Thursday, October 05, 2006
The promised poetry of recent times. Covers some random things from funny to my focusing on a theme I currently have in mind (to do with, but not determined by Cape Town streets).
You are the sound of the sun's rays
as they strike me, my face
as they filter through me
as they resound in me
you have never been loud
the sun does not know
how to be loud
it shines
and you alight on me
you are that sun drawn sound
which no one but me hears
not because I will it
nor because I am different
but because every part of me
can't help but hear
each part of you
you are the sound as my face burns
as the heat of me flashes free
as we explode
as we give the sun sound
Fly 18.08.06
having spent hours
trying to find
its reflection
in a glass of milk
turns to black coffee
to see broken wings
the floating grains
its refractors
perplexed it
sees itself cut
and quartered
yet still living
the confusion
not my hands
is the reason
for its recess
Commercial Flight Monday 6.15am 21.08.06
The outside of my window
is dew-streaked glass
on lightening land
through its pane
the blocks of mined ground
are a scattered jigsaw.
These surfaces of Jo'burg
that are the burnt ochre
of deeper earths
were brought forth
by powered will
by past dominion.
Now, the scorched grounds
of disused mines
the dirt silver waters
are as much the city's
tarmacked roads,
its abandoned homes.
Aboard, I am tired.
The plane is too loud.
I am due in
Lexicon 02.09.06
the word 'sorry'
the word 'no'
the word 'change'
don't mean what they mean
on the rubbish ridden streets
of Jo'burg or
the blood-mapped eyes of a man say more
than cupped hands
than cardboard signs
than black bags
that dangle from tired fingers
waiting for my trash
(he stands in this whirlwind
of bright blessings
but its dance of scattered scraps
don't carry change)
Lace 03.09.06
in lace or silk I imagine you
some similar cloth over you
holed satin the spaces
of your skin uncovered
lace dappled leaf dappled
sunlight on your skin me dappled
my fingerprints over each space
my palms and fingers
their lace-cloth over you
both imagined and beneath
both of us entangled
enlaced enclothed
We Made Videos 03.09.06
You my sister wanted me to kiss you
as you slept. I was Prince Charming
and you moved and spoke
a lot for Sleeping Beauty.
You awoke with abundant joy
when I deigned to move my lips
close enough, ever those distances
that weren’t crossed, aren’t crossed.
If I kissed you now on video
it would be easier, I am more skilled
you’d want it less, maybe your sleep
would be sleep, we wouldn’t be crowned.
A Vagina’s Monologue 04.09.06
the noise of the word Clitoris Clatters around
& so does its companion in revolution the Orgasm
now men lick for hours at the altar of My Flesh
attending anticipating the glorious big ‘O’
(not a sigh not a sound but the intimate resound
of Elle and Cosmo in his media wrenched mind)
I’m equally in awe of the sights and sounds
in Service to the (always singular) Penis
(but that’s required less revolution
& more momentary devotion)
Storytime 18.09.06
Daddy, you were happy
reading to me
I was buried in
the nooks of you
small, blonde me
big, brown-haired you
and you hoarse
from laughter at
Moonface, mice clanging.
I giggled easily.
Daddy, you don't laugh
as much when I read
to you across this table
tucked in strutted seats
scrawny children aren't funny
neither are people living
in pipes in dry dongas.
But I'm hoarse too.
small, grey-blonde you
big, brown-haired me
the language of the desert is wind 25.09.06
wind whirled dust's track
wind deepened desert's dark
wind wept water's wrack
wind makes my story stark
dark-light striated sand
ripples on desert's flesh
discarded snake skin
wind hurled you off
desert dust driven back
to desert's depths
undark always light
in moon stars sun bright
long time left till
when water will weep
weary of the wanting
from undrenched desert
wind called dust back
wind calmed sand's stirring
wind sharpened desert's desires
wind tells me untold stories
Robot Tango 04.10.06
The dashboard of my car
is self-consciously garish,
colourful, kitsch.
inhabited by the covers of
this and last month's Big Issue
It is the bed for far too many
beaded flowers that I've
been given as gifts, for a donation.
If I need jokes, my car houses
as large a collection as I'll ever need.
Yet every single stop that I make
at equally kitsch traffic lights
or stupidly colourful stop streets
I am asked if I want another issue
(that I already have)
or maybe my girlfriend would like
her own flowers
(as if she hasn't taken liberties with mine)
or another set of jokes,
(when three are already displayed)
Approaching robots has become
a tango of stop, go, go to evade
sellers who won't let me alone.
Rained Hard 04.10.06
I know it's rained hard
when there's copper silt
at the bottom of
if I am walking by the canal
there's more leaves, bark,
branches than trash in the water
there'll still be at least one
glass bottle, Bells or Jack Daniels,
taking its sweet, sedate time
to Rosebank Station, also messy
in the way rain dents old paint
that longs after lost whiteness
if I've time, I'll stop, pick up
the bottle, gather silt, store
it in the bottle and stopper it.
It's in this way, in the raucous
heights of summer, that I can
rest and recall hard winter rain.
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