A selection of poetry rooted in domestic humor, Cape Town and South Africa

Sunday, July 01, 2018


The dish washer hummeth violetly in the background,
The family argue feistily in the middle,
The foreground is a slash of light cross her eyeballs
But hinterland, far from company, she silently communes,
Cut off from sealight by mountain ranges, weather patterns,
deep shitte, this inland may, by foolish young,
Be termed barren,
However she lives off the land, landing water from the air,
Airing private thoughts, to nobody in particular, yet anyone with an ear
Building oceans from rivers, in the desert.
Reader-writer poet's music, a trance hypnotizes all comers
With off-beat unrhythms of atonal resolutions
Finding themselves after 159 sub beats
Coming round the mountain when she comes.

You know me but you don't know me
I am with you but I am not with you.
Good Lord is that a whale breaching?
Reaching for binoculars while
Holding the picture in my...
Can you please try and hold these two
Things in tension?
It's possible.
There that's good.

He lies next to me.
Reading the world to me.
Meaning the world to me.


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