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? 

umlungu

 
dear silence and quiet
i hereby request your protection
i do not want to hear ms. big mouth utter (me)
i hardly want to hear you breathe,

Your talking,
incessant jabbering,
speaking out, or whatever you call it,
the public processing of my vulnerabilities
my shortcomings,
a viewing of the chains that bind me to this her-history
orally,
in decibels louder,
and decibels more annoying than the next person,
yes vocally, on the worlds stage
your big mouth is trumpeting loudly
the music stripping me naked,
Eve looking for a leaf
to cover my shame,

guilty as charged 
my herstory
exhibited before the masses
clothed in the past
clothed in my pale skin
my blemished, yes we all know whites age so much quicker, privileged skin
that i didn't ask for,
but did i complain about either?
Did I stand up to be counted, did I unlock the chain of apathy?
I wish I was perfect but instead i want to be alone
i want to hide from reality
too black to be white
too white to be black
who are my people really?
fallen between the cracks of here and there
i can't represent the majority
i don't represent the minority
to forgive the transgressions of the past
without hating myself
how to move on,
without forgetting history
is it possible to be proud of who i am
instead of ashamed of what i am 

2004

stubborn

I know I am stubborn I could do with some humbling,
but when I think of giving in I can feel myself tumbling.
Something to substantiate my lack of perfection
I take it to seriously,
I see it as r-e-j-e-c-t-i-o-n....
I could not face your correction.

I try to imagine I have no flaws,
my fantasy shattered by slamming doors.
I can no longer defend what it is I now have to mend.

PMS Hammer

It started like this;
The cat (Spike) was scratching my quilt,
A leg sent her flying as the alarm went off,
tripping out of bed,
and stubbing a toe down the stairs,
waiting at the bottom;
2 dogs with wagging tails (Zuki and Nuno),
and dog piss on the new carpet
= one body boiling on a hot stove.

Screaming “FERK, shit,
Where is the sponge?
Get out the fucking house,
shoo”, shrieks, “get out the fucking house!”
Confused black and tan faces race out the sliding door,
And tails cease to wag.

Get the dogs’ food bowl,
sharp stones pierce my bare feet.
“Shit, where are my fucking shoes?”
Shouting and grinding teeth;
no brain, no kick start, lobotomy please.
The helper is one minute late,
stabbing at my watch,
“I told you not to be late!”

Slam the car door,
and drive past the DVD shop,
remembering the DVD’s 10 minutes post the fact,
when three of them stare back at me.
Angry fingers drum on the steering wheel,
slow assholes drive close to the middle of the road
“move over mother fucker,
father’s bastard,
jissee!”, hands fly.
“Can you not see this is a hand signal, wanker?
Move over!”
Wheels burn rubber,
Over a solid white line.
Evil side GLARE,
Shaking head,
(oblivious fucker),
And me,
the scary road rage bleeder.

At the office;
Grunt at colleagues,
And avoid looking at stray dog hair,
an amused soul offers Nine inch Nails,
Trent Reznor relief?
“No thanks,” sweetly, (fucker),
bullet in my head,
rage, rage
enraged.

The computer chugs along
“hurry up”,
thoughts of plastic and glass,
fast forward,
plastic and a hammer
speed x 4, x 10, x 20
chuck the fucker against the wall
a big hammer,
breaks the sound barrier,
lack of iron in the blood?
Then how does heavy metal pulsate through my veins?
I take the computer
And bashing it against the wall,
either side supported by each hand,
in a tight fist,
as though it were the head of all perpetrators,
smashing it into smithereens
over and over, smash, smash.
Such a bitter-sweet chocolate vision
The shards fall at my feet,
I take the hammer and on my knees,
reduce it to a pile of inconsequential plastic and
unrecognisable shattered glass, scattered
and splintered into my palm
glistening with fresh red drops.
Head-hammer-glass,
Glass,
Head,
Hammer.

“Don’t look at me
Don’t talk to me,
Don’t even think...
about me.” *hiss*

Where The Rainbow Ends - Richard Rive

There's going to be a place, brother,
Where the world can sing all sorts of songs,
And we're going to sing together, brother,
You and I, though you're white, and I'm not.
It's going to be a sad song, brother,
Because we don't know the tune,
And it's a difficult tune to learn.
But we can learn, brother, you and I.
There's no such tune as a black tune.
There's no such tune as a white tune.
There's only music, brother,
And it's music we're going to sing
Where the rainbow ends.

Namhlanje (TODAY)

It’s the bent key,
in future's door
from where you standing,
on past’s floor.

It’s the hurt you live and relive again,
cried to many tears to alleviate this pain
Cried to many tears and from tears I refrain.

My need is freshly minted, newly cut,
the cold steel burns into this rut.
Take down this picture of me standing alone,
the print is all too familiar, its probably etched in stone.
The print leaves me hungry, Ethiopia to the bone.

Leave it on the heap, top of the rubble,
where I sat unpacking the lies,
I have no regrets, it was with humanness I tried
And with humanness, that it all died.

I am taking up new territory, I am marking it like a man
I am stabbing at this pattern
Like pre-1990 ANC ban.
I am becoming my own fan…