The Author
The author, in his work, must be like God in the Universe, present everywhere and visible nowhere. Gustave Flaubert
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SONNET I
How can I look into your auburn eyes When the light of your soul is so blinding More radiant than the sun in our skies Purer than when a thousand angels sing Winter wanes in your perpetual spring Chased by the glow of your fiery hair Into my heart that never stops burning Into this inextinguishable prayer Life without you is living without air Is locked away for an eternity If I turn around and you are not there I would be a river without the sea For you are the fire that burns my veins You are the sun for the rest of my days
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The Pirate and the Girl with stars in her eyes
He was a pirate. You could see it from the sword in the one hand and the patch over his eye. He told everyone that one day he would be the most fearsome pirate to ever sail the ocean. His tiny little brain was packed full of treasure seeking adventures and of fighting bandits on the seven seas. A few days after his eighth birthday, five people broke into their house. They killed his father and brother and raped his sister and mother, before they finished them off. He was hiding in a pretend cave under his bed when this happened. When they left they also killed Billy, the dog. Cut his fucking head off. After that he didn’t want to be a pirate anymore. He was forced into an orphanage where he got into a lot of trouble all the time. He hated the mass produced food, the cold rooms, the colder people and the occasional insults from the older boys that eventually turned into inappropriate sexual abuse. He went from being a straight A student to failing two years in a row. Then another year and then — fuck school. Fuck the system. That attitude came with new […]
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You or Me
I’m sitting, waiting and thinking of you somewhere that side thinking of me, we know tonight only one of us will remain the other will settle his final debt. In the distance I see a silhouette — War is raw backwards but raw is a hymn made of explosions, cracked skulls and splatter, the rat-tat-tat-tat of guns and kaboom! The notes to the score for a gruesome dance. In the distance what I saw disappeared — All of them said we’d get used to this life of people falling. But we never do, because it’s all fantasy, tales adorned with glory and power and fire and pride In the distance I hear screams and gunfire — This Magnum Opus by some unseen hand an abstract of tissue and human waste of towering machines crushing the soul and black birds bowing and picking at things. In the distance and here it went quiet — Alone with my thoughts and thinking of us of we don’t want to die but since we’ll die probably soon then let’s find a reason like a family or honour or fear. In the distance you rose, in the distance you fell.
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Dead Zone
As I take the call, I step into a puddle of water, maybe it’s piss, maybe it’s blood from a mutated rat — I don’t bother to look. It’s after six and past my afternoon confession time with Jomo, and his generous hand. I try to shake whatever I stepped on from my boot but it sticks like bloody fingers. Makes me wanna get to Saint’s even quicker, so I up my pace. Time to drown my sorrows or perhaps I’ll meditate on the insignificance of life. “You know how it is Coldman,” the Captain continues on the other side, running with the stupid joke I have heard so many times. “Crime don’t got no time.” I know that, just like anybody else in this godforsaken city, on this wretched planet. “I’ll be there in an hour,” I say. “Make it thirty.” We settle on forty-five, which gives me half an hour with Jomo. Thirty minutes to knock back a few. Thirty minutes to give him the lowdown on all the nasty shit I encountered today. The Cap had said that this one was especially hairy. I forgot to ask him if he meant that literally. Like I need more […]
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The South
Constantia Heights with her green belt Sparkling pearls and quiet comfort — towers Fynbos dunes lost in pallid plains and flats The restless Cape Doctor ruffles my hair Shakes people and tickles old oaks — scatters Relics and phantoms into the pale sky Ants wrestle desperately in the long grass I wrestle black ink on white paper We wrestle institutions of the past Hottentots Hollands mountains sits quieted Observant, dark, grey and distant — ponders The ocean’s weight / The swoop of a swallow Benedikt Sebastian
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Menan
Vivamus aliquet nunc sed enim vehicula rutrum. Vestibulum vitae venenatis nisl, dapibus lobortis quam. Vestibulum ante ipsum primis in faucibus orci luctus et ultrices posuere cubilia Curae; Integer gravida nec sapien nec sagittis. Aenean pharetra ut nunc sit amet tempus. Maecenas eu ligula at sapien porta pharetra. Adipiscing velit eget, egestas tortor. Aliquam porttitor metus et iaculis ultricies. Aliquam facilisis, nisl sit amet dignissim posuere, arcu magna tempor arcu, vitae sodales nisl lectus at nisl.
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