People say

People said

the world is flat

has four edges and a strap

Gravity is only a myth

People say

life can exist without love

work all day and pay the bills

lest you sleep under the bridge

people say

it doesn’t matter how you lived your life

the day you die is more important

their insipid hearts glazed over

people say

work and till and earn your bills

go the streets and squander it all

all in a bid to fit right in

people say

there is only one way, ours or none

Only one god, ours or none

rebuke it and you’ll walk the plank

people say

wear mink coats and leather shoes

Your stone cold blinks must blind others

when you die, we’ll judge you still

people say

love yourself just as you are

and if you don’t, go under the knife

but when you die, we’ll judge you more

People say

all kinds of quatsch

pretend they care, yet judge all day

helping each other dig their grave.

People spend all night in the church

shake and tremble under the alter

roll around in dirt and dust

leave that place the same they went

People preach to you at end

You should live your life this way

then lock their doors and do the opposite

while you weep and wonder what’s wrong with you

People judge the dead for how they died

spit and dance on open grave

never mind the way they lived their life

then yell, I am christian.

I’ve learnt to smite what people say

their hearts overrun with wickedness and spite

smile in your face, judge behind your back

the only One to trust is Yahweh

The magpie’s song

Adorned by the brittleness of his aching spirit, the Magpie watches himself in the reflective stream and nods approvingly. His kins would be proud, if they could see him stretch out his nestled wings and glide inches above the water surface.

It is a good day. And it going to get better.

Victory is in the waddling stream, it is in the harvest of the trees rootling. It is in the squeals of the busy beavers. It is in his brother’s pea-sized eyes.

For years and years, his kind had been predated, and hunted down. He remembers his dear mate lying on the zenith of an Alpine mountain, try as he could, her small heart palpated and went silent before she thought of giving up. Stricken down by some hunter fellow. What woes trails the magpie’s life. Loneliness settled faster than the snowy blizzard that brewed on the day that the colours from his flamboyant feathers turned bland…until now.

He gripped the soil underneath his talon and pushed with all his little might. The time to mourn had come and gone. Today he smelt victory in the fields. He’d advocate it all day long

“Hello”, he yelled to the Robin

“Salute”, he tweeted to Frau Puffin

And then he settled on jenny’s windowsill and sang the most serene symphony she’s heard in a while.

When they asked him why he was so ecstatic with curiosity dripping from their lips, he winced and flipped and giggled and said, It’s going to be good day after all, as he pecked off the crust of jenny’s shepherd pie

Black enough

You ought to have to have seen her

Black body paint dripped from mane down to ankles

styled with a latex jacket and thigh high boots

A cigarette pressed lightly between her lips

You ought to have seen her

Her skin coalesces with the golden shy sun

She metamorphosed into a shade of deadly night

Belladonna like the devil’s berries

Honey coloured eye reflecting jewels

shea butter dripping from endless tamed lush kinks

Authentic she is, a goddess to behold

Belladonna like death cherries

Her footprints spirals in desert sand

Causing confusion wherever she trod

Posing for the cover of blacknvogue

Nubian temptress to the very end

And to think she had to scream her lungs

to break through a forcefield of deafening silence

they said she ought to behave whiter

Seemingly she was black enough

she was stunting on cloud bursting lilac skies

One could build a dam from her tear droplets

she lined a path from where she’d been

was forbidden to tango with ethereal solace

She was a drifting butterfly

perching on a fallen crimson leave

bejewelled by virgo’s decadent virtue

paradise cradled between her bosom.

You’ll remember her by her acerbic glances

the confidence that’s apparent through her melanin glow

they said she was black enough

to which she replied, “I didn’t chose it, I got lucky”

A kaleidoscope of doubt

Toxic is the air invading the space between my mouth and nostrils

grown a fool waiting for love to sprout on winged petunia

I’ve clawed my heart to recover crystals that glistens darkness in my eyes

Fear has returned to torment a dusty cobwebbed casket.

A ripple of the river reflects the subtle complexity of existence

An existence separated by colours, seen and unseen. Gold and silver.

Separating further into hues that are too bright and overly sharp.

I fear I have triggered a cascade of events.

Pillars of white ricochet their luminosity, giving the illusion of separate divinity, or separate existence, dividing life and living, body and soul, is there a difference between living and breathing?

I may very well be buried under an oasis of doubt, coughing up sputum and goo, invading the intangible crevices like a broken mannequin underneath a glacier.

And I have survived, I mean I’m still living — and breathing.

The stars shine so bright that they rip a hole in a time-space continuum

and all I wish to do is swim in the penumbra of twilight.

Collect kisses from a thousand crows

As they nest on top the clay that holds the secret to my doubts.

I’ve sworn a vow to do better. I’ll be better. I’ll hold a matchstick close to a furnace and bask in it’s golden glow.

I will light a candle close to my heart and let my tears bounce off it’s flames. I can do it, just you watch.

I can make the sun and moon kiss in cosmic bureaucracy.

The emo in me is like a sand that won’t let you see the delicate ocean circling in my eyes.

You need not look at me, if you wish not to. But I bid you,

Remove the anchor that weighs so heavily on my ankle.

Find me in a kaleidoscope of doubt.

Follow the trail of lost serendipity in my voice.

It’ll get better

The stream refused to stand still.

it chipped at the roots of trees, and the toes of little adventurers.

I find myself choking from lack of air

Pure oxygen won’t do, without hydrogen hysteria is only a matter of time.

In hindsight I’ve forgotten the feel of the earth underneath my foot

like a hamster running in circles, chasing fool’s gold. Bewitched by the sun.

And I know I have to breath, grapple at the element with both nostrils

because it’ll make me better, It’ll feels less nauseating. I’ll survive a while longer.

They say it’ll get better,

but when?

The stream longs to stand still

to hear the working nocturnal beavers

still to the rustling withered leaves

But today, currents are high.

the anxiety will explode from the base of my ribcage

the strictures at the back of my throat won’t disappear

Now I’m at loss for words

my heart is overflowing but my glass is empty

somehow dark emotions pour out of my chakras

Currents are sky rocketing

and sky is painting all shades of crimson

But

I’d like to stand still

to hold back the worries, that’s gnawing and spitting at my ankle

I’d like to hold back the fusty dam from over-flooding.

They say it’ll get better, I’m tired of asking when.

Random Gothic Anthem

Crest

I spy with my eyes

An unmistakable whiff of cheap cologne

persists, lingering on my philtrum

grows wider than spaces between lyrical innuendoes

Odysseus walls

somersaulting ruins

I cannot unlearn my inevitable mortality

even if I cried sunshine and peed rainbow

Rose coloured Polaroids

I remember when I used to mope around

Waiting to recover my vitreousness

rummaging the things that have been shipwrecked

Love

Hate

Hate is not an equal to love

I love the things you hate the most

Wring me dry

wring me plaid

stretch me under your adventure boots

as you sail from high to low tides

Stand still

It is quintessence that flows to the brink of surrender

eccentric little goldfinch blushing in pitch darkness

Silence recruits ravens to unearth ethereal promises

Shattered fear

a seed of poison drawn on the lips

Winter colour muse from a sardonic artist’s heart

A brothel couldn’t hide you behind it’s wall of cigarette smoke

Labyrinth

bodies hidden between the corridors and cracks

to be made whole, I must be found

to be found, I must vanish behind a random gothic windowsill

Remember to make yourself whole

“Remember to make yourself whole again”,

That voice so dauntingly vivid says

Remember the trees that cast a shadow on you while you were wounded

Remember the spring that brought fresh water to your heels

Remember the face in the sky that day that looked like a beguiled doe

The Icicles that clung to the roof of a shack that was bastioned by the forest

Everything is just how you remember

It is as clear as a mirror in your mind

But it is in the other side of the mirror that you live

A upside down dimension that is tipping over

This is the reality where everything has changed

Where the sun peaks at midnight and sets at daybreak

Where ashes and splinters are the remains of the tree

The bones in the river lie waste at midday

The faces in the sky, how orgulous they’ve becomee

now that a forest fire has ravaged the botanical lush

Therefore you do not recognise your safe place

the twinkle in your eyes are one of oblivion

You cannot hear the wildlifes jolly prance

You cannot sense sand fall to the bottom of the hour glass

and your body withers along with the surrounding

“Remember to make yourself whole again”,

it’s merely a fleeting whisper now

but on the other side of the mirror there is nothing

No life

No trees

No shack

by now perhaps you’ve started to realise,

that you do not exist too.

Toxic People with Toxic hands

You lost your childhood somewhere at the corner of Cleveland avenue to toxic people with waddling hands. They sunk you deeper into the clouds.

You reappeared here. Waiting.

Waiting for poetry to be read. Waiting for the trees to bear fruits and the seams of summer to sprout at the stems of a sycamore tree. For some reason, that was where you were looking for yourself. For your ego.

That was where your spider senses were leading you. They said it was bad luck to yell your dreams out of the window at daytime. It was toxic even, but you already knew that.

You are not surprised by the storm. You have seen it brewing from a distance. It’s been getting stronger. More acidic like grapefruits being fermented to alcohol. This is how we are, you and me you see.

All your senses know the toxic hands grappling your shinbones. An endogenic heat spurring within you is begging to release your alcoholic nature, but when the night disguises the sun and the days turn bronze, all you are left with are;

Toxic people with toxic hands.

Nevertheless, you are still waiting. All summer-long, you stood still. You feel your torso sink further into the clouds of toxic hands. The trees bleed violet. Your senses melt. You forget the reason you were waiting in the first place because a woman with an oversized ears pointed at you as she poisoned your mind with a toxic snake.

You breath yourself back to stillness. It will be okay now. The sun will shine again at the end of autumn because they can’t take away twice what you’ve already lost once.

once upon a man

I once had you to look up to

you with your wits and cunning games

yet you reminded me of the gravity of failure

and overwhelmed me with volleys of helplessness

You once hugged me oh so tight

I’d boast of your unwavering and heroic stamina

then you threw me out in a stormy night

and waited for the hurricane to sweep me into oblivion

You once gazed in my eyes so fondly

Your emeralds comforted my hazels

before you wrestled me towards the district of cruelty

driving me future to the brink of insanity

You once took me by the hand

you held on like I was dopamine

now you serenade me with pain

with throat tightening, eye watering torture

How I love to loath your smell

the scent of testosterone tinted with evil

Your hold on me is not over

until my brain seeps out from a broken skull

I am a disaster with a beating heart

thrown to the gallows by my saviour

all the while waiting for me to confess

that he is the only thing that is keeping me alive

The Hour Peace Vanished

It is already six O’clock. The river flows along the winding path like a slithering serpent guarded on either sides by twin mountains. It’s ebbing waves splashes against rocks like a mathyr throwing himself at the mercy of his convictors. It then flows through the crevices and penetrates the ground layer of the earth. This is where the stillness of peace lies, this is where our source of vitality vacates.

The is the beginning of the journey to the ever flowing spring of life but it is also the end.

Buried under the ground layer are sediments of red clay clumped together in scrambled forms, yet fossils of decayed hope are just a layer below. That hope represented you and I, before we melted together into thick goo and formed a viscous path like magma scourging through naturally existing elements.

1…2…3…4….5…6. Did I say 6? it will be six more before the church-bell announces a minute past 6.

And how could we forget the volcano that cleared a thick forest so that it could conquer every breathing critter. It threatens to heave it’s rage and stir up an imbalanced velocity — a rotary malefic wave-form floating adrift. Nevertheless, the wind kissed its knots and soothed its ego, but a day came where she could pretend no more.

Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. The church-bell went off like peace was shredded in a time machine, traipsing in rebellion to uncertain extinction.

The volcano bellowed and shot magma as if to challenge the wind and curse the ground. She set the forest ablaze for she envied her raw thickness and beauty. She rained larva like dainty soft snow flakes free falling on the Alpine.

Who has the power to redeem balance? to rat out the volcano on the full moon for it’s incandesce nostalgic traps. Alas when the charade is over, the entropy of the Volcanic magma settles into an unorganised pile of pebbles, Glistening at the bottom of the sea like the snake’s eggs. they’ve become the fixed currency of our disrupted peace.

Five…Six. Everything is still again like a defiant witch that is condemned to the stakes to be disassembled into ashes and dispersed into the winding river. Gone like they never were.