DISEASE IN PARADISE…

Peace was our lunch and…
  Breakfast & supper was our inmdulgence in passion
  Strawberries were the taste of her kisses,
Caresses & touchings were expressions of our intimacy…
Peace was our lunch and…
Paradise was sordomised by me choosing not to condomise
  my lustful moods brooded harzards that were
    Covered and hooded with deceitful looks that we thought was love…

See love was harassed by frequent penetrations
Exaggerations of love making: love making has love but we were covered
with lust, from dusk 'til dawn with this stranger i met 2 days ago in the club we indulged
in a moments pleasure, thrusting, applying pressure
  heavy breathing,heart pacing, body kisses, sweat drippin', busy licking
She…she screaming passionately…
But that is now finished we are weeping…crying,regretting…

'Cause peace was our lunch and…
  Breakfast and supper was our indulgence in passion…
But now peace is our dream and…
Breakfast and supper is immune boosting food
  'cause in paradise we found a disease
who brought it is still a mystery…
ALL WE KNOW IS WE BOTH HAVE H.I.V…

Sweet dawn

I drifted out of the scare
into the bright sounds of a thousand
sweet slicing chirps
I opened my eyes to see through my
minds eye
all the busy yellow weavers had taken a
moment to point their heads towards my room
through the face of the tiny curtain
crack
the morning smiled her blue strip
and two gentle jolts of new light
squeezed out the darkness
yielding my spirit
into a fresh appreciation
of the sweet new
spring day.

18 Sept 2007

Words,words

Words;words;words;
Uttered by tongues tightned in reins.
Words evoking ink stains of thoughts,
and paged in emotions.

Words ;words;words.
The flaming sword of convinction;
of my convinction.
The convinction of my unspoken word.

sms

sms serviced, grimaced blue teeth nation
forward slashed, shortened
English language mortified
by thumb tapped, speedy communication
so mix it media, mms attachment much cheaper,
easier to coo into keys,
say it all
for seventy five cents
tickers, in the tappers world
where great starts with gr
and ends with 8
and a faceless world we are
our youthful character new,
one hundred and sixty, characters
and then page two
misunderstood by old.
and by the young, without,
only few.

21 May 2007

Magic hand

Hey Taxi man, Hi-Ace king!
Smiling in your death box, carelessly driving,
recklessly flying on the shouldered freeway, just as you please,
your passengers wear faces grimly serious, never at ease.

In between your rush for fee, your quick five Rand,
please, show me where I can find
a puppet dangling arm attached to a hanging magic hand.
I want to know how to never use my review mirror to hardly look behind.

So I can come and go when and where I want.
Just like you, by dropping out the hand so magic,
the hand which allows you to cut off, push in, abruptly halt,
without the slightest respect for general public.

Armed with this too, will I also be allowed to drive without fear?
Stick it out my window, hang it on the door.
It gives you a special licence no matter whose at your rear.
After all, rules not so important, the rank is near!

Business should market this magic hand, well it will sell, by the loads.
Red hat flopping your bright white vehicle packed with more than sixteen.
You are the gods of  Ethikwini city, princes of  urban South African roads.
White wall tyres spinning, between work, you keep your Toyota crystal clean.

But I want this wizardly item, the magic hand.
To use it like you, standing as one.
Branded a law unto your own,
under some seats a shining gun.

Conveyer of the labour of the land.
Taxi man, no indicator flickers
while I read your witty bumper stickers.

You have shown us,  revealed the power
and the wonder,
of that magic hand.

4 May 2007

Traffic jam

Start, stop, push brake!
Tyres roll, fragile tempers flare,
lonely eye sockets helplessly stare.
Counting nuts on shining bumpers,
stuck in fruit caked jam going slowly,
maddeningly, stop. Painstakingly, going
now where.
Except to where the song on the radio takes you.
Swimming behind the wheel,
in rivers,
of miles and miles of sea spewed motor industry,
It’s no freeway today.
Blue Monday!
Trapped tight
inside four air bagged doors,
made by corporate giants,
who hold heavy duty meetings.
Behind German driven conference walls,
and American four by fours.
Smiling, chasing the bonus that owns us;
to motor scheme how to release, per day
more than three hundred more incentives today
tiny, medium, large, Japanese machines,
workers threatened strike, for better pay.
To spew out more technicolour jam on the skid stained
tarred, nervous silver grey plated,
black rubber strained network.
Into already cluttered bread binned
un tamed,
machine hungry
road raged nation.

May 2007

Glue sniffer

There’s my street child
but for grace.
I thought,
snot encrusted face.
Wondered where
glue he bought.
Rural escapee, township despair,
matted hair.
Who mattered not
at pedestrian’s stare.
Reduced, nothing more
maddened look
Torn brown hand me downs,
hanging,
Bones on hips,
one hand from air to mouth
pointed  fingers on thumb
banging lips
demanded, unfed.
Poverty stricken authority,
dirty fingers, maddened laugh
clutching empty juice plastic, filled half,
Stringy snot coloured glue
dented, cheeks, covering rim,
dead eyes, black dim
against city sky,
dirty orange sunset hue.
They ask;
“Did you
give him money
to buy more glue?”

22 May 2007

City Lights

If I could buy a new life
Then I probably would
I’d buy a life in which I owned a penthouse
Overlooking Jozi, Pretori or some other like city

Where late at night when all was quiet
I would sit in the dark
And in the background play my favourite tunes… softly
I would enjoy my beautiful view
And reminisce on memories that never were

Then I’d wish I could buy a new life
In which this sense of longing was gone
That hollow feeling no more
And all my questions had answers

But if one could buy a new life
Then one probably wouldn’t afford it
And I’d be sitting here
Writing about what I would do
If I could buy a new life