Heritage Day

Today is my last day

 

I manage to crawl off the bed that ceased to be coupled almost a decade ago

then land in my still relatively tiny bathroom, though my own physique seems to be shrinking by the second now

I look up at my reflection and I realise the purpose of mirrors

There is a headline,

my face

wrinkled and grey beneath its letters seems to unfold like an over ripe flower without ever having been touched

it says;

Heritage Day

I shuffle along until I trip over the now almost dry white board marker and I begin the list:

One: I inherited the dark lines of deceit off my mother’s core

Two: I learned how to live with being a liar

Three: I came as a foreign being full of love

Four: I was denied love but I’m still leaving filled with only those four letters

Five: Life was beautiful though the darkness is always the beginning of a new story

Six: I inherited the art

Seven: I will never forget

 

I rinse myself off and decide that it would be better to leave full of hope

After all

3 months before they expected me I was ready

13 years before I was

they weren’t

my family

 

The wardrobe whispered the call of majesty

I obeyed my longing eyes

past the dioors and my goodbye suit

I found the two letter phrase barely in disguise and I remembered why

Heritage day:

One: I learned how to judge myself better than anyone had ever judged me

Two: It wasn’t always sunny

Three: How to fake the smile through heartache

Four: How to cause the same

Five: My clothes are cheap

Six: I am unworthychocolat_l

Seven: I knew this each time we made eye contact… after all; we are self proclaimed judges

 

So neat, tidy and fresh I walk towards the lonely seat and the non functional tv

and on the top right hand corner of the screen

A phrase in white paint screams out at me

Heritage Day:

One: My skin colour murdered my first love

Two: I inherited the skill of not caring much for those attributes

Three: My father Died of a broken heart

Four: You saved mine

Five: Our life was puzzled together by vibes and muted sentences

Six: In the end, my quirks were irrelevant and your were my indica

Seven: I fell eternally asleep with the very thoughts that days and nights before had always haunted me.

 

Palm on palm now

My eye lids find their space

No tears left in me

My heritage day is eternal

and I only grew to know that the moment I looked into you!

 

 

 

 

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Blue oR Black Days

And the green light is illuminated next to the picture of your face
and I hate my own for yearning to touch it
Can I help it though?
Oh no!
How I search for the deeper meaning of life
beyond the sight of your eyes
the whim of the unfamiliar scent of you
I cannot smile just yet
I cannot
yet I do
With images as bright as the Canis Majoris
With the wishfulness of Canis Lupus soul
No backbone
Just dreams and wishbone
This composition of sounds through letters
This musical of broken word strings
Your wings
So keep them
Your Majesty
‘There’s green light in my eyes, and my lover on my mind…
And I’ll sing from the piano, tear my yellow dress and
cry
and cry
and cry
OVER THE LOVE OF YOU!!’
The florence passion of an untaimed wolf soul
spills out
screams back
There is green light in my eyes and I time it
minute through passing of silent minute
Do you think I do not see or notice your silence
so deadly
hollow
sharp
Yet I CAN
live without the addiction of the life you give me
the taste for thing I never had
It is yours won’t you take it?
So come on my morning
come!
Be the green light in my eyes
Be the lover on my mind
tear my yellow dress
Show me
That you will let me get around it
There’s green light in my eyes…

Bitter Mistress

Here in the madness of everyday foolishness I give into my monsters. I allow them to coax my spirit with their anger. I swallow regret with a teaspoon of pride and suddenly the world makes more sense. There are no more sonnets or love poems to be expected from this being… unless the other appears miraculously and deletes the folders of mistrust which are frozen as a constant back screen on the system that is her mind; like an indestructible virus slowly eating away at the system as a whole. She finds comfort in the cradles of old songs, the kind that inspired the flowing red from her veins, but that’s unimportant… nothing really matters now. The other girl has managed to return, colder and meaner and more prohibiting than ever and I rejoice that I am not alone in my own brain anymore so that she may remind me that no-one is worthy of her honesty or truth… our honesty… our truth. If fate existed, right now; I’m riding her from the back doggie style.

Now feel the tingle of the sneer down your spine reminding you to stop being a hypocrite. We all wish to be brave enough to be the gods of our own universes, I’m just cocky enough to say it loud and proud and not giving a fuck about what that’s going to sound like or alternatively what anyone else’s thoughts are on the topic. This is my life, my struggle and all along I’ve gone through it all alone. I therefore have no obligation to be thoughtful of you because you don’t matter to me. This is the safe house of a soul, heart and spirit that are so worn out that they are beyond recognition. I know not whether these really are mine anymore-I’m even more uncertain of who I once thought I was and who I am now or what I am aiming for in life, but I suppose since I write my own destiny on a tattered little book I bought yesterday from ‘Spar’ for R4.50 … I make the rules and sometimes chaos really does rule over any other rule. I invited Delirium in; she has happily brought Death with her. To kill what once was the girl in a long-since shattered mirror now forming just a broken frame around a yellowing white wall and return to me in a dead, ghostly life the girl who once scared every feeling off before it could hurt.

Welcome home sweet bitter mistress.

Tonight I let you take over me entirely and what does it matter if the act of making love remains metaphorical to me for the rest of this existence? I will still create more art than those constantly active because I will be hungry for passion always when the bitter other me isn’t looking. In those precious moments I will redirect my gaze from wishing to create and having you experience what I want you to. I will be the rapist of your mind… bestowing on you the truth no matter how many times you deny it. I will repeat and scream it at you until you have finally believed that the “I” is the most important entity in your world.

Who can say that one reality is more important than another? It is the “I” of your world that only experiences what it does and it is that same entity who will deliver the information gathered to the greater whole when dead.  

Who cares why she lied and said the things she didn’t mean… the bottom line is lies and dishonesty, why cling on to those? Surely I deserve better than to be lied to? Surely I deserve to be cared for, to be fussed over, and to be a sun for another dark soul?  One wants not to question every ‘I miss you’ although that is why my bitter mistress has returned. Her function is to instill more doubt until I can no longer get hurt. My mind, soul and heart need to think always together, not allowing the heart to just feel as it pleases. Past experience has shown us that it is that initiative of the heart is what ends up breaking it in the first place. How much more anguish do I wanna allow into my life? How many humiliations and degradations? So Carpe-Diem little mistress and don’t you ever let me feel again!

Lord Byron’s Virtue

She walks in beauty – – like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies,
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to the tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
She walks in beauty – like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies
One ray the more, one shade the less
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress
Or softly lightens o’er her face – –
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.
She walks in beauty – – like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies
And on that cheek and o’er that brow
So soft, so calm yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow
But tell of days in goodness spent
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent.
She walks in beauty – – like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies.
Very different from Don Juan isn’t it?
I thought I would share this because it is not very often that poetry moves me this much. Since I cannot read it aloud for the entire world to hear the best I can do is share it here and hope that many will stumble upon this post.
We often find that musical pieces and songs do tend to get old (not including the classical pieces that is).  We see it everywhere, there’s a ‘Top30’ countdown every week and each week songs fall out and new ones take the place of the old ones.
Fortunately it does not work that way with poetry…
Lord Byron won’t be kicked off the chart by Walt Whitman only to be replaced by Wordsworth followed be Yeats. How about having a literary duel; Shakespeare vs Pratchett… hmm? Can you imagine how chaotic things would be if it worked that way with literature?  I do not mean to say that they all sell the same or that everyone likes them, only that they will remain in the chart in the long run.
She Walks in Beauty is a brilliant piece… what makes it brilliant is how relative it is to our times although it was written almost 200 years ago. Here the expression of beauty is done through the opposition of dark and light. He almost blends the two, creating the necessary balance for genuine beauty. It is also lovely how he uses ‘the night’ as a source of beauty.
As someone who values everything that is genuine and real, tangible, innocent and honest – I must admit that I adore this poem and that Byron has most certainly taken up one of the top spots in the chart of my heart.
I wish the world would let go of the new and start dusting off the shelves of antique beauty. There is so much more to be found there than in any other form of entertainment that we have now. Where are we headed to?
If the author of a piece like ‘Don Juan’ can spend himself entirely on a piece such as this one, then surely we ought to have a little more longing and appreciation for innocence and simplicity.
‘All that’s best of dark and bright’
‘One ray the more, one shade the less’
‘So soft, so calm yet eloquent’
‘A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent.’
I am yet to read a more exact description of beauty, and if such does exist we need to look around and ask ourselves, “How long before beauty becomes a myth in our world?”
‘She walks in beauty – – like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies’
 Just a thought really!