Thursday, 19 November 2015

I am You.

I am the soil from which the cultured nigga hails from
The air that intoxicates Anna's lungs with bliss so breathe Anna
The reincarnation of a Queen to Quinn so naysayers will have less to hold on to.

I am The tribe
The origin of originality, that's why they keep it locked up
I am the cosmic queen you are afraid to love because the moon brings out the melanin that you're afraid to show your mother.
You told her that it's not my fault for I possess a mask that allows king Deon to unmask himself.
My aura possesses the vibes of a butterfly maiden
I had to lose myself while finding you even after you were dubious that I am alpha

I am the soul,
I AM because you are and because your ancestors once were.

Wednesday, 9 September 2015

Sleepstick stains

I've always contemplated whether to go to couples therapy with my Insomnia.
I call it a "she"
She always places her knuckles on my chin in order to stare deep into my eyes, fearing that one day I may actually fall asleep.

If anything I am not about to be told that I have "Posttraumatic stress disorder" if anything I have posttraumatic get outta my face, posttraumatic I haven't slept in days, posttraumatic what's the point?

We court 3 days a week but recently it has been 4 and every so often I disappear in her diaspora. She makes me one cup,
Two cups, 
Four cups of Coffee everyday and lightly asks if I've met anyone recently.
If I am emotionally available, 
If I still want four kids and if she could be the doula,
If I still desire to sleep.
Fearing that I might actually find someone who will love me lights out.

She has murdered everyone within a centimetre of my aura whose eyes can sing me lullabies, threatening that If they do she will make sure that I will feel a funeral in my brain or some shit and at that point I'm just like.. Bitch crazy.

I've always contemplated whether to go to couples therapy with my Insomnia reason being that she tells me that without her I will fall asleep and believe that dreams do come true,

In all honesty, I feel as though the therapist might say that I am only with her because sleeping means you're dead and because I dream in queer and white and because wearing weary eyes is the new black.

Thursday, 30 July 2015

30. 07 . 1977

30th July 1977
Marked the day of the untold story of a browning.

My mother never had wings but at a tender age I watched her be a source of halo that held on enough for the blisters of her pain.
Papa seized to exist to teach me how to be a great woman but for the world's sake she taught me how to be a humble human

My mother never had wings but she remains the true definition of what my queen is,
My queen loves hwith her I came-I saw-I conquered hips, her I'll-never-let-you-go lips, with her sarcastic nature towards a too serious nation, her mixed race flesh that she wears as a top layer, she wears me as her second skin in order to protect me from enabled sin.

My mother, never had wings but even though, no angel can come down to earth and say that they can learn the language of survival like she did. Say that they can slap me back into reality like she has, say that they can be the greatest woman like she will continue to be.

30th July 1977
Marked her 38 years of existence today
My mother never had wings but you know what? 
She doesn't need them.
She has never needed them.
She comes to show that no human needs wings in order to do an angel's job, on this day she was created to be the perfect angel for me.

Wednesday, 24 June 2015


I dreamt of her
Her face, freshly pale.
Deceiving my medulla that man cannot dream of one whom does not exist
I ran my hands through the passes of her body.
At twilight her eyes lit up a sort of fire I breathed.

I bit her lip with my eyes open to see the hair at the back of her neck stand up and embrace me
I kissed her so deep with the hope that she'd forget whose air she was breathing
The thought that it was too soon for it to become our air had already surpassed.

She was a mess of a half smoked spliff and I a mess of spilled ink on an unfinished piece of handwriting
She had enough language dancing on her tongue that I understood
Her body covered in black tar as she human danced and re enacted the poetry I recited.

We sat
She mirrored me
We sat
The mirror vanished
Do not awaken me
Reality never seemed to amaze me anyway

Tuesday, 23 June 2015

Baby, It's Cold Outside

Quarter After Eight, your soul is art that decorates a blank paper.
Mary don't you weep,
Even though I fancy the howling sound of your harmonica. 

Your taste becomes a fence and within it you slobber in the sea of sameness.
And never otherness.

Fate tries to conceal me by suppressing my lips to form an unknown smile
For they say a face is a mask that allows us to unmask ourselves.
Cigarette stained lies, do not tell me to smile.

Mary don't you mourn, looking at the reflection and seeing everything you hated in the shadow where i stood
Reminiscing about how that goldfish kind of love was never my kind of wonderful

"Ain't nothing to it, really, just a simple flex of a muscle"

Flay my skin
Stuff blood diamonds in my mouth
Inject surrealism into my blood stream
Just do not bend my knees and tell me to smile

Wednesday, 29 April 2015

NaPoWriMo Day 29 : The Lake House That The Soul Built

This tiny lake house near the lagoon–
One to protect the heart,
Two to crinkle the nose

For a barefoot dweller’s inner Zen.
Let us go skinny dipping for inner zest.
Bonfire nights, sunset boulevards,

Big-eyed boys wearing their souls on their trunks
While lies lay astray
In this tiny lake house near the lagoon.

The caressing wind starts to fade away,
Summer songs,
Bottom feeders and silent witnesses –

Big dipper standing barefaced
Wondering like a lonely cloud,

Bonfire nights and sunset boulevards.

Tuesday, 28 April 2015

NaPoWriMo Day 28 : Bridge Of Mason Jars

Burning bridges from dead ashes of unforgiving nightmares
Ghostly feelings
Burning bridges to light ways out of darkness
Bright lights distract their eyes from the real me

I told her I loved the melody to her giggle clap
Limited mouth on limited spoken words
I already had the heart, with time I just needed to discover the Mason jar
No more emptying jars out

I have one last bridge to burn out,
Not this one
Some roads are meant to be travelled over and over again
Just for security and new configuration
Just not this one

I can not blaze a bridge I never crossed

Monday, 27 April 2015

NaPoWriMo Day 27 : Herbs and Coffee

Hay(na)ku Poem

of mind,
Herbs and coffee. 

unfolding the
flames sparking greens.

my roots,
watch me grow.

aside thoughts . . .
Herbs and coffee

don't wonder,
Sit and inhale —

Sunday, 26 April 2015

NaPoWriMo Day 26 : Still I Stand, Sarah Baartman

20 years,
I was 20 years old in 1810 when I got onto a ship to Britain with my master.
I was on a quest to find fame and inner coexisting happiness.
It was not to my knowledge that I would be the main act at a carnival in a “freak show

Black Venus,
  They call called me
Venus Noire
  They called me Hottentot
  But I am

Daughter of a Khoisan man’s son,
Whose derrière from which you desire a son
Whose beauty you have stripped off the face of the sun

As I walked down the street the white men smoking cigars whistled at me to make me affirm how grandiose my rear end is
I stand.
As European women stopped me in order to touch my hair because it looked “peculiar”
I stand.
As they called me a freak of nature but little did they know that if anything I am Mother Nature who gave them the mothers that mothered them
I stand.
As a naked plastered body
I stand
As mere skeletons on display
I stand
As brains and genitals in the Natural Museum
I stand in the UK,
I stand as visual display through the Americas
I stand in Paris

I stand, far away from home.

Ask them, when will they take me back home?
Tell them I demand to go back home

Tell them, I stand, far away from home.

187 years,
I was 26 when I ceased to exist and it took them 187 years to take me back home, in a coffin.
I was not alive to kiss my motherland,
But even though, sorrows no more
Do not forget me, remember me as

Daughter of a Khoisan man’s son
Whose derrière from which you wish you had a son

Whose beauty you can never strip off the face of the sun.

Saturday, 25 April 2015

NaPoWriMo Day 25 : Clerihew : Hades

Dear Sir Hades
You have recently gone off your wits end on a quest to find Free Carelessness
talking of not being "A tree, for you do not give shade"
be it that it had never ought to have occurred. Find you. Do You.