Friday, 25 February 2011


Cage fighting in SA
Celebrating 20 years
Town Blacks Compaq update
Oxford advanced learners
Reports indicate body
Isn’t he a little warrior?
Mobile Phone dormant crumpled paper
Sugar residue
Generation whirring
In Afghanistan
15 minute Freedom then the dustbin beckons
A yawning inevitable fish fry afternoon
Another reason never to go south of the equator
Joke ting
Turn banks into libraries!
Why limit our horizon?
Turn barracks into galleries
Turn weapons factories into amphitheatres.
Slip back development
Women your vote counts think wisely
Uno siempre piensa
Cannot display invites
Into the blackout blind
Policy welfare foremost constitutionally
Thinking about intersections, moist
One of 6 billion ways
Strange requests from beyond the grave
One light thing you can bring for me
Exporting via instruments
In February
Preferences future light free framing only one more day
Model Village immigration exhibit dramtis personae dominate double helix dreamt maharishi low born in gear
seasons hammer down

Mundri 1

Sweet Potato taken by hand, hot to the touch
Never tasted so sweet
The white trucks sit, engines running, no drivers in side, no cargo in sight
No rush, no hassle
Sun really just risen on this Saturday
Wrapped ladies pluck green leaves from stalks
Bundled roots lying ready on the grey metal plate
And the old men sit, suits pressed and straight
Sticks, pipes, glasses and grey hair,
Wearing their time well
The Juba road yields a steady trickle of traffic and the lazy flies do what flies do
The toddler slices another papal in half and slides it my way across the plastic table

(London January) 2

Flourishing by daylight or night, rocking like Aesop to survive, to avoid brackets to bash to pay the rent pay the debt sleep sleep sleep... The Form, The Process, Is the Impact, The Extension, The Awkward Grace Becoming Flesh Before Our Pourus Skin. WE hold it down holding- us- together, sincere, intertwined cords taut, holding our- life-together, until we birth the gestated, nourished, loved product of our passion, with a sprinkle of God, us but not ours and the cords might slacken but when we tug they'll hold firm, veins of a river from a source that never runs dry

These images flashing, now transposed, collapse into the dirt of the bed, as the life flows over and past them, their sediment mineral mingling enriching the life I lead, leaving traces in the blood smearing from fresh razor slices in my face

And the gift crafted swift with no room for mistake

And the pilgrimage thoughts etched in coach at motorway pace

And the end I sought but learnt to push away for the good greater plains and the Joy of Play

All wait patient smiling until I know what to say

(London, January) 1

Still don't understand lonliness
What is it with all of these young men who say 'fuck' about everything except fucking like fuck doesn't have love in?
These tastes, these desires, have held sway all too often, unrestrained, barely kept at bay and I'll stay disastisfied for satisfactions sake
For a while that town might mean a lot to me sitting on my throne
Plotting silent novels I'll never write
Inserting subtle references to affairs incomplete
Tracing furrows in face with coffee and alcohol insomniac nights and freezing bus stop waiting
Escaping containment only to be slaughtered and put away in the attic, a bin bag over my face
Laughing and dancing and touching and shouting in reverence to the gods of love and chances taken, the everyday household deities lesser spotted but oft felt, celebrating by your side when that horse come in, that plan comes together, that erotic being looks your way and you want to supplicate, to subject, to sacrifice at her altar of joy, again and again
I could be the resurrection given her blessing
A touch of the face could massage the happy to the surface
One morning wake with her in my embrace could energise compassion sketched in words thus far without the meat of feeling to enact

How far have I come since form room mornings seeing todays news and hearing fraudulent miracles by solo piano?
The same songs keep playing in my soul, and it makes me want to believe that I don't have to wait until the records over to start dancing or to tell you I love you
That our mixtape doesn't need a hidden track as a punchline
Scratching the surface, peeling back the plastic, clicking it into place
Our fingers on Play...Pause...Record
Each breath of silence a moment of aniexity before the wheels keep rolling on
for the cycle to repeat
90 minutes
But every story has two sides, so its really only 45, yet it could be a lifetime
Committed, ageing, but not diminshed