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Tag Archives: smack

I still really like to score, the score in the wound, driving for hours in the city, revisiting, slowing down driving off, ducking round, how many Esplanade lights have sat me in the drivers seat, bent soup spoon in hand westbound
how many times have I sat in Albany streets crack houses, so tired, so wired, nothing but daggers on the inside, paranoid checking the windows for cops below, my clamped tires, nevermind it will be alright, just past that smoke i’m expired
Petrol attendent knows my plate, says babe its late, says i’ll be right back, comes back, hand him 2 2s, swop for the toot, swop for the bupes, swop for the bruise, hit the toilet, rank stank, gangplank, one step junk, jump, dive, shoot, dive, suvive
how many times have I been lost in Embo, screaming down the phone, telling drunk dudes to leave me alone, travelling down unknown dark roads, seeing township folk tableaus, khat, smack, skyf, sugars, so hoity toity so not dirty yet shooting up nyope
Church is ripe with an evening service, workers and shirkers drink quarts on the corners, waves from the white guy in the toyota hilux, pick up the phone and pretend not to notice, Skeet appears in the rearview mirror, jumps in, drops packets and exits
14 dealers in a 10k radius, I congratulate myself for this supercilious web of comfort I weaved, I move like a fiend, i’m a scabrous queen, no friends now they’re weaned, now they’re apparently clean, now most are od.’ I got 3 more straws, think fuck it all, I still really like to score.


i wish my name wass peckerfish the blood in my hand drain

Cramps the. It’s a 30 second game, wanna play? Windole and a small intravenous whole, Ethel my dearest. I’m untraceable that’s why I ate my cell phone. The public was burnt out and the termites had settled in for the night. 50 apple seeds in my cider, hardwiring the pharmacy, my mother lent me her false teeth. I struggle to be a nutritional foundation.

I sat on the sand cried because there were a hundred copies of me walking around. I couldn’t decide who I like more, the girl with the freckles or the girl with the backpack with the stolen laptop.

Listless this fire in a teacup. The sea is at war with itself. I had a dream, I fuckin hate dreams that I had to take a guitar test a guitar with 49 strings, sweating and remembering the sequence3 11.13.17. 41 fuck I’m losing my forehead.

I’m gonna start a fundraiser for AIDS. Projector girl on the wall, 3 scripts running along the eyelashes and not even batting for a six.

Somebody stop my luna tape.

Transvestites are dished out in tiny mini skirts, little lies and little lisps and lips are curled, my disinfectant makes me smell but I can still shine sunshine.

It must feel good to hold all the power doesn’t it brother? It must feel nice to grind and pierce a wobbling heart into the gravel – bruise and graze and stab the motherfucker let it bleed all over the chest expose the ribs break them snap them off, stick them in your ears and pretend you cant hear me, darn it must feel good. Not la la long in the misery or self pity pythons, running through the punctured veins crouching in the stomach, hiding out waiting to spring and choke the breath, they and your notes on my door this morning were just downright hurtful. Treasures were smiling round the corners at me last night, waiting to ensnare anyone who walks out of the line, this damn queue, the next step comes slowly for brain is now so damn dumbed out. Throw it away in the trash dear for this period at least, this late afternoon snooze, I don’t sleep during the day, I don’t sleep, I fear the night monsters stalking the rooms of my mind, they say a chill in the air is indicative of the spirits well my spirits do not live in this room, they’re in my skin, the ghosts are all inside and refuse to leave. I am giving them one last chance them BANG BOOM, colt 45 city central.

I write right to left.

Fly over one Sunday stay on the slanted path. Forgive the genies in their bottles, they won’t come out just because the joys of white snow, blue juice and brown powder are all evidence in the trial. Have a bit of faith you monkey.  Their graffiti spilled on the walls of my room, their tempers enraged their figures swollen with pus and drink, abscessed arms, hardened elbows, dirty fingers and pinned eyes, wonder this mess, our place in time, my legs are filled with fleas and romeo wants to go home again.

We left, we sat back seated arguing silently, staring out of the windows, vacant and pretty and though he has left me now I miss his curls, his shame, his body shape, his fucked up sense of direction and speed, proportion, contortion, distortion.

I align myself to the sanity of locked bathroom stalls. That is when I’m not thinking of poisoning her dog

This is today

Blood splattered dirty hobo ballet dancer dances around the empty lot then stops when she realizes that the camera is watching here. She looks around. And then drunkenly walks up to the lens.

–          hey what you people doing here

–          this is private property

–          no its not

she thinks a while

–          why do you have blood all over you?

–          Because my boyfriend Jackie told me not to wash for 3 months, he thinks its sexy.

He made the whites whiter.

Sitting and now writing almost in form with wild animals beyond my contol. I’m pissed and immobile – paralysis, down the garden gate I wish to be led but no one offers this time, no wine no well fine, no time no phone no home

Body bloated as dead mind blank and fools shushed the occupants have joined the fray and here I sit yet fa fa away

Theres a party round the corner, won’t you please please come

Bring your own cup and saucer and your own chewing gum and what is your best friends name?

We were the outcasts we were, the lost banditos of the scene and how I would pass out and do and dribble down bar stools, how I would be fed gin and whiskey and be made to speak up and then carried to the car door then to bed, then to wake in forgotten abandoned apartments. Those there the days my friends, we thought they’d never end. Good times, good fires, beachfront hotels, burnt fingers, those bleached white walls dirtied and tarnished with cracked fumes stolen sony playstations, songs from garage bands in Knysna, lost and belittled, tagged and stoked with good and b ad fortune. Yes we played we faired like fairies, live in the lovely present, live right now, don’t think stupid child, hush about the disease of tomorrow for it sits not well in this form. Fear saturation, never fear the best that works in the middle east, never. My dearest poppish fiend, her sweet silent waters lap all too closely on this barren shore. The bard and last living stand no chance, stoned and dethroned, the maker of this day wired inspired, feeling that begets the violence of the past that satiates the foreign devils that coat the voice that brittle discord that keeps the tamed sniper from the firing the last shot, the shot to kill shoot to get well, shoot or get ill, shoot the bastard the sinister slip of four seconds in the middle of the bursting of the head in the middle of the day in the middle of the night.

coke a cola flying ants

coke a cola flying ants

Slowly and lapsing the mistake of opening mouth and words words words are bad to use when truths are swimming in the deep end. When the rest of your stutterings were thrown and my heart finally felt that maybe there was an honest back door that would lead to that place in the park, that bright place where silhoettes were friends this judgement and its conquerer are only versions of your body. These midnight calls that are life and alcohol and small rythms which must stop soon. it must end as is the cycle that dictates our courtships with the unknown for that is why it is the unknown for there is no answer there is no ultimate realisation and understanding. we sit with nought on our minds and nought in our laps, our hands, our fingers and the implication that i am scared might finally be the final curtain and i miss everything about you and i should rather concentrate on these beads that work their perfect shape in spite of the spitefulness that taints my mind and eyes and heart and why this fever of forgotten and forget it. the final words were NO NO NO. and now the big black which must dress the wound, i never asked to be attacked.



Sitting down on the sidelines of another hotel room, thank god. It’s strange how these paths these mumblings this rubbish keep leading me back to the same place, the place where i am alone, alone with all these tangled thoughts and feelings which i seem unable to escape. It takes 4 months to gather the shrapnel and 2 weeks to implode it. It freaks me the fuck out. I read Ecclesiastes today in vein, searching desperately for the answers the wisdom that ancient text brings and it did. And I wanted to listen absorb the sacred knowledge, recapture the holy spirit who once held and exhalted me from my nightmares but alas the heart is transient even in mourning. And I was thinking how ironic it all was just like the text that reads itself back to me that I should once again be trapped but with limited words and much much more exhaustion and sadness. That this constant cycle the prophets have spoken of, the sages have understood, the human condition, the vanity, the pointlessness, the Solomon, the drunk, the father, the son, the mother, the daughter, the friend, the ally, the enemy, the pop song are correct. And I can hardly begin to want to believe them, for i want something so much bigger, i want good things all the time,prove the melody unsound, distort the harmony. I crave the glory, the result that is ripe that dances with abandonment, refusing to remove the make up.


Falling in love. What crime and punishment the philosphers abhorred and rightly so. How can one redeem the redeemer. Impossibility and fate collide within seconds, my our corrupt corruptness. To shy away, to regain or retain the seconds that were sliced away by one persons eyes, smile and touch.

But this is the essence of existence, for are we not the only breathing creatures capable of love, well other than dogs and that’s not saying much for dogs eat their own shit but then again metaphorically it is my routine.


Oh enough, I can’t stand it anymore. Best to retire to bed, to read and find solace in sleep, in literature, in thoughts and all incoherent dreams. The mirage is being drowned by familiar absolutions and lie lie lies i am so ignorant when it comes to this game. I am so open for wounding, i stand in the street and scream it. But i never thought you would be the one to fuck me over. I just thought you were the one. And you are.