Wednesday, 31 May 2017


sinuous locks
frame your
pointy little
face in
thick black

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

Friday, 26 May 2017


Entering a hologram
of perception 
and morphed 

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

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;
and the smallest but strongest called

Tuesday, 23 May 2017

Learnt Language

After being
an entire

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
the corners
of your
mouth closed.

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


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

It's not a betrayal
of your
body unto

But the only
it's ever
to speak.

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

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.

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

Wednesday, 10 May 2017

Ma (Grandmother)

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

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

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.

Monday, 8 May 2017

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.

Friday, 5 May 2017

Rage (Part I)

Head heavy. Cranium
full of lead. Frontal
cortex bursting
with pressure.
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

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

there is
no rage
my melanin.

The Opening

I have

A listless
behind my
and a raw
opening of
inside me.

the corridors
of my soul
while I watch
from below.

follows their
footsteps as
I float

Wednesday, 3 May 2017

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

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

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

It continued this way - and 
by the seventh cycle the archway
was laden with the weight of 
roses so dense that a single
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

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
                               for me 
                                          to breathe.

Tuesday, 2 May 2017


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.

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.