Look at the veins
of this heartless city
lit up by you
on your little trip
pumping along roads
that are broken down,
packing up, giving in,
it can bear the weight
of your journey
less than you.
The least you can do
is put on your light,
add to the beauty,
look pretty
from a distance

City nights, guiding lights, false prophets

I saw god in a stranger,
pouring petrol.
I heard god in mouths
in the many churches
lining the street
where the hookers stand,
angels of the night
illuminated in headlights.
I lost my voice
shouting at the universe
from the car window
at fast-lane speed,
to get closer to light
we ride our breath away
and stick hands
into icy air
to break the numb.
I thought I saw a sign
of insight
but the sight to see
was an adult store neon.


Every beauty spot,
like glorious gods
scattered over the heavens,
explored by my lips.
They let me hear
the sound of universal mantra
in the Delphic steam
of your ejaculated breath,
I find in your exhalations
the exaltation of oracles.
My hands read your body
like sacred scripture
inscribed in braille
and find there my truth.
I will count my prayers
on the beads of sweat
strung along your spine,
to find you and myself
bound together
like leather binding
the holiest doctrine.
oh oh so holy
oh the glory to glimpse
in writhing delirium
momentary transcendence.


Somewhere inside me
is the past-tense
of an empty tea cup
and a novel with a broken spine.
Ants circle the rim,
crawl across the pages
in a search for nourishment
different from my own.
Words arranged like music
are a tome of silence
that smells sweetly
of years on a sunned shelf
where the dust,
from the big bang
nestles itself
on its own creation.
And I find
the ants and I
aren’t so different after all


Your kisses linger

like the rising fire

ablaze in lavender fields

of morning sky.

In the way that warmth

rises in perfumed wafts

from linens fresh

off a summer line.

The setting sun seeps

through the treetops

and stains the hazy sky,

it glinted off of bubbles

that shot up exultingly

in the reverie of beauty

and sparkling wine.

Like these things

kisses cling to skin

in sweet evanescence

that leaves only

an ethereal trace

and a nostalgic din.

The unamed shadows that I’ve glimpsed

I decided to write a little flash fiction. A story no longer than 55 words, for a bit of fun. Here you go:

I remember when I was younger and I’d lie in bed staring at the gap between the floor and the bottom of the door. Wide-eyed I’d watch footsteps go past and block out sections of light and I’d wonder who all these people in my house were when I was the only one home.

America is my Daddy

America, old and erected
pierces the skies
over New York.
From his towers
he cries out orders
and sets the standards
for ruling suburbia.
He gives me the dollar
for new toys from China
and stamped on my forehead
is where I’m from
and I’m not his son.
I’m not his favourite,
he turns his back
while I eat cold soup
from a Campbell’s can.
I try to talk to him,
my voice is squashed
under the darkness of Africa.
I reach out to America,
because he has stardom,
golden gods and goddesses
of the silver screen.
I breathe in his smoke
when he grabs his lover’s ass
before he leaves
for his work in the machine.

Daddy don’t leave me,
Daddy listen to me.

He came, he conquered,
he fathered the world.
Master of the house,
his house of whiteness
and discipline and order.
He likes it in missionary,
His missionaries invade
and take gold, diamonds and gods
for his mistress.
He thought I never saw,
distracting me with new toys
and things that sparkle
like Hollywood’s stars.
Those new age storytellers
liars and tricksters, his fools.
My Daddy is cheap,
I heard he steals
and bullies
I heard he doesn’t love me
and he never will.



Fallen God

He lives in my mind
in a very strange place,
a sacred space,
that I first desecrated.
Where I got on my knees
and worshipped,
screamed to gods,
bloody heart on altar.
Now he’s free, far away.
Ganymede in zenith
immortalised, cold stars.
Ancient Greece
in the present day.
Please, don’t let them in
to take your treasures.
They’re shooting-tourists,
don’t know you
like I think I do.
Maybe you’re fantasy,
a myth to me,
a collapsed colossus.
In slavery I built,
whipped and chained,
that never happened.
You’re ruined now,
in ruins laid down,
so they prey on you
where I once prayed.