29 April 2015



I wasn’t fazed when she shied away from my touch. I expected that – top bird like her – she didn’t just jump into a situation like that – didn’t give her affections away to just anybody; especially the likes of me... I was an imposter – I think we both knew that, but I guess I fulfilled some need in her. I made her smile and I wasn’t demanding her life – just a little of her time. 

Boys fall in love with girls like her and they never forget them. They carry their memory in some sacred place within. I could have loved her – perhaps I should have loved her. Summers fade and lilies fester, but nothing lingers like words left unspoken.

28 April 2015


I tread tenderly in the night – tracing God’s footprints. I sleep in a knot tied in the light fantastic; stewing in the sweat that mires my sheets. There is a fearful linearity to my dreams – a dreadful symmetry that infers another hand – an external agency – directs proceedings. My dreams are pay for view. Shit, if I hadn’t been there I wouldn’t be here – I gambled, I lost and I paid up (tearfully).

I needed a little poison to help trace the contours of my mortality – It’s a scary kind of hit, but it kick-starts the night with a hefty thump. Check it over, divvy it up and tick it out – where there’s muck there’s brass – it’s a family friendly service. Those pretty flamingos stray onto the marabou menu through faulty design. The quick and the dead are separated by mere seconds. There is a trick to survival – a habit formed of diligence.

15 April 2015



I’m sick of this tired old face. I want a new one – like my old one – like the one I wore when I was young. I see a hundred faces on any given day and every face conceals a story. What kind of story does my face conceal? At night I’m lost in a sea of faces that clamour for my attention – my dreams are full of faces; they crowd me to blame and shame me.

The girl at the back has a question – an unkind and supercilious question. Her query originates in the psychotic regions of a bleached mind and sounds an echo in memory – something about my missing soul.

“What kind of monster are you?”

I suspect it’s more of a rhetorical device than a question, so I ignore it. But later I get to thinking... What kind of monster am I? I’m a blind monster or I would have seen her coming. I’m a deaf monster, or I would have heard her lies. I’m a mute monster – because I said nothing. I’m a numb monster because I feel even less.

She was one gift horse I should have given the full dental. Those sceptic teeth made ribbons of ambition. I have little time for those awkward manoeuvres imposed by some milquetoast Mussolini. I have an agenda sublime to accommodate; others follow the mandate of their own hearts. I take solace in the fact that I may be a monster with no soul, but I’m closer to heaven than some.


2 April 2015

Long Gone


stone me

what a rigmarole

a calamitous palaver

up the stairs and down again

around the houses and home

back to an empty hearth

and four cheerless walls

had me a dog once

but he’s long gone