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Monthly Archives: December 2008

i want it all

i want it all

Twas a lonely road from last week to this day, sketchy, broken by silences, catty comments, lots of windows, a path that led to and from the city where police lights, destructive thoughts and hilltops fought aimlessly trying to secure their place in my intentions. I had sworn off the city’s blockades, the washing hanging over the balconies, the sullen stares of the young girls holding photographs of hairstyles. The bus rides, the taxi lifts, the tarred roads, the tarred lungs, the friends, the foes, the music, the clink of drinks, the smell of smoke, the presence of lines stretched along the cisterns. I spend my life in toilets. He was glad to hear my voice again, I could tell. This meant I wouldn’t have to wait long for the delivery. No he was sharp, fast, to the point, greeting me with a faint kiss just slightly off from my right cheek. They have to keep their distance, do you understand? They must allow just a little might from the respite of tainting their thick African lips against my sallow sweaty skin. I jumped out the car and headed back up to my vodka. The adventures which ultimately start in the suburbs, those suburbs that are tinged with red clay, green walls and petrol stations on every corner, and end here. I met pillar near the park, chefboy joining us later to catch up on news and reviews. P was out of luck, been thrown out of his own home, which are always temporary and fast won to find a new abode. I keep the thought of us living together again in tight memory but reality always provides me with adventures that fling me far away from his claws, thank god for angelic misencounters. I store scars in drawers.
Its every young lass’s right to fight with all their day long sight to keep the darkness under the bed, to keep the madness fed up and misled, to sing only when your favorite song is around, to tell those that care that their love is unfound.
A rush.
Rushing around the shopping centres, I walk with a slow lethargic pace, I lose packets and presents, i run into an old friend, ‘she says’ I don’t recognize you. I tell her I don’t care.
There’s so many rough versions of us around, aint there? We show a side to ourselves depending on the weather, the side of the bed, the promise of cash and of a better tomorrow. I show a side to myself dependent on…. To be honest I just got sick of it all. I got sick of the dress up, the prance around, the fake commentary, the greeting card, the image in the mirror, the pace, the race, the getting up and going to bed. I got sick of it all. I was in the mood for reinvention. Sick of my friends, sick of the newspapers, sick of the slow long line from here to nowhere. I was scared of somewhere. I retreated into myself, into sedatives, into those moments of subtle clarity and forced whispers. So what if I feel asleep in the middle of your conversation, it was boring me anyway. Too many bills to pay, to many laments to drown, too many wives to fondle and words to articulate. I just thought I’d drown myself in wine and powders. But I didn’t drown, I am still standing up, though tentatively holding on the side table. Too many books at my disposal, too many love letters scattered across the floor, too many problems with the country, too many faces to paint on with blood and sweat and pills and telephone calls. Disconnect those damn calls. Who the fuck keeps hounding me all the time. Leave me alone, let it alone, carry the corpse over the bridge and dump it at the bottom of the lake, where only the bloated remains will serve purpose for poetic endings.
I’m obsessed with those that are living in a similar vein. Those that hurt as much, those that will do anything for a few minutes of spontaneity for the deep severed price of pain. I spent 3 days awake running around the city, visiting ghosts, young couples came over to the coup, if I had a guitar I would have strummed it. The kitchen was severely gross. It had built up the disgusting grease and grime of weeks of visitors, the floor was so slimy I had to stand on newspaper to reach the pot, to boil the water for a cup of tea. Pillar just slept, his vulgar shape between dirty sheets and feint sunlight through the blinds. How long had we been carrying on like this, I do not know. There were small packets discarded everywhere, bits of baccy, old filters, R100 rand notes rolled up and a flooded bathroom. I had to leave and never come back.
The last day of the year and it’s a pity mess I find myself in. Unable to sculpt out thoughts on the script, unable to write these few words as I sit with a glass of red wine, 6 tranquillisers in a tin box, a substitute for the one gift I am try to run away from and looming deadlines fighting demons in the few hours of sleep I try to steal. I can’t remember the last time I really smiled. I remember being happy once, but it has been torn from me by greedy thoughts, by greedy poetry, by greedy ambition, by greedy desires. Dying to run is not an option. Dying maybe is. The rest seem to be full of smiles, things like parties and drinks to look forward to I’d rather burn my tongue with an iron. It’s a strange sensation getting old, all that energy resting on chance has been so rudely used and squandered that to start again requires the might of a mule and a box of 16 year old hearts eaten an hour before waking. Someone has promised me routine and rhythm tomorrow, I am going to try it. Goodnight bilo, don’t hurt yourself too hard. .

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must we burn?

must we burn?

 Twisted mister, hows a few pennies for the sister? She’s alone now behind those white bars, staring oh no, not at what you might think, mr wilde, not at the stars, not at the sheets, not at the wood, the gash, the hollowed out browned out, retribution of 15 seconds since the last hit, the last miss, she’s staring at you, miss, hows to give her a prick, you prick.
Yesterday was beautiful, dragon man came over and we played in the river, in the dam, in the murky water, pipes and bottles, the mud trying to sink me down amidst the reeds, the weeds, him swimming way out into the middle of that warm water, god I would love to be deep in that warm water, the middle of the birth, the defect, the long walk back up, the camera that was faulty and showed 3 sides to me, the me that wouldn’t stop talking and staring at those blue eyes, the ones behind the shades, the ones that understand then disrupt and put it together all again.

I’ve said farewell to the city for the day, I will not venture down there for a good few daze, its all good, I’m learning the craft, the fingers wrapped around the talent, that’s been neglected, sucked into the bottom of another bottle, blue and twinkling. .

I have to write a best of 08 and I can’t stand the thought of declaring – deciphering the past 12 months, was it 12, what month is it, what was best, please tell me, I cannot contest, I am not at my best, you’re right, its all a contest. I’m not playing, I’m taking a rest.. I’m aching to be on the grass again, running through it feeling the spiders in my veins, but the energy is all fixated on the centre of my forehead, somewhere right in the back, where my brain tries to decipher those washed out morse codes that don’t seem to belong and all those songs, oh god, don’t I sing them all day long. Just buy me a book about myself and I’ll shut the hell up, ok, but without someone to hold me, its all ranting and revamping the cranium in the heart in the head in my bed he told me he loved me for my brain and breasts, well at least that old boy’s honest, an honest prick. The valley of the black pig.

Sentimental mood I’m in today, maybe because someone told me its xmas next week. Next week, how strange, I’ve had enough next weeks, to be frank, how about a last week, like to remember one of those. Speed fasting, spacing out, spiking in and hats are enchanted dancers on my head, to contain the tremor. Did I tell you about this little boy who once stuck his fingers in the electrical socket to prove he loved me? Well he was 8 and had freckles and silver in his mouth. I never loved him, I never will, I will never have my black heart locket ate.. I heard a band from Mozambique they were oblique and I sat sideways on the couch and looked at my dragon friend and wandered how it all might end and if it didn’t would I die before my mother and would I cry for any other.
I hated working in that office, confined to a space, in the corner with all of the city bursting out of my fingertips. Dealers calling collect from reception, so much attention, I’d duck to the toilet 10 times a bloody day in order to come back and make sense of the tabloids. I try not to lie, but when I’m caged like that the lies pour out as thick as artery fluid, as thick as I can lay it on as long as I’m on then I don’t give a song. I can argue a lot, boy can I argue. Boy can I scare you. I scare myself, stuck in the back room, writing whilst the arguing grows louder, the boys alive, he’s a real live one this one, can’t stop me now, don’t even try, I’ll suffocate you with kindness with my darkness, with my exhaustion, my confusion, I’ll tie you up with my keyboards strings, I’ll make you come, I’ll make you sing. Lonely lonely, sitting around, sitting and contemplating, working berating. I walked through the heat this morning, it was a long walk, I heard Lindsay had a heart attack, he had a poker under his arm and a cigarette in his lips, he told me that whilst I sat on his lap. the straw is smoking and tomorrow will be a new day, tomorrow will be just the same, tomorrow is today.

I can’t control these simplistic moods, they will not stop, its me dying, its me flying, its me on the roof. Its me fucked again. I can see, you can see me, so lets just look, look like crazy, look like there’s nowhere else to look but here, but safe, but tame for just a few days. Yeats wrote ‘for certain minutes at the least that crafty demon and that loud beast that plague me day and night ran out of my sight’.
But I can see him, I can smell him, right? Can you? did anyone misspell yeats with yeast? By the way.
To be honest I’m worried about my friend, she’s fired and retired and messing up and she’s not me, she is my friend I will tell you again, she’s banging over the speed limit and I’m afraid she’ll regret it and I’m afraid I’ll ignore it and then remember it when it’s too damn late. Thnking about that time when I was happy when it came together, when the frames were made in heavan and the past was all forgiven.

I’ve had people ringing my door, begging me for just a little bit more, a little more pain, a little more shame, oh dearest Claire, won’t you come out and play the game again. I will try and hold this up, not give a fuck, not give in or out, sit in this cauldron, roll that heat sideways, flip it around, stick it in, come up with what needs to be told again, just for you, just for me, lets make it through, this strange weekend. .

blacks em hearts
i put a voodoo curse on you

i put a voodoo curse on you

 

Squalidness and squalidness in the city of Durban, police everywhere, trying to make a quick buck, the kids don’t mind, it aint gonna stop them going out. Short hair, short tempers, short drinks, skirts and short on attitude, the suburbs, the burden of holidays, the Winston was closed by 10pm as we drove up, gangstas on the corner and a feint light in the car in front of us, a prostitute and some old guy making out. Bump this shit. It all happened last week Thursday. I was worried about the Pillar, seriously worried, I had received this call, it was a brash, rushed call along the lines of, ‘somebody’s ratted me out, they’re on to me’. What the fuck, who’s on to you? What you on boy, where you been boy? The line went dead, I phoned around, all the kids on the block that might have had dealings…… but nothing, I was pretty blacked out by now, sitting in lexes flat, bleeding out my arm, an old 80’s movie on the tv, Nigerian voodoo masks on the wall, a buzzing in the passageway. Don’t ask me why I was so worried. I’mean fuck you know these types of guys, paranoid about every private number. But there was an edge to the voice that made me weary. I left the flat and decided to head down to the pub, it was round midnight now, I did a couple of snakes of blow, but left the stash under the couch cushion, camera in hand, appreciating the deep dark cool of the night. It was there I saw four police cars forming a kind of laager around that jack rabbits place, you know the one that shows rugby and serves finger baskets, these white cops were beatingup on these young dreadlocked dudes, banging them into the back of the van, mass hysteria, veins bulging out their forehead kind of stuff, me standing on the corner zooming in and out, not believing the lens view, when thwack, down on the tar goes my body, mouth filled with blood, cop dragging me up by my hair, stealing my camera, throwing me in a van, cop station, holding cells, film deleted, tooth missing, a long walk home.

But I got their names, they’re police reservists, they’re going down, motherfuckers.

Migraine. Wrinkled space……….. and black. Constipation vomits out my mouth and nose and ears. There are Earthworms crawling inside of me. There are eruptive ugly ejections in these marbled eyes. Staring at the mirror and pimples erupt onto the glass. One impersonator challenges the silence in an over over-zealous dance unsticking the broken platforms rusted discontent, melodrama and I feel this is a nightmare and I’m stepping out. Transfixed by these information codes. Music disintegration reflects old hands holding onto lightning.
I wander through the thick orange curtaining and get lost in the darkness. I get swallowed by some kind of poison. A shape and then I rise and scream, my ribs break open slowly. This shakiness propels me. It is driven and annoying. My stomach is upset. It is sliding. Hollow, I looked in your eyes this morning. They are not from this planet. I’ve asked you – where is it that you put away the keys. The remote for this gate. Heaven the second it opened – cracked deliverance of a maladjusted donkey king. Now heaven stands so visible. I see it there – it is in recall. The breeze is calling me a junkie. I am smudged. You just sat there. It was as if you couldn’t understand it – this moment. Bars of aluminum and black sliding across this homicidal monologue. This motion. My tears are burning me. – my whole life is expanding into a syringe. This landmine will not detonate. It is silent. It is a present for me. I am a present. I am. . . This landmine and I will detonate. And with explosion your eyes will be residue.

Oh yeah just a note, there is a rather unfortunately arrogant lady whose name rhymes with jail, a reborn christain type, totally self satisfied spreading vicious lies about your dear lady of the rant, don’t believe everything that you read nor that you hear breathed out of her presumptious manipulative mouth. Do as Jesus would and turn the other cheek.
Kisses/goodnight

facetoface

facetoface

And the beat goes on as they say, and I awake to a grey day, feint rain, faint brain, twenty dollars to my name, a brief to obey, friends to dismay, thoughts to array, a thousand lives to repay. I’m slowly coming out of the Durban blackout, wet streets, bloodied sheets, running out of Pep stores with stolen sunglasses, haggling with whores and pimps at the court houses. There is a car, they say, a golden sedan, with four aerials, that intends to catch out little gang, they have our digits the lucky pigs, now my cell lies on old digital tapes on my shelf, sans battery, sans a care in the world. Cannot be contacted, will not be obliterated. I took a red doll like a red pill and lost it on the dancefloor, penance penance, a pennyfor your thoughts dearest, don’t be mad with me, its all accidental.

Day one and the broken shadows on the wall give way to nothing cept mindless dwitherings flashbacks rock stars rehab hash smack passout black out yellow submarine a love in a wanting to change the world a not feeling enough of that deep deep pressure that manipulates at will that curdles the heart from within that makes the spirit want to castrate the very sad marrow of our disenchanted eyes the ones who made me of a born into this deviance the one whose sorrow bites intricately soothing when necessary flytingly forward when at will. And why were they all here to see me with fake love and care and concern and in order to hear the next chapter the next episode the next fantastic tale of ruin and regret and how am i going to get any more drugs and where is my doctor and payday and thewhite car that turn surreptitiously up the avenue on demand after a brief promise and lie and prostitution.

All i know is that i want to get out.get out of here,not as in yesterday when my only way of out was to lie spasmodic like a broken egg curled up in tasteless saliva crying like a broken donkey calf, alone in the madness and the dreaming. But doctor does not know best she does not know the cracked neck she does not know the yearning, she asks about bi polarism she asks about wanting necessity she asks but she doesn’t hear as they all do. I could sit in my own shit for 8 hours without anyone knowing. They would just placately call my name on the register to stand in line for little pills that i haven’t been allowed enough of. And where did my energy go. And where are my friends this all a trajic love song and i’m the one left wounded.
I guess its allright for a while to spas out and not think think too hard, think too much. It’s all right for a while to drop dead and forget and have a gass and a laugh at all the rest of them all running around turning upside down making a living loving and forgiving. I like to take a little holiday from it all, climb up the walls, black out in a question, try hard to fake a mention of those important details that keep the world a go go, that keep’s life on it’s habitual yo yo. Yeah i would like to get out of it now, if you’ll allow me too. Will you allow? Do i need your permission. Admission only granted you’re cured.

My hands are turning grey my brain is turning grey my toes are grey grey is the day that the lord hath made. There’s shit dripping in the bowl, my bowels are a mess, there is little regress, brendon says i am sounding better today whatever that means. He says i asked him to slip me a half jack. A half jack of what i bellow, a half jack would do me in somethin nice and mellow, ease the stress a little bit, get me better i say, take this nervous anxious exotically redundant pain away today.

But no one gives in not the lords at the inn not the people we trust in nor the people we don’t. And for one little drop and for one little pill and for a little bit of powder i;d give my last flower. Pushing up daisies like right madam i’ve got special for you, two pennies and a pound for a gram and a straw and you’ll be right up that merry go round will never want to come down everagain my little lady friend.

I guess every writer needs the intrigue the highs and the lows the psych wards the bastards the bitches the ill mouthed snitches. Every writer needs to know when to say yes and when to say no, when to apologise and when to appeal when to get out and when to feel ill, every writer has to have the time to put words to paper to put paper down and pick up the jury hurl abuse at the crowds stay that way forever or be one of the unfound.
I’d like to think i’m different i’d like to think profound i’d like that diamond on the wall to be real, i;d like to be found dead drunk and underground. Icare not for the lving i care not for sacred ground i care not for their medication i care not for their which way is way round. I care only for me the way i see things i care only for what’s in my mind i care only for the next high the next very big one where there world revoves diluted where the worlds problems and preciousness is absoluted in a self swilled blitz and a fit of nevermore the angel nevermore the sitter nevermore thepeace broker breaker. Oh no she’s at it agin the wrong imagery always wins out doesn’t it my friend just doesnt it but that imagery in its liquid form is so delerious so precocious so very very seductive that to escape the price is not too have lived at all. By far and large the people perspective perception predominates the circular circumanstances that are appearing overground and for what and for why is this waiting and for whom am i waiting for old woman like neptunes tendrils gathered in the neck sees me at will without care or concern for the dying for now i am like the dying i am like thepassing i am the passing for nothing can stop this spiral nothing can shield the bridge from th eocean thats just ahead that wants to be fed the great deciever they call it i call it the my only believer.
I’ve done it again got cooped up with damn hen can’t handle the stuff and just wanting it so much i will try and will break i will at will and at fake but there’s no stopping this now once will all it will take

I will continue tomorrow……………..

facetoface

facetoface

 

i love a good Tantrem

i love a good Tantrem

 

Sometimes there’s more good times than bad times

Dogs are bone crunching behind my back there’s no more smack there’s now just

Chills

I feel the wind and I leave the thrills

Behind

 

We spoke about cane and licking face

We spoke about a lot of that

How it was all just a disgrace

For our parents around the fireplace

 

THE SUN IS LIKE A BAD WIFE

 

She told me I had an international twang

I told her I was just hung up on the bang

She told me that my style is on the seedy side

I lied I told her I’m just a seedy side lined kind of guy

 

Stop worrying about me I’m fine

I promise

I’m waiting I’m just waiting for the next line

 

2 seconds to bust, break, jump out that fucking windoww not even able to spell wwindow just one floor below not even a floor ground floor ground zero ground art fuck face the facts figure it out and deal with it I thought you spat out all your food where did it go i thought you hated it i hated you everytime you opened your perfect mouth made me want to smoke another jay drink another beer hit another line shoot another river. bust this lonely business its full of bull its shite its unfucking romantic it doesn’t work i’m tired of being lonely tire d of being tired tired of tired wired dried and uninspired whats the deal lady bird, got a little bikini wax in your eye making you cry well cry on this brat smack my arm smack it real good keep it coming never stop don’t make the pictures stop stop step to the beat get out on the street and hitch to the city city girl hit the beach the burn keep those palm trees on the right and the concrete on the write on the concrete sell the laptop the camera the what else is there oh a little gold oh my god pinky ring is that all you got left you got left baby girl so shut it and buy it and bring it and hate it then crave it

 

its 3 months now more i guess stuck in the soliloquy how the hell did these letters get under fingers sticking to porous dumb dumb skin i am hearing the hearing the hearing the same song again so slow and beautiful and i miss that life so much so much can i even begin to foretell forete4ll foretell these adventures into the others that sit beside the dark consonant and back again and back again and want that again you were the dragon you are the dragging more like it sitting all coy in the corner waiting to burst ears and families and self extensions, yeah play it right at the back. this is me trying me on again, me putting the staples in the match sing it up the chorus was boras theres something in the shadow, in the splitter of that frame, missplelt it again that those eyes those deep etched eyes that penetrate so many dreams and are calling again and where are you and where are we to meet again and smoke and talk and look and not talk and know and know and know and that scarf around surrounds my neck as i knowingly eat that face and smile in my inner strength forever

 

the problem is you see i did it all already it created the just the pull that strong is so strong but it is a different time a different place a different way of moving on and i have to move on have to move on if i could do it all again i would if i could and i can and i will because i have to get into my cage again the one i create where i can create and not sit  a vulture in that tree that i thought was a dark deep stature of the end which is here and never machine forever together again never again

 

so happy for music tonight i just might stick the gun in my ear again in my mouth sideway slowly chewing where did the sunshine go broken tiles understand the crooked smiles miles around to go to get back will sudan my man my inner voice my my mai tai white give in the vein give in the foot give in give in give in the sanctuary of clipped wings the vomitorium

 

the track plays twice,

 

its good to know what youre about its good to know its good being able to write its good to be under the about below it too freezing to go

 

i caper the horizontal packed up and left with breasts of steel me mi mo si go the last one is better to know

mothers asleep in hr bed dreaming of a world full of pride

daughters increasing the state

blowing signals blowing kisses goodnight

 

i remember hen i watched you the smoke the misguided directions of the men with cards around their neck protecting me here there in the hereafter but the press on my back my front my iris instigating that forgotten offer of something to toke to share something something where have all my something’s gone slowly evaporating with the cancer ……….. ;. when i write to you i write with my eyes closed

and time reveals the shivers on my legs and arms waiting for that moment that prick these bad words this dumb discontent this obvious this is the hem still in intact oh

and time reveals the shivers on my legs and arms waiting for that moment that prick these bad words this dumb discontent this obvious this is the hem still in intact oh

Someone can sew it up but she’s not good well then i will just do the job myself write it off write it off

As another the beginning again did we hit pause i must have missed that one did i do it tonight just now oh sorry i’m pretty out of it didn’t mean to disturb just disrupt and abduct myself kill myself kill the shelf and justify myself

And where are you

the animals are lying on their sides i own them and they own me and happy we shall be happy we shall flee defected you  deflected me

 

its so sad to look into those eyes, those eyes that made me, those eyes that gave me, those eyes that can never save me, my mother always thought something good was about to come around and she was right

I miss you

How did we play those numbers you were good amongst the long necks sucked in sucked into the give me wine give me intravenous vine give me the black in the bars in the scars trust in you trust in the wheel against this chair and my stare in the reflection

tonight i think i might die again, god please let me die please let me disease this state cut a deal with the devil the disruption the itched skin gave me a scar on my spine

 

let thy be forever no more. this tunnel i will commence. Excuse me for my deviation there. It comes and goes. Normally in this sheath i am forgotten from all the times before and after. Shielded held and consumed the umbra i role played it when i was younger in dirty digs squats Mexican guitars kitchens falling in i must go back back back to the start what a journey ahead of me

where’s the voice gone

they pacified me for 10 seconds. held the broken wrist against sharpened canine, felt sick, misunderstood, dried and thrown apart and no focus but so much clearer and where where where do we meet again, give me the time, i can feel its rights now, and its me staring at you and you you you knowing we are together

and the sadness, and no good better stronger words and no language and no remembrance and so much of it, and i cannot write anymore for now i don’t think i  can ever type again, i don’t think i will ever be able to feel again, and i don’t want to believe again, and i and i and you know me, you told me in the song song song i was only consuming the you know what i mean because we do and i miss you and lets get together and smile

i want to smile what does smile like I’ll give it a mike and we’ll be all right

 

‘i always wanted to eat glass with you again but i never knew how to toy without was tripping on the eels. Venus they make or break you under the violent sky with defensive beaks but you try to escape through my eyes i was afraid through an ice pick of ashes looking in

everyone looks the same everyone turned away used to the noose they obey

and whoever said that they would scatter separating the mother from child she can bear a broken eyelid claiming maggots from the sty and traces that she weaves she can skin you all alive

all the children go grounding their jaws your sweet smell of your toothless come kazaar

and the river will break make an ocean from this lake as they siphon off all of life’ tmv

 

uuurghh, what would i do without you, fcuk, you know the ripping skin feeling, i got it bad, bad, this week, the displacement, the knowledge, the dissertation, intercession, uncannyness, its all their in the background, i would show you an angle but i’m scared, a veracious account into london dirt, i manage to twine the Elysium round my neck with improbable incantation. Synthetic mutterings in my dreams, 8 guys standing on the stairs leading to the basement lacerate their throats with aphorism and proverb. there seems to be nobody left to talk to. it’s as if the perspicuous have gone to the earth – we are left with dexter symbols on these pages which will glow only when we will. have they taken all the ears?

 

i see you

i see you

 

 

 

 

 

Last night was cold, dismal, dismantled, tried to talk but it seemed no one on the other side was listening. The strange thing was that they were only about 2 feet away from me, how can friends and family  become strangers in seconds. I look into faces and see disease, sadness, madness, failure and contempt. I see confusion too. I feel confused too. I took a walk through the farm late at night. Wrapped up in an old second hand blue rain jacket I had bought in Cape Town many years ago. Cape Town is back in my mind, the trouble, oh Trouble, what a feeling, its one that is sewn into my dna –  just like Fela Kuti’s real name, Anikulapo, meaning one who holds death in his pocket. I wonder if there is a connection. The farm is silent except for the old mushroom boiler, which is giving off a sweet smell like good tobacco, I see a shadow of a man in the distance, as he comes closer he tips his hat at me, I nod back. The hills are falling into each other drunkenly, god I need a beer. Move to the country and find not one country tavern, what a laugh. I hang out at a hotel on some nights at a deserted bar, struggling and slurring with conversation to visiting salesmen in town for some conference, they buy me a glass of red wine and I entertain them with my tales that stretch and warp and then fall pointlessly into my lap as I sigh and excuse myself to the toilet. Thank the dear lord for toilets. The ground is muddy and the rain comes down harder, I take my jacket off and stand momentarily in this shower, begging for retribution, salvation from this stupid curse. I will bury the bottle tomorrow, I will let the blood congeal and form hard spots in my veins, then they’ll see. They’ll see that it’s not the rush but the block that causes one to scribble these thoughts. I am scared. I am grateful. I pass Bongisiwe’s house. It’s a wooden two bedroom with chickens in the yard. Loud gospel music is swimming through the windows and a faint light seeps through. It makes me happy to think that her family is inside. Bundled up, her doing her homework, her mom feeding the baby, her father watching the news on TV. I want to go in. I want to ask them if they can change the colour of my eyes and make it all right again. But I don’t because I don’t want to make it right, I want to make it wrong and therefore I am wrong….. apparently. I sneak into one of the containers and watch the spores growing in the hay, soon they will be fungi and people will eat them. It feels magical. Tomorrow I will feel magical, tomorrow I will begin again. I will move, I will smile, I will tell Suzy and nick that I love them desperately and want them near. I will travel great continents to hold them close to me, let them feel this black heart bleat, let them know that I am in control; I am the maker, the marker, the mast and the helm. How do you begin again, which moment dictates the direction? I am standing now in the big green field next to the lake. The boat has been set free. I sit and listen to the night. I sit and wander what to think; now that I have destroyed all that I love and love all that I hate.

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flying rants caught in the umbraella

flying rants caught in the umbraella

Let’s get one thing straight about dealers and film making. The film maker has a certain level of responsibility too much perhaps placed on oneself, just as the writer. The temperature must be high, the emotion distorted and intuitive, the pen inking but the mind thinking and when this mind is wrapped up in thoughts, no good will come of it. I can read lenny bruce and laugh, pop dolls and sleep, drink beer and thirst, seek lower ground but sink. These catch twenty twos. Get out of the city, go back wander in to obscure downtown bars, tell my story, share another’s. The downtown hotel is my favorite joint, I am a regular the only white girl with a car that can pop in unannounced and be treated like royalty. My friend their, Jacob, lives in point. He’s been living there for years; he’s a pimp with 8 girls on his cards and a total honey. He buys me shots of Russian bear and we talk about malema, how to smuggle cocaine out of the country and my old acquaintance tiger. He’s seen her around, thought I haven’t made contact in years. I saw her wandering around Morningside one day but all I could give her was R200 and an apple, Im always broke, most think it’s from the narcotics but its more because of karma, you win some you lose some, I give away a lot and steal as much back. I am giving up making films and writing I see no more future in it and as my forty deadline draws closer I want to regress to safety of the unseen and inane but impossible for If I try to work behind a bar, sell energy saving light bulbs, apply for jobs at lovelife or plead for money from new foes its never enough. We are living on the breadline and I don’t have a home. Hell I’ve got ideas, hell yes I can write, type and even spike but , I want the magnifying glass, the limitless freedom of the beachfront, the girl I was ten years ago and a song that I can finally commit to. No hard blows just strong blow and thank the heavenly father for that temporary prick of sanity, he comes at a price but boy am I consumer

and have the brusies in the elbow to prove it.

 

practising good conduct is a step on the noble 8fold path 2 nlightenment

practising good conduct is a step on the noble 8fold path 2 nlightenment

Just got back, oh what a day what a day. This day of aids and they came from all corners first up my newest dahling along the road with his scraggy hair and forehead and laugh and fireflies to the wind, mongrel dogs, empty birdcages, rusting pumpkins and ceramic pipes. He read me my problem and my solution through his red Indian medicine cards, two birds came up the eagle and hawk, which says a lot since I constantly find myself three stories off the ground in any given situation especially these months. Focus, the goal is at hand, attack it, watch over it, circle it, mother it, lover it, forget about it. My lady friend and I found a strange shack where old drunks gather and we participated in some beer with the hardened sages, then back to the home of her infants and all hell was breaking lose and I find it difficult to connect with kids, though they seem to like me I can’t feel blessings for the young only pity even though the snakes are lethargic in their glass and my keys are missing. Our squat has failed, we all lied, cheated, got bust and got angry, we are dispersed once more merry wanderers trying to find a reason and a pillow to lay our heads. I thought I would die by forty I now sense it is sooner. Down in the city, sharpi was at least on time for once, a decent enough score, a bit dirty but the cooker in the bathroom did the trick and success on the first prick, that mellow gold and burgundy mixing in the measuring tube, and then floating in a mock warm bath, dropping the camera into the water, submerging myself with momentary bliss and a decision that I cannot make the white mountain. I am still an initiate, no more no less, I am unable to meet demands with a couple of rands in my pocket, I’ve lost everything I cared for and can’t get it back, can’t work, can’t focus, can’t love, can’t give, can’t receive, only the lead on the corner gives perspective, only one word from the likes of mr nwa himself who proposes to write a story about the black heart and myself for the weekender and mine hasn’t stopped, it is flowing into wednesdaze but in this state I can commit to paper the banal, embrace the space cadet and live up to my lot as little miss blackout kid. Adieu Papillion!

goose stepped by the major

goose stepped by the major

Nobody got given a single thought to slip in the conversation so over it’s ended. And we beat around the bush, I aint XXXXin with the reason to believing this question that keeps popping in the mouth like a pill. Statutory rape only happens for a few seconds, I thing, that’s what jhb has been like. It rips open your eyes, straps you down and makes you work your ass and then fucks off with a dumb grin on its face. The Muslims sing every evening. God knows what they sing about – kill the white men, fuck moffies, fuck – ballet dancers, then for a few sacred moments the sun reflects so brightly against your lashes that you feel stung and betrayed by your atheism. There are as usual many old people that live in my block. I seem to attract the over 60-age group. I was walking to the shop the other day orange umbrella hitting the discarded trees growing out of degraded schools when I saw an old fucked up statue in a garden. So I stole it and it now lives in mine, my sangoma. Only I would find religion in stone. Speaking of gardens I pulled many a weed out the other day, 3 packets to be exact, only to watch them multiply after the last weeks rain. I miss my fish. I nearly adopted a stray baby black kitten, which looked like an emaciated Gobolina. This old woman came knocking at the window and said her older cats had been jealous of it and would I kindly take responsibility for it otherwise the SPCA would assume duty but then Tax my flat mate I never see said he was allergic to the feline fraction. Two days ago I spoke to my landlady and enquired after the whereabouts of the kit. She told me the Friends of the Cat had come to fetch it. She told me she was glad I did not adopt it as the woman who was trying to get rid of it had told her in confidance that it was mentally damaged and would not stop pissing on her bed. Thank goodness I am not planning to get married anymore Mojitos and pancakes, lots of rum and cane in the mix. Oh bother oh bother what can be done about this damn white mountain I’m becoming unable to climb. Its the simple things that count, the simple ones that are so hard you break your milkteeth on em. The boys of Durban, all those boys, bless them. This is my last will and testament to a weekend that is becoming later and later, someone just told me its aids daze. You want some? I got some.