the art of fishing

i want to catch your sighs in my net 
and reel, 
your locked-in, 
safe-tight shut, 
bus-depot locker thoughts. 
with baited hooks 
and fastidious, patient rod 

and if, i manage to lure you 
with my chosen form of bait 
i will remove each scale (of thought) 
and attach them to my aortic pipe 
using your vitreous jelly, 
and your green tinted iris’s 
to lock me into each frame of your viewfinder 
as i zoom in on the meshed grays and reds, 
in order to nourish my desire to dissect, 
each upturned lip, 
coarse sexy laugh, and intense soft stare. 
i want to suck the blood from your raw flesh 
and leave your lemon-squeezed afrikerdom politeness 
as scraps to the vultures. 
i want to savour your ultimate truth

grams (a poem for my gran)

grams ...

where did it go? 
your perfume and my small face 
that lay burrowed in crevices of wrinkled skin, 
against the curve,
where they fold, 
at the nape of your neck, 
just up, from your gold star of david.

breathe in sweat pea and cinnamon 
breathe out comfort, 
not reserved for thundery nights only,
where did the time go? 
November seems a long time ago,
smarties colouring the tips of your fingers 
disappeared like wednesday nights of sha na na 
and sunday's double thick chocolate milkshakes at café wein, 
large, sagging breasts pushed against me in a hug, 
wrapped my world into soft fatty pockets 

i miss maraschino cherries and trifles, 
the occasional stale slivered almond, 
even your uninspiring bolognaise would be ok 
if i could just say hello. 
Where did you go?