Thursday, 14 December 2017

On what happened at Clarks and Olympia - The Occupation

when we
come together
at coffee
shops in this
colony

they stare
and glare.

wondering
if we are
queer,
affronted
by the concen-
tration in the
colour of our
skins

our uninhibited
laughs scare
them.

they pull out
their phones
and take pics

"look the mon-
keys have
gathered"

we occupy.
we occupy.
we occupy.

it terrifies
them.

"excuse me,
what do you 
all think the
future of this
country is
going to be?"

in response:
           silence

a burst of prop-
osterous laughter -
our disbelief -
their fucking 
audacity

we become the
spokespeople
for their deepest
fears.

Swartgevaar
is real. And
apartheid
never died.

they think
they own this
place /land/

but

blackness is
rising. and it
starts with us.

Our sister-
                 hood.
Our mother-
                  hood.
Our saint-
                  hood.
                         


Tuesday, 12 December 2017

Bbz (Soul Sister)

Our shoulders
touch and
I play with
your hair
tenderly

between
the two of us
there is no
"don't touch
my hair"

because I am
a part of you
and you are
a part of me

we connect
without
speaking -

our lived
experiences
coalesce
and create
an entity
of their own

a universal
understanding
of fear, pain,
deep love,
intimacy,
care,
independent
but ubiquitous
trauma, fetish-is-
ation, and
oppression

we come together
through it all
and nurse each-
other into a well-
being with a love
so deep that no-
one without
melanin will
ever understand

it is eternally
safe and the
only heavenly
thing that we -
women of colour -
have in this horrid
and despicable
world

Gurl, I say,
touching
your glowing
skin:

You (we)
    are
        life.

You
kiss
my
hand.

A return to the abyss

i return
again

expending
all my
energy
on the
masculine

i am a
sucker for
its strong
seduction

its suction:
it takes and
takes and even
in its giving
there is limited
re-ceiving

the void
is tempo-
rarily
filled
/phallic/
disruptions
to my psyche

i vow to
erect a
wall -
but they
scavenge

and what
feels better
than being
picked
from a littering
of others

just like
me. The
fleeting
feeling of
being
exceptional -
a wonder

its deceptive
power only
fills the void
to widen
and expand
it

when and
(if) they
leave



Monday, 11 December 2017

On unrequited love

there must
be a song
for
those who
speak the
language
of
unrequited
love

distant
 closeness

proximity to
a hazy dream
of what could
 be

the longing
to
just
graze palm
against
 dorsum

or finger
against
 temple

the desire
to be discovered
 and perceived

space
to be free,
 unbounded
and
 true

to slip -
for a moment -
into the other
 soul

and
 exist





Friday, 8 December 2017

The Goddess

Bismillah 
  I say under
my breath
 when the mist
of uncertainty
  rises into
my chest

I don't think
I believe in:
a god, gods,
a deity, a man -
born 2000 years
ago in a world
that is three
times
that age.

I don't think
I
believe in
the
universe, an
inter-con-
nect-ed-ness
of spirit-s

But then
 why do I say
insha-allah 
when hopeful,
or resilient?

Or masha-allah,
at the site of a
baby born outrage-
ously moral

and alhamdu
lillah,
in the dark
hours of
the night?

when I wake
to find my heart
beat-ing
of its own accord
drum-ming
a silent rhythm
in my chest

I don't believe
in your God. I
can't. But I
do believe in
mine:

Compassionate. Woman.
Loving. Tolerant. Wild.
Free. Tender. Stern. In-
tuitive. Out-landish and
Funny. Oh, so funny.

A
Resistor
in the face of
your existence
designed to
oppress
mine.

A light. A guide.
A miracle.

G-race.



Say nothing

Sometimes the
silence in
between
two
mountains

says more
than a vibrant
volcanic
eruption
does in the
dark quiet
of the night

Tuesday, 24 October 2017

For Eve

You are love
You are love
You are love
You are love
You are love
You are love
You are love
You are love
You are love 
You 
are
love
You are