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become a witch

I scare myself

My insurance plan a planned assured apocalypse

Damaged image in the mirror

A promise of two for free

Impipi alert paranoid need

I love you I saved me burn marked effigy

Beach washed memory blood stained anatomy bruised loser no one listens refugee


I’m Gelhorned


Swept aside side of the road across from the convenient bank

Hanging off tracks

Asking to show him how to shoot one day

Ja bro that’s goiong to happen

Where do you stay

Is all you CAN say to break the silence

I am silent

Mumbling aobut past indiscretions

Yes mam you were very drunk yesterday

I didn’t realise they’d notice

I smell of ammonia and vinegar

Some toxic moonlight mess holes in the lace curtain

Ashes on the glass

The pillowcase was stained when you rang and offered me a gram for free


i’m Gelhorned




Delirium in softest chiffon clouds these kitchen walls

At the mention of you

You’ve moved away just like you always wanted too


We nodded our heads respectable respectively I’m sure you’ll be just fine

If love be a dove I’m shoved in a stole every time


Weighted and wined we dined yeah we danced

Like we’re old something new your patience in tethers

building little pieces of puzzle together


who was the  first to pass out?

I was never one to give out

sweating stars shooting up in my heart may have sinned

so you move on don’t look back

it’s a another lie that you trapped me in

don’t forget

that night on the couch on the street by the bay

I bled

You read

Like we were

Like we said

We’d obey


I’m just a kitchen dreaming of you

And the light that flickers under you

And I wish like we said

I’d get over you

But I do then I don’t

I’m too inside of you


A sigh defined by the last hit to last

Was a scared bird flying into panes

Of reinforced glass


Next time you’re around why don’t you stay for a bit

We’re living in the last days

Hear it I can feel it too too much anger into stagger

I flew over the states and you slit your wrists over it


I’m just a kitchen dreaming of you

And the light that flickers under you

And I wish like we said

I’d get over you

But I do then I don’t

I’m too inside of you

Cant you feel that I’m dying my heart

Is diseased fucked as fucked as they thought

No more vein left in crying

The fact that I’m dying


I’m dead


Cant you feel that I’m dying my heart

Is diseased fucked as fucked as they thought

No more vein left in crying

The fact that I’m dying


I’m dead





eloquence at its best from mr hoare and so pertinent to the historical spew of nonsense we have to crawl through on the current s.a scene…give me the present or future – the past is a cultural crutch for affirmative artistic invalids dying on development take aways eaten in 5 star restaurants whilst watching another episode of generations and staging the equivalent of winning a lost lotto ticket


lost notes

Whilst working in East Africa as a volunteer for VSO, I had occasion to visit the Hollywood club one Sunday night. At that time, 25 years ago, you didn’t see many dreadlocks on the streets as there were stigmas associated with the Mao Mao. Rastas were stereotyped as “Banghi Smoking Wahuni” throughout East Africa (Hooligans who smoked weed).


from the original 1925 manuscript version of his completed General Theory of Relativity to a postcard sent by Einstein to his ailing mother Pauline on 27 September 1919.

Written just after he had heard that astronomers observing the previous May’s solar eclipse in West Africa had seen “star displacements at the sun’s edge” thus reinforcing a key prediction in his developing theory, it says “Dear Mother, Good news today… N A Lorenz has telegraphed me that the British expeditions have definitely confirmed the deflection of light by the Sun. Unfortunately Maja has written me that you’re not only in a lot of pain but that you also have gloomy thoughts. How I would like to keep you company again so you’re not left to ugly brooding.”

“history is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake”

‘ God is a shout in the street.” ulysses

Piero Manzoni went towards the negation of colour altogether. Art he argued emphatically “should be totally white – or rather totally colourless – removed from all pictorial phenomena… a white which is in no sense a polar landscape, an evocative or even merely beautiful pictorial, a sensation or a symbol, or anything else of the kind; a white surface which is a white surface and nothing else… indeed, better still, a surface which is and nothing else: being.


American constitution Benjam Franklin was asked about how to provide best security for the nation. His reply was   “Any person who desires security above liberty deserves neither.”

But is this how it has to be? Does the artist really face a choice between losing their talent to drugs, or their edge to sobriety? in this country neither, you either bend over or kill yourself bending over backwards



de Crack house

It’s strange how sickness feels so right,
as the only true reaction to any action.
when dreams and release are paid for in producing self-loathing amounts of crap.
because norms are heavily taxed forms to avoid.


oh contraire, no attack at all, and as much as i can surmise from what i feel no negativity…. only sadness from both my own and ….and our ilk s’ debacles. if art and the magic true artists spin are not meant to be infused, enjoyed and shared then i would keep my opinions to myself. if from your implication to my life and comments i deduce is a suggestion of the kind of world you would like to live in where we don’t care and celebrate or even weep and mourn and encourage each other, an emotive apartheid of real feelings then i guess its your choice…and the good ship  has finally hit that icy burg… but as another human being and feeling very close to those very same dichotomous alienating/pleasing/subservient/insecure and reclusive reruns of this tirade then no i won’t keep them to myself. yes i do think he enjoys his addictions as i do, we all do, how can you not. you’re entwined in a world that is able to knit together experiences and trances like no other…….its fuckin sexy, its the height of self everything,,,,its the perfect Fitcaralldo moment….but but… but… larger the unravelling of every precious thing you hold dear is the price. thus my ‘the greatest love affairs always end reflection’….reflection, better to have loved and lost, but better yet to lose the whole sense of being loved and in love with these kinds of obsessions than the indifference you have to sacrifice in order to attain them. personally i don’t thnk its worth it. not to anyone with anything to give and those of us, as … i believe, who hold such strange enchantment its a seductive and elusive and fleeting idea that can never materialise unless you jump back into the branches of that faraway tree to ground yourself and put experience into prose. it suiting him is metaphorical meant in no other way. but yes the suit is a size too small anyway if you would want to get into semantics….i’m a big boy now. and yes i have a lot to learn but not about the present at hand, it’s detonated and all that will be left is a once loved vision as residue

i’ll buy from you too

black dog bitter

in assuming you know who i am

i’m addicted to routine is it worse now on or off the game

it might just be except the same

things that used to happen

hurt so much more and handwriting mixed is as confusing as before

if i hold my pen into the night maybe i’ll sleep allright or just die tonight

still not the same it depends on flow, thoughts that won’t stand up in any court of law

fight the good fight don’t need no help

keep your hands up defend yourself

when flowers drown


a desirable case

desist – silent my love hanging

hangers..hangers on

resinging songs about singing

songs listening to songs

oh song

i’m always so very wrong

as the influence is stacked the case the case

a so sorry face from a distant place

we just ran

then to sit and listen again

they insist

i resist


i glimpsed into their liver

today i have seen

two dead lizzards

and cigarette effigies

sense of smell important but bad

i’m sicking up my sick


‘It’s strange how sickness feels so right,
as the only true reaction to any action.
when dreams and release are paid for in producing self-loathing amounts of crap.
because norms are heavily taxed forms to avoid.

I wish the world could just let go, and let me flow for a while.
I wish my armS were strong and could lift me up for a while;
to give my feet a rest from the ground.
to rather hang on to something touching it, than being near it myself.
Because the ground smells like iron
and iron smells like pain.
And my head hurts when I refuse to notice.

Hope you’re fine and hope you’re well
dvcxxewwqssvwhope you find a place where better grows taller than worse.’ some not or email from someone i cant remember

cars with a view

too many forged scripts  count on one hand not enough I guess I’m losing my favourite crying game but sunday night was an armed breeze filled with hills the astute sky the dip and dives the ants under the keyboards, laughter surrender says  a mighty truth for the warrior who wishes some finality over the sheets in the early evening..drunken tears spilt on stupid words we all prayed for a sunny day and we found it in glasses like summer us cope with our lives

Pity the fast word they warned not even the anorexic dog is denied the tension of these human wounds stomach aches with us all unite, I spill rebuttals I then have to clean  the bruises vacant up we never shift or forget we just indulge digest and regret…how fair the shift and how fair the fair?

I keep a mind journey that falls from control and those insults mean well  little well when I’ve given the here a better thought I thought too much and then betrayed the cds trying to be dvds we spun them on something that was meant here to stay and like those 8 tracks they still all go away

This fight on fight off fight the fight you figure it out you have to finally see that  I’ve made up my mind like the glass the windows see much more than me..i wrote my last note ive cashed in my last phone I spent 12 years smoking and digging that bone away a special piece of  how does the Cure sound?…oh yeah I made myself so sick.. I wish Id stayed asleep today

Wrapped wondering aloof in this special space –  a blue casio tone to approve

And sheer pleasure dances in circles as if by telepathy whilst rampant grumbles echo a sullen bed because  a head is trashed with lack of empathy

Beauty drips out the electrical morning for those lost loves

She kept asking for an opinion one she knew could never be found

And I  slipped down below her panty line Id like to approve your surrender as you bopped your head bowed in the most incorrect time….how?…fuck two fuck three fuck four lying on the floor

You were never mine

Shooting up rat poison, strychnine and arvs hoping for some smack somehwhere in this mix

i'll try anthing thrice


Car guards at the post office xolani thulani

Bail 27 august – mad rush

snorted then through the rest of the shit away

hoping xolani gets a suspended sentence and is back on the prowl tomorrow

don’t feel like the mission to the city


Sat in bank on a Monday with 50 pounds to my name in change

Etchings of pickwick papers

On the back

The queen in front so regal

But that didn’t make it legal to exchange



I forget the first in line

Was my best friend

We used to mingle in the park with the others all the same

I could climb trees higher

And had desire but that drive has left me ashamed



Durban cityscape at night



Backing car over 20 schoolkids in uniform around 11-13 year olds

Black kids. Very black kids. Fat. Having to step over them to get out of car. Feeling their death. Eyes staring at me.


Being dropped off at a rehab which just consisted of shelves in cupboards where bodies were sleeping next to each other


Chased by wild animals in a 2dimensional scale

Flying along dover coastline on a bicycle

Being an ultimate victim in a nazi camp run by young ‘revoltionary teenagers’ in Germany setting up a ‘organic’ new world type society. Main street life haily tattoos addictions vile shite waste of space we are






give me oil in my lamp keep me burning

The rain was like iron bullets on the apartment’s factory type window, except larger with black aluminium frames and loose locks. If your final steps are these windows then take a few back and remember the open plan micro loft room with its high white walls, the torn poster of nevermind the buzzcocks on your right to your left – a web of wire as a headboard filled with black hearts and silver and scarves and long leather gloves in front of a queen sized white bed covered with the flag of Swaziland and King Cetshwayo. A side of kitchen, a black belt in the sink, a couple of signs of other dilly dallying of the spirit cleaning out in jik and water, a shower and basin to the left, out we go. Let’s face it – it’s an empty gallery. The lifts, the new ones then the old ones, then the fire escape – a double wide metal door swings far too buoyantly open, the sliding door pass, the night staff at reception,  a slightly guilty look, two lazy guards watching your movements in twelve different areas on a large flatscreen, a ridiculously ostentatious swing out front door – 4 metres long pushing you to the pavement, Pata Pata the restaurant, Chalk Café – the Bioscope independent Cinema, fluorescents on every corner. More Security and then straight back to your vehicle, if you’re lucky and a keen observer or modern cultural anthropologist a dusty black kid on a skateboard might whizz past you…and then fall over….or there might be a party of some sorts or an arty opening…or closing night spilling out onto the streets…. . However if your name was Eric or Max or whathitsname and especially if you were a Nigerian Eric or Max or whatshisname you would not taking this little trip through the grand entrance up the stairs through the doors to the empty gallery that protects the door  to Main Street Life’s real inner sanctum.And it would most certainly not be at any kind of reasonable hour whereby  the residents and businesses would still be abusing each other….and the mood was gay….No your entrance and its timing would be very different.


Click, push, giggle, slam, click, turn, push open. The mood immediately is serious. This shit is serious. Its 2am, I’ve been waiting since 8pm when he told me the long drawn out story when he would be getting off, then stuck in Sandton at 10, countless smokes, positions sculptured by sheets, lame movie…lame lame lame movie and why now on a Friday night. I can still hear the last of the arseholes from the Monster Munch party on the roof. Rabid and hysterical fucked on a mixture of cheap vodka hidden inside Russian Bear bottles – thighs slapped into fake leather leggings and stamina…my fucking god, whats the fucking time now? 1am, ‘ dude listen I’m sorry but this is fucking ridiculous, its cool I’ call someone else (but he knows I wont), you know.

–          Give me 20 mammie, the rain is very hard here.

Whatever, I have to wait. I check the syringes on the kitchen counter, search for rogue cotton balls with a trace of gear, bump that, I hate reusing anyway..i hate been that desperate, but its not even like that, its just. Well you don’t even get a rush so ….whats the time?

Max’s number lights up on the cell. ‘ are you hear?’

–          How much you got?. ‘I told you I wanted three grams, I got 700, I’ll give you the two on Monday, promise’

–          No mammi, the rain is too hard. 900, otherwise I can’t come out all that way

‘yeah yeah I got 9, just hurry’

I don’t got nine. I got five. I’ll sort it out when he gets here.


It’s the same black golf that pulls up around the side street from the Main Street hotel/apartment whatever the fuck they want to call it, nightly around 3am. I’ve seen him lurking earlier, maybe at around 6am, or after a serious night he can be here by 8am, before most of the Main liners are one or three of the respectable lot of working people who somehow got swayed into thinking that the building was actually cool and reflective of their coolness and hipness and we made it ness…the ones who got sidetracked…who couldn’t leave their old real life living on the breadline in the middle of the shitty city centre soul and move to the suburbs to bathe in the bliss of clean white commercial and successful south Africa. I wonder sometimes who are the real rebels? Those that stayed and deluded themsel ves or those who moved and excluded themselves?

Dish dash, down the stairs, Elo is at the ATM, he needs a few packets of sunshine as well, I’ll drop a few lines into my spoon and speedball, I decide on whimsy. The side door bangs behind me. Fuck it, its raining to fuckery outside. Slimslamming the rest of the rogues tucked up safely in their cells, I dart into his car, already trembling with andrenaline. Nothing I mean nothing feels the way those 10 minutes before you slide that blunt eye into tarnished skin, hit the red and change your personality forever. The chest heaves violently you can hardly talk, string words together, don’t ask me any fucking questions. Let me concentrate. Let me make sure there’s no cotton on the tip,  make certain the exact spot of the last exact hit. Don’t interrupt me. The people who have witnessed these strange demonstrations of power plays within my little tomb know all this. They sit silently on my bed or at the metal table stolen from the back courtyard of an old dump of a building that will soon house popular tartlets and deluded designers, film makers,  more and more wannabees – a perfect combination of modern day horrors wrapped and packaged without any sense of infinity. They’ll sit on the uncomfortable black plastic chair and either cut up white lines on a Modest Mouse cd or sort through really shite weed bought from Rasta at the shebeen all the while stealing sad glimpses of me at the kitchen counter preparing my respite from the pains of my head heart and body and then when the bathrobe belt falls effortlessly to the floor and the syringe hits the bloody muck in the sink and I take that first breath of buzz, I’ll look at them and finally engage.

There’s rumours rumours everywhere. People glance and people stare. Doors stay locked whilst tongues still cry we’re here for you when you’re ready lies.

Its insane but you start off with a little piece of nothing, you add some black, some definitive articles, you get a job, a to do list, you creep forward ever so slightly, you’re happy you think, the scars have faded, the eyes remain blood shot but those around you those who’ve know you think you’re doing well. It’s the best you’ve looked in a long time I was told by a dear friend. Fat I thought. No I mean it. That’s the thing its always well meant, aint it. It’s a maroon cover of concern of feelings that jump and sliver into new resolutions. You lift your chin a little higher, you write you think much better, you strive a little harder and then one day kinda out of the blue there’s a shift in your mind, its so gloriously delicate its almost invisible, it’s a quiet thought that multiplies into a philosophy that you’ve always known will keep you safe, will keep you sane. Its an intangible desire to disappear to separate yourself from the scurvy of waking up falling asleep aspiration ambition empathy conversation other people and life. It’s a silly desperate perfect answer. It’s a slight shifty satisfying waster.  It undoes all you’ve done. It unravels all that has been wound. It sedates and delivers you to spaces explored by few, it comforts, it condemns you, it frightens and repels you. Its width height girth knows no boundaries, there are no asylums, no scrapes, no tears,  no sex, no day , no night it is an infinite suggestion that defies religion science and sense. If you’ve pandered to its whispers if you’ve braved the backlash the withdrawals the despising looks and whimpers of others, if you’ve thrown away all your respect your cares your loves your titles your works your awards your future then you are rewarded by access into its loom into a numb cavernous dimension which sets you apart for ever from everyone else. They say its seductive, its more than seduction. Seduction is sickness, its flesh its desire its tangible its renumerated, it’s a currency – but this this my friends and foes this is myth this is fantasy this is more and better and cleverer and distinct and insatiably pure and it bellows achingly loud it devours and feeds you with every delusion vision and vice you have ever known and all that  you will never know until you try it.

Have you ever been beaten raped or reprimanded so badly that you have purposely and momentarily lifted your mind from the situation and swam som ewhere else? Have you ever wittingly divorced the truth from the untrue under duress? That’s the place where we succumb we sink, and we sink whilst inhaling the last breath of every shamed warrior and we die detached and disposed. And most of all we die.

Its half past noon exactly. I’ve been up all night up all day, agitated beyond belief. The kind of mania that comes from rereading books I’ve reread betrothed to arguments I’ve argued to pointlessness, to routine to too many hours too many minutes too many fucking days too many fucking pointless hysterics and the blood is now dripping off my arm onto the bed, onto the sheets, the pillow my long sleeve white cotton shirt, the music the tv the radio the extras all seem to be well rehearsed, me I’m sliding I know there’s no romance in this stupid entanglement of a tattooed guy to my right and a large girl stuck between the pillows at the back. He stares at me and mutters something about turtles and water and rain and I stare into the sun and recognise for a second that he actually wants to fuck and that’s like the most hilarious proposal I could think of right now, besides, Mac 2 Durban division will be at the petrol station in like 10minutes and I’ve got to get out of here the thing is we’re short on sthe plastic supplies the needles are useless we’re like samurais with toothpicks and the phone starts ringing and I answer it and I feel myself agreeing and I see myself driving to the pharmacy at mid fucking day the worst time of the day to go anticipating long ques and those disapproving glances from the pharmacists who all know I collect my suboxone every third day and they know that THAT aisle should be off limits to me but right now or just then I don’t care. I just need a perfectly slick affair with the tools of my trade and not have to indulge my double life to keep the peace, to keep the sanity of everyone around me except myself. So I leave with tattooed boy by my side ranting on about teepees and piranhas and he puts in a tape of bob marley and I groan and I listen and try to concentrate on the road until we hook up with mac 2 and its fast and its on the side of the road as the station is hot with pigs and we pull into a lane and scuffle to fix with the last ok needle and then everything’s fine…again.

We were really close to having it on I think, when I think of zean. I mean I always wanted to you know. He’s fit, cute, intent. He’s straight like the ramones. He’s a razor blade in thought and a slug in speech. He cared most of all and I guess when you’re short of warmth a flame is better than a fire. He’s gone now like they all do. They just disappear. That’s the problem with reality it doesn’t last.