bitch, I'll be rolling up as soon as I can.

This is heartbreak. It is debilitating and alienating, for no other reason than it is a lone road to travel. And it fucking sucks.

Wednesday, 19 April 2017


Her fingers
the soft folds
of her
malleable molten maze

The warm
of liquid
radiated off her

She didn't know
at which point she
her eyes
and felt

a thousand worlds collide
into a single

all seven skies
a pin prick of

a veil lift
from the

and a breeze
her face


So it ended. the relationship, that is. It's a tricky thing to write about without sounding self-indulgent and clich├ęd. It is a tumultuous space. One that liberates but confines equally. I found myself waking up to the prospect of a new life, a new-old life, that is boundless and infinite. I also found myself curling into a ball on the floor and wailing, expecting some kind of dramatic ending to the pain - a numbness - but none came. I can't write now. All the creative energy that was given birth to by the freshness of heartbreak has evaporated. Contaminated by the relationships I have tarnished. The men I've sought. The friends I've drained. It isn't beautiful. It isn't poetic - I'm sitting in my car during my lunch hour in a parking lot full of exuberant students, crying, then I'll go back to my desk and try to work pretending nothing happened. Nothing has happened. The clock is ticking, but time isn't passing. This is an infinity. There is circularity to the process. There is no catharsis. Only a returning to and a returning to the same point of departure. Forever.