Death meet me.

I remember the first time I was no longer afraid of dying, it happened after decades of walking around with an iron clad chest, held tight with thick wrought links, wrapped around me in a concatenation of fear. Each link soldered together in the language of angst: locked, unbreakable. Through the girdle; unable to move, too afraid to think, too nervous to be. 

Be. 

I stepped outside on a bright day, and the canvas of a mountain appeared before me - in the distance - coming no closer with every step I took. The gray peak accented with valleys of feral green, which seemed no larger than a handspan of shrubbery. It held eons of wisdom in its unwavering existence. And as I put one foot in front of the other, in no extraordinary way, the chain cracked and fell to the ground. Unremarkably I knew I could die then and there, and it would all be okay. 

Existence needs me not, but nor do I need existence. 

I am free. Death meet me.   

Skin

Smoother than
finely sanded
marble dipped
in thirty-six
glass glazes,

softer than the
down beneath
an arctic fox's
tiny chin,

saltier than a
kiss from the
ocean.

Bejewelled with
sand spots - so
many that they form
their own intricate
language

and speak in tongues
as rounded tips lol
over gentle peaks
and taut dimpled
troughs.

Ah!
     The slow song
           of
                ecstacy -
Your Skin!

Split-stream

A stream
split by
stone

creates
the illusion
of two -

only momentarily.

The Colony

Before the shadow
of the mountain
casts over
the city

and
those who
were robbed
of their land
find bridges
to call theirs
for the night.

Before
the sewers
give birth to
infested rats

to roam
the streets
perilously
sweeping up
dead birds
and trampled
cigarette butts.

Before dawn
breaks and the
first taxi hoots
leaving the Grassy
park station.

There is
room for
an eternal
expansion of
my heart
into this
place I call
home.

My heart
is a tiny
deserted
house
on a desolate
beach.

You came by
on a sunny
day and
opened its
shutters.

Oh Mould! My saviour.

They tried
to make
it work
between low
rentals, and
four young
babes in
bathtubs
surrounded
by moulded
silicone

peeling off
edges, akin
to the edges of
their life. Peeling
away, bit-by-bit.
Slowly, slowly.

Dirty kitchen
floors help their
feet. White bread
with tomato sauce
keep them alive.
But what existence
is this?

I'll tell you. It
is the existence
that thousands
try to call life,
no, home.

For the eight
young legs, it
was home. Too
young to
carry shame -

in the embryo
of sanctity
threatened
regularly by
the leather strip
calling, calling,
intermittently
from the sjambok
in that kitchen
corner.

Also held up
by stained linoleum-
eye peering, waiting,
for the moment it
would come alive -

strong leather. Un-
breakable. Break-
ing. Bending. -
snake like rapid
strikes and a crash
that would only
resound
as far as the
light bulb hanging
from a single wire in
the middle of the room

sometimes at night.
Sometimes in the
middle of the day.
Sometimes after
too many unimpeded
morning laughs, by
the four mouths

playing with reckless
abandon on the
cracked concrete that
bled out from the
creaky kitchen half-
door.

One day the peering
eye left. It was never
to be seen again - on that
day the bathtub dislodged -
the mould penetrated the
cement, and the tub fell
apart. A large crack down
the enamel middle.

Six became three a side
became two, became
one.

And life continued-
            Solitary.

The Gods of Compassion

Your

existence 

is porous

and 

alive

from 

every

inch of 

you

compassion

is radiantly 

diffused

When 

you lift 

your chin 

to look at 

the sun

glory is 

reflected 

back 

boundlessly -

For your Heart

is like no

Heart.

It breathes 

salted mist. 

Crystalline.

And those

beads of

mist

crystallise 

into gems

of mercy

that pour 

from 

your 

fingers

endlessely 

into the 

cup 

of life.