journey through

Hold me steady, young man for my bones quiver hard within me. Where is blindness when you need one? Where is death when its name invokes sweet memories in you? Take me, oh mighty horse before the mother of my grandchildren sprays me with dust from her car. Suffocate me, oh ye bitter aroma of cold coffee, before I breath the rancid aura of her stinky armpits. This woman, she has taught my grandchildren to speak with a strange tongue, one that I don’t in the least comprehend. Pity my son, a man whose testicles have crawled back to their musty hideout. He whimpers when she speaks and goes under the table when she coughs. My son is a coward, jumping at the sound of the shadows and cowering at the sight of her ghost. The boy I brought up is not the man I see now. He is a disgrace, a dog that barks in whispers and runs away from the echoes. I asked him someday if she was the only woman in the world but he didn’t answer. I watch him every day as he disappears into her exaggerated chest

Reach deep inside and save me, for today I truly fear. My heart dreads the dark and rues the loneliness. The wind outside is breaking branches and the storm is visible in the horizon rolling in fast and heavy. The sun is tucked away in the clouds, safe and alive but baby, my night is fast approaching. My hearth has never burned this low, my tears have never fallen this far. Save me before the last beat ebbs away, find me before the last warmth is lost to the impending winter. It is not my feel to be a poet and write in to you, or a singer to sear your heart with guilt and sorrow. I am blind, I cannot see, I am deaf, I cannot hear. Give me life, blow me a kiss to warm my heart and reignite the dormant embers of hope, rewrite this book, rewrite this chapter. Without you I am nothing but a bewildered cricket running towards a yellow lantern. I am nothing but a stupid fly wafting towards a spider’s web. If I had opened my eyes wider I would have known you were about to leave. I never

Dreams of my father Father, what did you say? What did you want me to do? You wanted to walk back but some paths were too far in the past, some stages so far skipped. I shall carry your dreams, the dreams of my father, and I shall tire not, till I see dust way behind me. Sit me down today, and tell me how far behind memory lane you would love to walk and we shall hold hands. I believe in you, and I believe in whatever it is you believe in. Tell me to take a flywhisk and woo the crowds and I shall do just that. Tell me how much you want to get to the past and I shall reach into the dark uncertainties and pluck it all for you. What is it you wanted to be? What is it you want me to be? Just tell me, whisper or shout and I shall be. Let the world know that I am the man, old enough to run with the torch and ignite a million fires. Let them know that I fear not scorpions or snakes, neither do I lions and leopards, till the end I shall run with the quest and up the mountain I will set

The hairdresser’s song I have seen apes, ‘whitish’ apes that roam the earth. Their heads, their true heads are nothing but a mass of matted hair, like a congregation of starving flies buzzing and fussing over fresh faeces. Their faces, veins criss-crossing like misplaced highways and when they wince, my nose cannot be saved. The reek of old vegetables and overchewed plastic gum hung all over my frock and I have to wash every evening, to rid me of the demons and ghouls that ascend into my fingernails and wide nostrils. I have to work on all of them, those with the strong stench of unwashed bodies and unbrushed canines. Save me oh master, from those women, those who walk in here with acres of horse hair and dead human pubic on their head, like this is a ranch. Save me, papa in heaven, from the whitest of women, white women with black scalps and ashy lips. What happened to Africa, papa in heaven? I have spent my life working on heads fancy on the outside but with the aura of a

If the writer wrote yesterday If the writer wrote yesterday, he would have spoken of roses and petals. He would have missed the thorns and thistles. If the writer sat down with his quilt and ink bottle, he would not have included the blank chapters, the torn hearts and clammy hands. He would have spoken of the glorious process of falling into love but not the shameful one of falling out. He would have written about the shiny eyes and white smile but he should wait. He should sit still and watch for the picture could change tomorrow. He should be patient and watch the signs, for if the writer wrote yesterday, he would have missed the cracks and the fissures. He would not have seen hair torn off heads and wails filling the night like a lone coyote. He would not have seen them when the curtains fell and exposed their nakedness. Wait, writer, and when time is right you shall write the story, of love found and lost among rocks. Be patient, and you shall rewrite the tragedy of Romeo