Heritage Day

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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!

 

 

 

 

Bitter Mistress

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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!

A City

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They run down the saturated array of street bumps which connect both ends of this underpopulated place.

When it rains here, it pours and the area keeps herself clean with fluffy bubbles of scent, hygiene and water running down through every suburb, curve and corner – even through the darkest little hideout…purifying and preparing all her inhabitants for the new days and experiences, tornadoes and often times ; leaping earthquakes that resemble a wave leaping carelessly on some quiet shore.

It is also important to mention that although not many live in this space, there are landmarks all over… Starting with the varying length of naturally sprouting silk at the peak of the north point where scents and many of Them get lost, tangled, drowned in perfume and then get found again. Continuing south They take four steps down to the valley just before the steep hill which separates the clearest or darkest pair of wells placed so skillfully and perfectly. At night the wells are covered by tiny skins and in that instant (it is known to all ) the entire place rests peacefully (for the most part).

Next They take an intensely fulfilling and nervous walk to the Source of Sound and laughter and lies. This place is right under the steep hill which separates the wells and admittedly They cannot help but return to it, over and over and over. This pair of cushioned, pink happiness once in functionality is the attraction and the destruction of good and bad. It is curious though that this source often pairs with another pair which usually indicates the coming of an earthquake as described previously. One boat entering the Source, another following… exiting  and enclosing of source over source… the inconsistent flow of long then short breezes of hot and then cold air… the sudden movements that infect every single nook, spot and string of satin.

Following the curving hills and roads leading further south They wrap themselves around the air system, the connection between North and the rest. Here they feel the little pounds of life, they revel in the most unique aroma, it is here that every area’s aroma differs… not ever to be replicated. Other wells run quickly to this place and rest their north between this north and the rest.

Ever on southward, They pause at the Prayer Points… Rounded tents where Their Owners usually make them gather and surround then connect and shape around the Points in the manner of a praying apostle. They walk in circles first at the core… later at the points of the Points where tiny earthquakes or rather – earth shakes are provoked.

Inspired by the now trembling quest, they take a swift jog past the soft desert, jumping over the miniature pit fall… only to halt and slowly, gently search the outskirts of the Silver Moondrip. The Silver Moondrip it is said, creates happiness, longing and most importantly it gives life… not to those already living but new life, unique and uncertain life. They adore the outskirts as a sign of respect, They do not rush to enter the Moondrip, but first They revel on the outskirts taking in every sensation and texture before finally heading in.

Writers are not to describe the Moondrip, so as a respectful writer I will only say, that no life would be complete or would exist without it. The place of the ultimate and yet the place of nothingness. Dark and daunting as beautiful and sacred as it may be.

reclining-nude-silhouette-in-red-yiries-saad

Legs?

Well those are not to be forgotten… long and sturdy as they are, the point of strength… the show of weakness at the sight of another city, when they fold and give in…

Hands – ‘Their Owners’

Fingers – They

Eyes – the two wells shinning brightly or clouded in anger and pain or apathy.

EyeBrows, decorating the wells and providing a distraction on an animated face to keep from a recognition of what is hidden behind the wells.

Eyelids – the skins that close at night to symbolize rest.

Ears – the givers of life as are our lungs and the Steep Hill separating the wells which is our nose.

Neck – the breath, the connection… the spot of intimacy when the first kiss (or pairing of source with source) is delivered.

Collar bone… arms …tummy… palms… worlds within a city within millions of sensations that we bury, deep down in the fear of what other cities might think if we decided to feel all of what our worlds are capable of feeling.

This galaxy better known as a Woman is not merely a walking child-birth machine, made for man’s convenience in releasing hormones and being pleasured. A woman IS pleasure, she IS pain, she IS beauty and everything we can and cannot describe in words… skillfully crafted and fitted into one frame like an artwork that needs not be questioned, only respected, appreciated understood and loved.

Their eternal weakness!

Lord Byron’s Virtue

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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!