the living dead

Maybe I am dying

Or maybe I am being reborn

Short pained breaths, bent at both knees

I am drowning

gasping for air,

sinking to the ocean floor,

eyes closed, blue beauty escapes me

One arm half raised, fist clenched

oh dear lord, can someone see me

does mother hear me

I need to be lulled to sleep




Interrupted/Incomplete Post.

When you have been gone long enough, it is unpleasantly tedious to find your way back and most times you are not even welcome back. Not readily, no. There are no open arms, beaming smiles or a room with fresh sheets and a clean towel waiting for you slip into. To slip into your old life.

There is no old life. It has since been fragmented, abridged, borrowed or simply claimed as prose or some motivational bullshit by ones gifted enough to tell tales for effect.

Although is that so bad? You are the lucky bastard who stumbled and flung the Building Blocks of the race to the top. The top of / to nothing really but an unstable cliff for all to hang off; you knew then what they are only realizing since you have been gone. But did you or is this part of a narrative structure. Theirs / Yours / My skeptical mind …

The End of things

2011 March – 2015 March

The end of things, is a continuum of things mine With out me. Things like my craziness happiness thoughts feelings pain loves hurts all channeled into things …

Like Sunshine. Moments. Ingenuity. Loves. Warm, Yellow. The end of things is Tears glistening like beads of sweat on black skin, like condensed vapour on aluminium. Channelled into things like Light rays dancing like life sized shadow shapes concaved on walls.

The end of things is like Laughter echoed in halls. Empty. With broad strokes Dreams colouring rooms. Like Hours on a clock thinning,  channeled into things like A search for perfection a perfect contribution Perfect creation. What is perfection?

The eñd of things is the beginning of history A narrative etched A pattern of changes Positive, traceable, visible. The end of things is sentiments like I was here I listened I created I gave More than just things.

The end of things, is a continuum of things mine With out me. Things like my craziness happiness thoughts feelings pain loves hurts all channeled into things …

Saints With Droopy Faces

I am not a poet of goodness only, I do not decline

to be the poet of evil also,” – Walt Whitman.


They come out assembled in ones

Men with an edge

Husbands with daughters and sons

Their sons almost my age

These men my mouth has loved.


Hands touching hands,

Pot bellies, clothed thighs

Strange hairy chests

Sad stern eyes.


Vulnerable for mother

Barely half, their own age

They reach out in an embrace

For the rush. The excitement.

Young. Youthful lust.


Abandoned street corners

A friend’s borrowed car

A faraway house;

well lite, polished floors, 50k to lodge

What purpose serves honesty

When anonymity is key?!


Answers to questions

unasked; yes I am happily married.

There is something, special about you.

Your ass. Your sweet sexy small ass.


Their ring finger noticeably bare

My bare parts soaking wet

That circular singular sacred symbol of

love or

commitment, to one that’s not me

Rolls discarded,

entangled in my blues,

pinks and reds.


Eyes on my tits. The moment is passed

Our mouths disengage

No ‘I love you’s’ exchanged

Thoughts form unhinged

Let’s not , do this again


Rain holds up all of the sky


I look around inside

A world my baby is going to be

Delivered in


Are you happy?

How can I make you happy?

What are your expectations of me?

How would you like me to react?

We are supposed to be partners


I look around inside

A world my baby is going to be

Delivered in


Cockroaches scurry about

Residents of a dirty old wagon

’ soon to be family car

Washed in months’ old dirt

The red earth becomes her

’ soon to be family red



Are you happy?

How can I make you happy?

What are your expectations of me?

How would you like me to react?

We are supposed to be partners

I look around inside

A world my baby is going to be

Delivered in


Marijuana on the Kitchen counter

Ashtrays soaking with cigarette butts

Ash permeates the window seal

Dirty clothes spilling out of laundry baskets

Garbage in the backyard decomposes uncollected


Are you happy?

How can I make you happy?

What are your expectations of me?

How would you like me to react?

We are supposed to be partners


I look around inside

A world my baby is going to be

Delivered in


A house with no tables

The ceiling too low

Heat’s served on a tray and saucer


I look around inside the signs

Of an abundance of love

In bed and belly

How can I make you happy?

Are you happy?

How do you expect me to react?!


An empty bank account

The future is upon us

With open faces and smiling hearts

We wait with blame ready to be served



Pages and pages of intellectual philosophies

Prepared on God and Caesar

The corrupt systems and a stifling order

“What could we have done different

We are only a fibre in the fabric”


A world away from the world

Inside which my baby is going to be


I look around


How do you expect me to react?


 – Reading Eileen Myles, Sunday Oct. 27

Round and Round I Go

It’s become apparent that am waiting for my life to start. I haven’t always waited. I haven’t always sat, made lists, planned and hoped, and looked on as the one day buzzed off into the darkness only to be replaced by another one and another one, and sometimes just rain all weekend. This is a new me (no smiley face or !). Somehow mid way through my fun, busy, fulfilled – whether be it with laughter, tears, complaints or emotional roller coasters or just mind bending ideas – I have recently taken to life’s park bench, uncrossed my legs and crossed them again, daylight through night time again and again, waiting for my life to start or more accurately, waiting my life to go on just as it used to, even better than it used to.

I wake up in the morning, my boyfriend’s alarm clock goes off, I realise it’s 5:30 and I go, “fuck it, I never was a morning person”. I could try it out now, become a morning person, considering that the only reason i wasn’t always a morning person is none existent today. i had an illness, I got cured of it – a prescription am not so quick to share. I now sleep 8 hours almost every night but i will still insist, every morning, on ‘getting my precious morning sleep’. It once was precious. There was a time, for over 15 years when 5 am used be about the earliest i would have managed to sooth (say trick?) myself into sleep. so yes, 5:30 am was my precious sleep time and so was 6:30am and so was 7:30. Nowadays however, with no insomnia, I still insist on waking up at 7:30 am. One might say that old habits die hard, but what really does that statement support if it isn’t a lack of excitement in life and an absolute abandon.

I did up come with a strategy at some point (if you can rationalise it, it must be right!) a few months ago, to list everything i must do inside my head – the sticky notes were too yellow. A Must Do List for every today. The small and persistent problem with this strategy become that ‘Today’ would always pass, more like swoosh by. I came up with a counter strategy; I thought, “that’s alright, I will move what i haven’t been able to do Today- including things like, adjusting my bra straps – to Tonight”. Solutions(do you call them excuses?) are quick to come by when implementation is a procrastinate. ‘Tonight’ was to become my new’Today’. Again I thought, “that’s alright, I get home, have dinner, take a shower and everything that i wasn’t able to do Today, I will do it Tonight with absolute ease and diligence because that’s ‘what i had always done’, worked at night, done more than my than i imagined i could get done in one night, it would be supper easy; I can clean, dust my book shelf and finish today’s assignment tonight. I have always done that. But just like my 7:30 am wake up call, i was able to do all this magic at night because i was an insomniac and working through the night was mainly out of ‘what to do when you can’t sleep’. The new me is literally dozing off at 10am. sometimes am fast asleep before i have a chance to take a shower and i have to wake myself up (induce a nightmare)to go for a bath and proceed to continue my sleep.

This absolute abandon hasn’t affected my day job. Not that I know of at least. My very very new strategy is to blame this problem/lack of general interest in life, on my day job. (a)It is a new job, am still getting used to it, learning and it’s slowing me down … am waiting until i know everything about my job to recover my pace. (b) It is too easy. I can get everything done in three hours, but because i MUST appear that i am working from 9 to 5, i need to stretch out the work and this has disorganised my pace, my will to do more, like buy a bathroom rug. (c) It is my new life. I have a new life and i haven’t stopped to adjust to it. I have no new persona to fit perfectly this new me even when the new me has been new for the last three years.

“Should i make the lists then”, I think to myself when i am refusing to take any action like clean the refrigerator, or take some needed time and learn how to punctuate. “Should i have a large font poster in the Bathroom that lists; I must get a bicycle and learn to ride- finally, I should have learn’t to swim like two years ago when i chose a house by the pool, I shouldn’t stop going to the markets on Saturdays because i hate when i don’t have fresh vegetables, I need to continue using my late evenings and weekends(like the old me) to read rather than chose activities where ‘i don’t have to think’.”
But lists are for squares. Moms. The Beat it kind of girls… I am not a list-kind of girl. I never made lists and I would get everything done. I never planned and I lived a full life. I never sat in front of my computer and wrote about not doing anything. The old me is exactly the new me with a few differences like now am not doing any of the things i actually need to be doing like bake muffins and decorate them with nice little letters made out of blue icing.



Remember me?
Remember me…
Now? Now.

I am all soul
No shell
I’ve become taboo

Purity is shunned

It offends
It piques
The senses of them
To whom all sense is lost

I am not trying to be ironic.
This is not a drama piece.
I have no quick wit
I am devoid of all language

I have no voice
I have no face
I have no colour
I have no race
I have no choice
They took away my cape

I have some sense,
Of how of little need
But statistic
I am to the known world,
Unknown to me
(Shut up)- I am shut out

I have no leaf left
I am all out of sap
I am not loved
Blackened and shriveled
I cannot love

I am not sick
It is not fate,
A lack of self-esteem,
A sum total of self-doubt

I am not self-indulgent
I have no self
I am a shelf

Of simple thoughts
Disregarded notions
Un-appointed positions
Projected demolition

I am not ‘what should be’
I am ‘what is’

Remember Me.