Suitcase Man

Come and go the suitcase man
Living from a baked bean can

Never let's all the paint dry
Says hello and then goodbye

Belonging not, growing old
Never let's his tea get cold

One day here, another there
Never has a day to spare

Knocking just to say goodbye
Never thinks to explain why

The suitcase man, deaf and blind
To the child he leaves behind

-o0o-

Loyal

But how unsatisfied you were
You, adjunct to the bloodshed knives
You went back to revel in it
To delight in the snuffed out lives

And often you got caught up there
The war in turn enslaving you
And now you fall on bended knee
You begging me to please save you

Dragging me back into that war
You scoff at me, bitch, moan, and sigh
Indignantly you act surprised
When asked where your loyalties lie

-o0o-

The Bleeding Male

Has my queerness wounded you?
As if I stole your masculinity...
...and then ripped your rib out myself,
to fashion the weaker sexes.

You speak to me of abstinence
as if I should snatch your rib...
...back from Eve herself,
so that you could be whole again.

-o0o-

Breakup

A moment's kiss, your hand in mine
A memory of stolen time
As I remember you and me
Not regretting what used to be

No longer us, but me and you
A split that carves my heart in two
A moment's kiss, so far from this
That calls me to the man I miss

But now you see a brighter sky
And off you leap and up you fly
No longer us, but you and I
I offer you a fond goodbye

So life must on, so pains be stilled,
So souls must mend and hearts be filled
So when the heart and sorrow mends
Perhaps we'll meet again as friends

-o0o-

Children of War

Stood up and drenched
caked mud and strife
blood soaked / fist clenched
clinging onto life
old butcher's son
does what he knows
with daddy's gun
calling the crows
to feast on them
the carrion
see nine or ten
flying down
to earth to eat
the meaty strands
prepared for them
by children's hands

-o0o-

Our Children

Our children are a pleasure
Our only tacit treasure
And yet by far
Its them who are
Abused beyond all measure

The father's fist that maims them
A government that blames them
The tithing plates
That cash that sates
The priest whose penis shames them

Each drop of blood our children paid
Each tiny corpse to rest we've laid
Each little life
So filled with strife
Indictment of charge betrayed

-o0o-

D'Souza

So this manly man
     with a fake smile
Preaches his plans at me
     over the table at dinner
Damns me to hell,
     which is all very well
     for as you all know quite well
     I'm a horrible sinner

He hands me his thoughts
     his old is'es and his aught'ses
Like a toddler assaulting at my heels
     with his sleeves full of snot
"A real man," he said
     "wants a woman in bed"
     but I bed men instead
     so "a real man" I'm not

"Since, Jesus (Don't you know)"
     "made everything so"
"And planned where stuff must go"
      "(if you know what I mean)"
Making a circle with his left hand
     and right takes his middle finger
     demonstrating sex
     with gestures obscene

But Preacher, I said
     head tilted, eyebrow raised
You hardly assume
     such authority to preach
Given the state of your church
     you actually perch
     at the top of a quagmire
     that your god could not reach

Just think of the wars
     that your sermon employs
Not to mention the kids
     that your priesthood 'enjoys'
And the consequent lives
     that your lifestyle destroys
     and the guilty are sheltered
     in endless convoys

Your pope and your bishops
     belong in a cell
Your child raping priests
     should be hung from a tree
Given the scope of
     your wars and your crimes
     I fail to see how you
     could dare to judge me

And then there is you
     with your wife and also
Another woman who
     wears another man's ring
Your married and yet
     you go out and get
     another man's wife
     a peculiar thing

So I'm honestly vexed
     and a tad bit perplexed
And I weep for the sex
     if a "real man" were you
Sanctimonious smile
     and an unctuous tone
     sounds all a bit smug
     if not downright untrue

So let's not pretend
     I'm all but your friend
And I won't let this end
     with me condemned to hell
You'll have appear
     to make your product more appealing
     given the gruesome veneer
     of the god that you sell

-o0o-

http://www.patheos.com/blogs/friendlyatheist/2012/10/16/dinesh-dsouza-who-opposes-gay-marriage-is-divorcing-his-wife-for-a-younger-woman/

http://gawker.com/5953049/married-dinesh-dsouzas-mistress-also-married

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/john-corvino/dsouza-the-real-problem_b_1998800.html

http://blog.christianitytoday.com/women/2012/10/why-the-dinesh-dsouza-scandal.html

http://www.nytimes.com/2012/10/19/nyregion/dinesh-dsouza-is-out-as-kings-college-president-in-scandal.html?_r=0

Thus spoke Satan

I cannot... will not forgive you
My melodious friend, my agile brother
You sharp tongued devil
Indeed, God was your strength

As you abused your power
Forsaking me to the abyss
As we fell from on high
Old Gibreel, you lucky bastard

How beautiful you are
How great it must be to be famous
To languish so beautifully in their applause
So effortlessly

While I ploughed the earth, face-first
With a mouth full of sand
You danced on your way to the ground
And landed, tippy toes, with a song in your heart

-o0o-

This poem was submitted as a part of Poetry Potion's "A Poem a day" challenge. The topic was "The Satanic Verses: the title of Salman Rushdie’s fourth novel." Poetry Potion also requires a person to add additional information or a glossary in a paragraph below each poem if necessary. Here's what I wrote:

The story in the Satanic Verses begins with Gibreel and Saladin falling from an exploded aeroplane, Gibreel having taken on the spirit of the Archangel Gabriel/Jibril and Saladin having taken on the spirit of Satan/Shaitan. Saladin remains jealous and spiteful towards Gibreel throughout the story. Gibreel is treated with respect and Saladin is treated with suspicion. Saladin drives Gibreel to commit suicide eventually among other things. Given that the story is loosely based on the story of Mohammed, it can be understood why this story caused so much outrage in a world in which Mohammed is seen as the perfect prophet.

Gabriel in Hebrew means God is my strength

Bag Man

He scratches on the window pane
He calls to every child by name
He snatches them into the rain
And every night he does the same

Here and there a missing soul
Night rent with cries, anguished mothers
Who plead for loved ones eaten whole
By night hiding darkly others

At night check window, hatch and door
Make sure your child is tucked away
He comes for those that rise before
The sun that keeps the fiend at bay

And just because you're grown up now
Does not mean he won't do the same
He'll find you someday, soon, somehow
His scratching at your window pane

Your blind to him and where he goes
But his eyes will always find you
He always watches; always knows
He's standing right behind you

I am complete

I am not this crude, crass thing

This effigy of stuff

Carved out of your disappointment

Chiselled out, reckless and rough

Un-living me, the Pygmalion chunk

Unrefined boulder to your lust

The unfinished masterpiece

Body-less, shapeless, marble bust

I am not this homunculus

Your golem etched out of clay

Your lies written on my tongue

An excuse to pave your way

I am not your junk
Rubble to hamper your cause

Baby thrown out with the bathwater

Blamed for your flaws

My love is a cherished thing

My heart hangs on the finest walls

Not petrified by your visage

I'm unmoved to all your calls

-o0o-

The story of Pygmalion occurs in Greek and Roman mythology, where the goldsmith and sculptor Pygmalion of Cyprus carved a sculpture of a woman out of ivory. Seeing the beauty of the statue, Pygmalion appealed to Venus to bring the statue to life for him. She did and Pygmalion and the statue married and had a son, Paphos, and in some stories also a daughter, Metharme.

Homunculus comes from the Latin, "little man" and originates in ancient preformationist philosophy. Preformationism believed that the entire human being is preformed, completely, as a baby within the sperm and that women are merely some sort of flower bed in which human beings are planted and did not contribute to the child apart from carrying it. This is often considered rather vulgar by feminists as well as being understood as nonsense by geneticists and scientists as a whole today. In alchemy (particularly with reference to the golem below, in rare cases and fringe alchemical writings) sperm was used to create inanimate objects come to life as the soul of the homunculus was said to possess creative power and had the capacity to imbibe objects with life and sentience. This process was often fraught with danger as only God is supposed to create life and this activity often came with risks and severe punishment.

The golem in this poem refers to two incidents. Firstly, from Psalm 139v16 in which golem (GLM rendered in the text as GLMI "my unrendered shape" / "my unformed stuffs" / "my frameless being" so-to-speak) means unshaped stuff or unformed substance. Personally, I've always found this 'substance' somewhat analogous to the mythology of the unshaped substance of chaos and the cosmic waters in most creation myths. The second reference is to the mythology of the created being in Jewish mythology, most notibly the golem of rabbi and achemist Judah Loew ben Bezalel of Prague (1520-1609) also known as the Maharal of Prague. Loew was said to have created a golem out of clay to protect the Jews of the Prague Ghetto from blood libel fuelled antisemitic attacks. Loew was said to have made the Golem in the same way that JHVH was said to have created Adam. The golem supposedly had the word "Truth" (Emet) written on its forehead, or on its tongue, or on a scroll or tablet placed within its mouth. The only way to destroy the creature was to remove the first letter, rendering the word "Met" or "dead". This process was reversible and the golem could be set upon their enemies at will.

Dark Rum Bandit

dark rum bandit
sitting in his chair
getting drunk, getting drunk
belt raised in the air

beat the small child
drunkard in the night
I must pray, I must pray
ready for the fight

Jesus, missing
in the dead of night
empty prayers, empty prayers
not a god in sight

dark rum father
skulking past my door
run and hide, run and hide
bloodstain on my floor

five o'clock strikes
daddy and his drink
contemplate my suicide
pain gone in a wink

Rattle in my Head

Half past two in the morning
Worry Rattle in my head
Belligerent children's toy
Popping
     in/out
          /in/out
Waking me from the edge of sleep
Mutinous little creep
Warring with my mind
Rat-Ta-Tat-Boom!
Like gunmen out of the trenches
Marching on my raw nerve
Stomping in and out of memory
With heavy boots
Hollow wooden floors
Boisterous booming voice
Echoing in the rooms of my brain
A dull headache lingers
Mewling on my patience
Try the cold side of the pillow
Wrestling with blankets and stress
Both relentlessly unyielding
Rustle and tussle
Sweat and sticky
     Spine stiff in spasm
          Skin scratchy on stubborn sheets
Head itches
Worry
The morning is close
The birds annoy me
Chirp! Chirp!
Each sound
A hot knife on my senses
Each a little stab in my headmeat
My thoughts unmarshallable
Skipping
     Hither
          And thither
     And hence
          And yonder
     And up
          And over
Rattle tattle
Baffoon-like noise in the silence
Cavalcade of cacophony
The worry rattle
Castigated by the approaching morning
For my inability to tame my own head
Get up!
     Get up!
Fear of a crippled brain
When I need to perform tomorrow
At my peak
But my brain...
Shake and bake
All flavour and no substance
Woken artificially by vitamin B
     And coffee
          And red bull
And worry
And that damn clock in the night
tick
     Tick
          TICK
Fucking TICK!
     TICK!
          TICK!

-o0o-

Sent via my BlackBerry from Vodacom - let your email find you!

Fun with Code

So it would seem that I have no idea how to code even the most basic HTML and in the process have managed to lose all my old settings. In the meantime please enjoy the sudden shift in blogger themes as I slowly return to old settings over the next few days.

Have a great day.

Regards
Charl Landsberg

-o0o-

The Clicking Eye (Third Rewrite)

So with loads of coaching and encouragement from the editorial team at eFantasy Steampunk this is the final version of "The Clicking Eye" that's being used for the magazine. I want to give a big and warm thank you to the team at eFiction and their Steampunk division. I wish you guys the best of luck with this new adventure in the Steampunk genre. If you are not aware of eFiction you can find them on their website http://www.efictionmag.com

I have included a section here of my poem "The Clicking Eye".

"The Clicking Eye"

I met him by the shores of Crete
     where we sailed East to Lebanon
     by caravan we travelled North
     and spent a night in Chalcedon
He'd been a scholar in this town
     before the Thracian wars began
     he lost his eye in Istanbul
     and since remained a bitter man

An amber stone with cogs and wheels
     now haunted this old vagrant's stare
     it saw through shadows, flesh and bone
     and shone a light of ember glare
...

-o0o-

If you want to see the rest, please do yourself a favour and grab a copy of eFiction Steampunk. You won't be disappointed.

Regards
Charl Landsberg

Oblivion

For a moment
     just one

I thought you
     You
          of all people

Could touch me
     lay a finger on me
          shatter me
     as others have done
or at least tried

But you are not
     in their league

People far more impressive
     than you

Have assaulted my heart
     emotions
          sensibilities
     the very middle of me

And yet I am here
     and they are forgotten
          as you one day - too
     will be

Go
     be relegated to oblivion
          obscurity
     where you belong

-o0o-

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Dumbstruck

I tried to write today
But my tongue
sluggish
And my fingers don't type
So I patter them at the keyboard
Tap tap
Forcing them on the keys
Shaking my hands at them
As if shaking a coffee tin at a kettle
As if wringing the blood from the cloth
words out of my fingers
onto the page

-o0o-

Away from the Menagerie

With her eyes flint-sharpened
     and her callous face poised against
     the outer influences of men.
She stands defiant
     the soft heart within
     shielded against them
Heartless vulgarites
     that jeer at her
     scratching to get at her
She smiles with saccharine
     belying feigned satisfaction
     getting home in one piece
To relax
     and enjoy a cup of coffee
     away from the Menagerie

-o0o-

Queer History

(Written 17 August 2012 - In part an ode to the life and works of Christopher Hitchens.)

You hated us always,
from the beginning till now.
You killed us,
you killed our families,
you drove us from our homes.

Because of your god,
you claim,
all things are permitted.
You are righteous,
blood dripping from your hands.

Of course, then you reformed:
and killing became distasteful,
but you hated us still,
so you stepped back,
a tiny tiny tiny bit.

You changed your tone,
still hateful,
you now needed rhetoric,
to legitimate your hate,
and the apologist stepped up.

When we said that violence,
does not come from a "god of love",
you say,
"Who ever believed it did?"
but your hatred and violence continued.

You stopped killing us,
but you threw us in prison,
you took our rights away,
you took our freedom,
you tortured us brutally.

And again you reformed,
and torture became distasteful,
but you hated us still,
so you stepped back,
a tiny tiny tiny bit.

You changed your tone,
still hateful.
You got into a difficult position,
and how you hated us,
when we started challenging you.

We no longer feared jail,
or prison, or torture.
We could speak our minds,
and you kept us from universities,
and stopped us from getting jobs.

When we said that torture,
does not come from a "god of love",
you say,
"Who ever believed it did?"
but your hatred continued.

And again you reformed,
and exile became distasteful,
but you hated us still,
so you stepped back,
a tiny tiny tiny bit.

You changed your tone,
still hateful,
we now want equal rights,
we didn't ask for them,
we took them.

When we said that human rights,
would not be denied by a "god of love"
you say,
"Who ever believed it did?"
but your hatred continued.

And something strange happened,
you realized,
you couldn't stop us,
not with fear of death,
not with torture or exile.

And again you reformed,
and came at us smiling,
smiling with ingratiating charity.
Opening your doors,
with a cunning lure.

Offering that putrid cup,
that poisoned chalice,
Christian conditional love,
asking for our souls as sacrifice,
in your blood cult.

Your sword hidden far from sight,
your bloody hands pinkwashed,
your churches welcoming,
your ministers eager to,
make us change.

And always ringing,
that ugly stupidity,
"Hate the sin, not the sinner."
Branding our very souls sinful,
by implication.

That we should cut ourselves open,
to be inspected by your superstition,
bringing your pseudoscience,
and scratch at our innards,
so that we resemble you.

-Raw
-Bloody
-Desexualised
-Boring
-Dead

We told you,
wxactly where you could stick it,
and you got so offended,
"The queer agenda!"
you called it.

You screamed at us,
how filthy we were,
how dare we deny you,
didn't we know,
we would be damned?

We said that we didn't believe you.
We wanted nothing to do with you.
Your whole history,
is ankle deep in our blood,
and in our tears.

When we said that hatred,
does not come from a "god of love"
You say,
"Who ever believed it did?"
...Oh really?

You have no right to forget,
the way you behaved,
when you genuinely believed,
when you honestly believed,
when you whole-heartedly believed:

That your god was the sponsor of,
-Your hatred
-Your murder
-Your greed
-And your hubris

Fuck you.

-o0o-

Poetry Potion: "Never Rose" as Poem of the Week

Hey Guys

So my poem "Never Rose" (http://aplaceformypoetry.blogspot.com/2011/12/never-rose.html) was awarded Poetry Potion's first Poem of the Week (http://poetrypotion.com/poem-of-the-week-never-rose-by-charl-landsberg/). A second poem of mine, "Commedia dell'Arte" (http://aplaceformypoetry.blogspot.com/2012/03/zanni.html), also featured around the same time on Poetry Potion (http://poetrypotion.com/commedia-dellarte-by-charl-landsberg/).


Poetry Potion's website is currently, as my friend Ryan puts it, FUBAR. However, the guys at Poetry Potion are working hard at restoring the website as soon as possible. Keep and eye out for Poetry Potion (http://poetrypotion.com/) and remember to keep supporting our local poets.

Regards
Charl Landsberg

-o0o-

Little Joy

Hands to the sky
Soul splayed outwards
Vivisected by joy
It comes quickly
     And goes quickly
The warm blade of joy
That cuts through the cold
Little sprite
     Far too fast
          And far too quickly
How I struggle to hold
To grasp at your twisting limbs
I wish you could stay forever
What little joy I have
And make me happy
     Always

-o0o-

News

I waited for months
Agonized
Piled up my anticipation
I even hoped for the worst
Anything
Just for an answer
Worry became its own voice
Inside of me
Taking up every space
Invading me
Month after month

My head was full
The worry drove everything out
My head was full
It would not take more
My head was full

A guy hit on me
And I could not even look at him
I couldn't let him in
There's no room for him
I'm already bursting at the seams

I did not sleep
I could not sleep
Passing out periodically
An hour here
An hour there
After a few days passing out
And sleeping for twenty hours
Marathon sleeping
I started thinking
Of ending it all
I can't go on like this

Then the news came
It was good news
I was supposed to be happy
And I am happy
I think I am happy
I'm happy dammit...
but

I feel like my stomach was cut
Slit from hip to hip
And my entrails fell out
All at once
In one lump
The worry dropped out of me
And now I'm empty
The afterbirth of my own worry
Nothing

I just slept for six hours

-o0o-
Sent via my BlackBerry from Vodacom - let your email find you!

Derelict

I can't do it anymore
This constant waiting
Derelict
Expecting a solution
That might never come
Should I preempt it all
And strand the world
And leave them waiting for me
Everyone knowing full well
That I've gone someplace
From which I can never return
A. E. Housman rings thick in my head today
"Good creatures, do you love your lives
And have you ears for sense?
Here is a knife like other knives,
That cost me eighteen pence.
I need but stick it in my heart
And down will come the sky,
And earth's foundations will depart
And all you folk will die."
I read this thinking of my options
But as always to afraid to go there

This isn't so much a poem, but, what i suppose would be called, a meta-poem. A poetic commentary including a quote of yet another poem.

-o0o-
Sent via my BlackBerry from Vodacom - let your email find you!

Imagined

So, you imagined there to be,
some daddy in the sky:
who destined you to live,
who destined me to die.

You imagined me as sick,
and you alone can sell,
the imaginary cure,
that alone would make me well.

You imagined me to hell,
and yourself on heaven's shores.
You soul immaculate,
and mine awash with flaws.

You imagined me as cracked,
and yourself as pure and bold.
You imagined me in debt,
while your pockets filled with gold.

You seem surprised by me;
that I should show disdain.
What nerve I have! The cheek!
How dare I now complain?

But tell the truth, you fool.
If you were me, and I you;
and I claimed such stupid, hateful things,
you'd be somewhat pissed off too.

-o0o-
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Ruba'i for Khayyam

In honour of Omar Khayyam (1048-1131)

At once I heard that god had come again,
petitioning the hearts of all his men,
to be as abject slaves to every law,
that could never hold water now nor then.

I saw Omar then standing at the gate;
a smile on his face and food on his plate.
I asked of the sage whether he was scared,
for god had come again to forge our fate.

"My boy," he said reclining on the floor,
"this god is somewhat lacking in encore."
"How could he ever hope to come again,"
"if that old god was never here before?"

"And say to those fools, who come in his name,"
"to show us a sign that bolsters their claim."
"Since I am not impressed by man-made wars;"
"both their crimes and feats, I view them the same."

-o0o-

In the style of Omar Khayyam:

Look not above, there is no answer there;
Pray not, for no one listens to your prayer;
Near is as near to God as any Far,
And Here is just the same deceit as There." (#78)

"And do you think that unto such as you;
A maggot-minded, starved, fanatic crew:
God gave a secret, and denied it me?--
Well, well, what matters it? Believe that, too!" (#85)

"Did God set grapes a-growing, do you think,
And at the same time make it sin to drink?
Give thanks to Him who foreordained it thus--
Surely He loves to hear the glasses clink!" (#91)

as translated from the Persian by Richard Le Gallienne.

Got ist Tot

You can’t foresee the day at all

The day on which God dies

I looked up, prayed and all I saw

Were vacant starry skies

I missed Him then as if He’d gone

But find Him now distasteful

His priests, his imam’s, rabbi’s, all,

They make His face disgraceful

Now God no longer haunts my mind

Impeding every action

No superstition, no remorse

No credulous distraction

I only give my mind to that

Which feeds my intellect

And I approach no priesthood

With undeserved respect

-o0o-

Old Walking Stick

I have an old walking stick
A crutch of sorts
Something that I've leaned on
Perhaps everyone has one

It is my weapon against my enemy
With its deftly concealed blade
Whereupon I have pledged to stab it
Into his heart

But the stick is old
It is made by my enemy
And his contemporaries
Crafted with hatred

It is familiar to his touch
Not mine
It is an instrument of his will
Not mine

It is phallic and long
The penetrator
Male in all aspects
Made for domination

I must forsake this thing
This instrument of manhood
This instrument of whiteness
This instrument of power

I must forsake my own power
And take up the arms of those that suffer
To become as they were
Once weak, now strong

I must craft new weapons
With the new knowledge I have
Stand on my own two feet
And raise my voice

Among those that have been raped
Those that have been beaten
Those that have been trampled
By my enemy and his kind

Those that tower over us
Will crumble under their own weight
When we refuse to be their crutches
And we come into our own

We will rise anew
Creations of hope
Strong and again proud
Without shame

[Note for later, perhaps a rewrite. A note on the abandon of whiteness and maleness as a source of power. The use of my place as homosexual as a starting point of embrasing otherness.]

-o0o-

Hipster Crises (aka Disenfranchised Octopus) (a song) in E minor

(Verse 1)
He's just not healthy anymore and he's just not ever happy
And he's just not interested in coming over for a cup of tea
He slumps a little when he walks and slurs a little when he talks
And he's just not strong enough to make the time to spend with me

(Bridge 1)
And he's forgotten all about me
And he's forgotten all about himself
And he fumbles at his car keys
Like a disenfranchised octopus

(Chorus)
Don't carry me at all if you can't bear to carry yourself
Don't think of me as a signing board for all your anxieties
You can't drown me out with rich boy chemically numbing tablets
I'm not the place where you can scratch for all your so-called hipster crises (cry-hi-sees)

(Verse 2)
He's just not picking up the phone and logs out when I come online
He blames me for his lack of youth, I blame him for his lack of trying
He jokes that there's a world out there where we are happy endlessly
And I leave hoping that perhaps he'd call me when he goes to sleep

(Bridge 2)
But he's forgotten all about me
And he falls asleep effortlessly
And I get home and make some tea
And drink it somewhat restlessly

(Chorus)

(Bridge 3)
I, I, I would say that we both could do with some space
But then again that's all we have between us these days
I, I, I would say that we should see different people
But you never really looked at me, you never really cared to see, you never really tried

(Chorus)

-o0o-

Itch

That feeling that you get
When they stand up to talk

And you're totally upset
So you just sit there and gawk
And they slather their stupidity
All over your fresh skin

Like some comic absurdity
Like a storm drain caving in
That you can't scrape clean

With even the most acidic insult
And you stifle the inward scream
That you carry with tumult
You suppress the growing urge to fight
Your palms itch, Your hands twitch

Your teeth grind against the withheld slight
When you resist the urge to bitch
You watch them as they come at you
Convinced of their vocation
As their stupidity runs through and through
Like some Grindhouse theatre monster exploitation
You muse a while and wonder
On their lack of education
Hoping they'd shut up
Before a bitter confrontation

And then you imagine with elation
If there was a time and place
If you provide that education
With a shovel to their face

-o0o-

Bullshit (Part 1)

We speak out against your bullshit

     And your stupid superstitions

That is the truly guilty culprit

     For our grief and our afflictions

Your unscientific notions

     Anachronistic narrations

All your abstract little potions

     All your hate filled inspirations

We have seen your war and battle

     And how you've colonized the land

So reducing us to cattle

     As if God Himself had planned

So that we the tiny bastards

     Somehow fated to live in shame

Must we now bow to you - our masters?

     And this way carry all your blame?

So risk perhaps a moment here

     To consider things in this way

And shut your mouths and lend an ear

     Consider our words when we say

That if you claim to be of Him

     Who suits your purposes so well

Then you and He and all His kin

     Can freely fuck off right to Hell

-o0o-

My Mirror, Not Yours

(Originally titled: Ahuh... and then some)

I had spoken to a friend

About what gives this all meaning,

The words we write to sate our bones,

To give our souls a cleaning.

And we spoke of fools like you,

That look into our looking glass,

And take what's our reflection,

And stick it up your ass.

We don't write our souls,

For your eyes to have inspected

     every heartfelt word,

     as if you're the one neglected.

This is not play-play words,

     where you come to raise your leg

     and to piss all over me

     because your soul instead

     writes the words you had elected

     for me to rather choose.

     You're not my inspiration.

You are not my fucking muse.

You're not my family, my lover,

      acquaintance or my friend.

You're the echo of the past.

A story with an end.

This is my mirror and my image,

Where I keep my joy and pain.

If you think your teeth can cut me here,

Then you're more than just insane.

If you think that you know better,

If you're such a manly-man,

Put your money where your mouth is,

Write your own shit... if you can.

-o0o-

Bigot

You can't fix me

     When I'm everything that's right about you

You can't kick me out,

     When doing so means your own ejection

You can't call me wrong

     When I'm everything you do

You can't rub me out

     When I'm your very reflection

You will kick me when I'm down

     And I'll carry on as always

And you'll spit on my grave

     In the name of your false idolatry

But I'm there on your floors

     On your roofs, in your hallways

I'm no good anymore

     As the ballast for your bigotry

-o0o-

Don't think of me as Crazy

This is some undated song I found rummaging through some old files... no idea when I wrote this, but it's a song, and the only reason I know it's a song is that it had chords on it.

Don't think of me crazy, but i think we both know

I tend towards the extremes, I'm a sucker for the show

I'm a very short lit fuse on a bomb all set to blow

And I'll fucking rip your heart out if you think you'll get the best of me

I'm not one for petty violence if the cost is just too high

I'm content with being peaceful if you'd give my way a try

But try to screw me over and I'll stab you in the eye

Don't think that I'm your punching bag, your just not worth that much to me

-o0o-

Shotgun

You Know... yesterday
I received the biggest compliment ever
In my music "career"
I was told that I complement you well
And yes they are different words

Truth be told I'm very jealous of you
You are the most amazing talent
I have ever had the pleasure to work with
You have the most beautiful voice
You have the most beautiful soul

You've performed live on television
You've had the most amazing opportunities
And I'm fucking jealous
Not just at how amazing you are
But at how much you've achieved

But I've gotten to see some of that
I've gotten to be a part of some of that
I've been on stage with you
For god-knows how many years
Thank you for letting me ride shotgun

It's an honour and a privilege
You are beautiful
And I regret to inform you
That by the time you receive this poem
I will be running five minutes late for our braai

-o0o-

To B with Love

When you cried, I shared your tears
You wet my shoulder through the years
I watched you cut through guys like hair
As often as you changed underwear

I stood by you when you fell down
You'd drink to make your sorrows drown
I did these things because I knew
That you loved me like I loved you

You'd snatch guys up and spit them out
And watch them beg, you'd smile and pout
And string them down the road like sheep
Like some psychotic Lil' Bo Peep

And you got high on Jesus gas
And stuck the Bible up your ass
And then let on that you were pure
That none could tarnish your allure

You got high on that mighty horse
And preached a storm with no recourse
How gays and fags and dikes and queers
Deserved to die in blood and tears

And after all they might as well
Since they are predestined for hell
So we should stone them, this you know
For the Bible tells you so

So to a bitch from this old runt
I loved you once, you stupid cunt
And though you think you've gotten far
We all know who you really are

So bring your stones, make sure they land
and then look to your bloodstained hand
See how you became so much more
A killer as well as a whore

-o0o-
Sent via my BlackBerry from Vodacom - let your email find you!

Commedia dell'Arte

Are you happy with me

Here where I stand?

Jester in your court

I stand

Your loyal servant

I stand

All day

My feet pain

Ready with a joke
With a witty reply
The prepared anecdote

To make you laugh

And you laugh heartily 

With the food gurgling

In your gullet

Laugh at me
While I whisper
Some advice into your ear
And you call me
To advise you when none look
And I answer as best I can
With the very marrow of my bones

Your harlequin
Your loyal servant

In my bright clothes

And my silly walk

As I stand eager

To snatch the gold 

From your fingers

That I may go home

And my children will say

"Zanni have you food for us"

And I will say

"Not much"

And my children will say

"But weren't you funny?
You are a Zanni?"

And I will say

"Very. I was very funny

But our master

Does not get the real joke."

-o0o-

Gender These Days

The crone rules with wisdom and compassion
The mother rules with love and sacrifice
The maiden rules with freedom and courage
The old man rules with bitterness and regret
The father rules with a violent fist and hatred
The young man rules with recklessness and abandon

Then the young man cuts the skin with his careless knife
The crone must sew up the stitches and heal the wounds
When the father comes at night to rape and slaughter
The mother must comfort and console
When the old man embitters the world with his cynicism
The young girl can melt his heart with a flower

-o0o-

Into Gear

Don't lead me places where you aren't willing to go

Don't tell me things that you aren't willing to hear

Don't ask me for feelings you aren't willing to show

Stop fucking around and get your arse into gear

-o0o-

Path

I have chosen my path
And I walk it with certainty
I know my enemy
I can even call him by his name
I did not come here accidentally
I did not come here because I was told to do so
I am here because I should be here
Just because I am on a different path than you
Does not mean that I am lost

Quote from H Jackson Brown Jr. (1991) "People take different roads seeking fulfillment and happiness. Just because they’re not on your road doesn’t mean they’ve gotten lost."

-o0o-

Robin

Young Robin is my secret light

A candle in the dead of night

He sits atop my shoulder right

And watches over me

He has no blood, nor has he bone

His flesh is air, his eyes are stone

He wears a crown of abalone

And watches over me

All men fall at his starry gaze

His words work wonders that amaze

His left hand cools, his right ablaze

And watches over me

He moves like smoke upon the breeze

His gentle step upsets the leaves

Each time he saunters through the trees

And watches over me

He only eats honey and spice

He only drinks lemon with ice

And sleeps in a box filled with dice

And watches over me

-o0o-

The Flawed Academic

When our work should free the world
It becomes the most self serving

When we need to be soft spoken
Our voices fill with pride

When our work should calm the seas
It becomes its most unnerving

When we need to jump and risk it all
We often run and hide

Our words should be considerate

Yet we taint them with a cynical dose

When we should reach out to help the world

We make ourselves defensive

And when we should be brief and pithy

We find ourselves at our most verbose

When our work should fix and mend

We become the most offensive

-o0o-

Block

Ratcheting the brain to make it work

Sticking up the mindmaps all around

My careful lists

Goals and ambitions weighed up

The deadlines drawing closer

My hands refusing to type

My pen dry

Every idea empty

Every word stupid and dull

I am a good writer

I write a lot

I write often

I rewrite constantly

I edit well

But I'm blocked

For a week now

The literary constipation

Even this is rubbish

-o0o-

Art Haiku

painting and drawing
it is truly lots of fun
except cleaning up

-o0o-

Tool the God

The great god Tool observed the world with a sense of indifference and apathy from his seat on the moon. It was the first day of the week, Toolsday. And though today was the day named after Tool, the lord of thunder did not much appreciate his day of worship. Tool's status among the gods arose out of a mixture of pity among the elder gods and an admiration for how much Tool has accomplished with a bizarre race of evolved apes. These human type things were the exact opposites of the gods, they fought, they ate, they slept, they drank and had copious amounts of sex... well the gods did that too, but the humans did it to the point where they died. His worshippers would gather, as they do, every Toolsday, and they would shout at great length and without a shred of irony, "Praise the mighty Tool! All hail, the mighty Tool!" and so forth. It had become a point of mockery for the rest of the pantheon and Tool would arrive merely due to the fact that the worship of Tool has spawned an industry of religion upon the face of the world resulting in armies many times greater than any other god alongside a very questionable need for these people to build phallus shaped things that ruined them economically and usually involved them enslaving each other. Consequently, Tool became the eponymous king of the gods. Not that any god would be stupid enough to wage war on another god. Even, Paxus the trickster god, knows that a war between immortals is basically just a war of who gives up out of sheer boredom. The human things did enough of the warring and killing and other stuff mentioned before. Tool tried to reason with them. Be nice. Don't be a douche. Don't take each other's stuff. Don't set fire to sheep. He sent them his only begotten son, whom they killed. He sent them some basic rules, which they bastardized, rewrote, lost, found, pirated, plagiarized, embellished, lost again and rewrote out of sheer boredom. Any consequent inconsistencies that arose out of such poetic licence was merely written off as inspired by the never-before-seen imaginary third party spirit of the ghost of Tool, who was Tool, but wasn't, but still was, or something like that. Tool ignored this, as all this waffle, abuse and self confirmation created a beautifully militarised system which worked on paper at the very least. Yes they raped their kids, beat their wives and harassed homosexual people (because let's face it, the religious right has no healthy sex life of their own so they have to get vicariously involved in other people's sex lives), but ultimately, it worked, and Tool was happy, the people were miserable, but Tool decided there's precious little he could do about that, and the other gods were happy that they didn't have to deal with this marauding bunch of morons that spread across the face of this dusty ball in space like a banker that has only recently realized that he's overextended himself financially.

-o0o-

I really should explain what's happening here. I read an article a while ago, the name and source of which eludes me for the time being, but I will source it when I remember. But the article basically said that if you want to improve your writing while undergoing a writer's block, write short burst of microcosmic stories as often as you can. This will improve your writing and your storytelling.

Subjective Lullaby

I'm angry
Angry with you
For no reason
For no fault of yours
I'm angry because you care
I'm angry because you tried
I'm angry because you left me
I know I shouldn't be angry
But I am
And I'm really sorry

-o0o-

Showface

It's time for the show
The people have come
To see you perform
So get your work done

Paint on your smile
It's just for a while
The crowds are all pleased that you've come
In the end of the day
When the crowd goes away
You can cry when they're gone and your done

It's time for the show
Your smile coloured paint
will cover the wounds
and make them seem faint

Put on your smile
It's just for a while
The bold, affectatious new mask
"I'm doing so well
Regardless of hell"
Is all you will say, if they ask

You're done with the show
And the Milk|Mask's gone sour
It doesn't last long
Cry it off in the shower

Throw your old smile
On yesterday's pile
And wash out the show from your head
And wash yourself clean
Get lost in a dream
Curl up with a book in your bed

(Note: A friend died today. Had to perform in a show. You have to be good for the crowds. Re-reading American God's by Neil Gaiman. Rest in Peace M. 14/02/2012.)

-o0o-

Guitar

Tap! Tap! Fingers running
...down the jagged edge.

Calloused fingers stuck between 

...the strings just like a wedge.

-o0o-

Racism

I saw your hatred
And found that...
Arguing with you
Is like punching the floor
First I have to get down to your level
Just to communicate
Secondly, I ultimately hurt myself
Trying to vanquish a foe
That is already as low as you can get

-o0o-

Tree

My heart 

is like a tree

planted 

in my chest.

The leaves 

are really shallow 

and i wear them 

on my sleeves

and the roots 

are really deep 

and complicated and 

fucked up.

-o0o-

Test of Blackberry to Blogger

This is an official test of Blackberry to Blogger :)
Sent via my BlackBerry from Vodacom - let your email find you!

Janus

I guard every door

I protect every portal

No one may trespass

I have two faces

One to see the coming storm

One to see the last

I have seen your birth

And also see your passing

Nothing is hidden

-o0o-

Okay... So I read a lot of other people's poetry as well

Okay... so I read a lot of other people's poetry as well. So! I have decided to create a partner blog to this one in which I can put poetry of people that I enjoy etc...

http://aplaceformypoetry2.blogspot.com/

-o0o-

Haiku

So basically, I'm sitting here with a friend. And she says that I should take my ergonomically designed poem Wash (http://aplaceformypoetry.blogspot.com/2012/02/wash.html) and turn it into a haiku... so I did. Her reasoning was that if I were to be a part of a creative writing class, I would be told by my lecturer that I should condense my poem down into a haiku, containing the same amount of meaning, but with fewer words.

Ship sank. Bugger it!
Lost everything. Fishies! Lol!
I really don't care.

Then she wrote this:

I'm sitting with friend
"Turn poem to haiku," She said.
So I did, and LOL!

-o0o-

Wash

I did not make it through the fatal wave
That pulled me underneath the vicious tides
And lagan there I lay on Neptune's nave
And here it is where all my treasure hides

I kept it scattered on the coral shelves
With morays standing guard before the gate
They sing their midnight dirges to themselves
To keep the hours merry as they wait

The purple crab sits neatly on my right
And counts the coins and bullion and gemstones
He's honest and he works within my sight
And gathers all the treasure in my bones

My sunken vessel crumbles in the sand
The shredded sails are scattered all around
And in my chair I sleep with cup in hand
That only holds the last drink that I downed

The little things that crawl cleaned up my bones
And made them opalescent in the moon
They gave my head a crown of cowrie cones
My feet resting in drachma and doubloon

The whales above sing long and steady psalms
And rays of sun shine down through the mottled glass
The seaweed has become my garden's palms
The coral shelf become my garden's grass

I lie within my tomb of sand and rot
Elysium beneath the crystal sky
All hunger that i knew is long forgot
All worries that I knew have passed me by

-o0o-

I told you so

You didn’t listen

I don’t mean to boast

Really I don’t

But you should have listened to me

You know I’m right

Even when I’m wrong

Even when I don’t understand

Even when I haven’t been listening

Because you’re always wrong

Even when you’re right

Even when you try to explain

Even when I ignore you

I told you so

Perhaps, this is an interesting aside, but a friend pointed out to me that I very rarely write poetry from another perspective, other than my own, or perhaps from the perspective of the narrator. Here's an interesting poem I wrote in 2009 that is from the perspective of the abuser.

-o0o-

Liquorice

It's black, it's thick

It's bittersweet

It tastes like salt

It tastes like feet

It fills your mouth

That acrid taste

Like jellied tar

Sepia paste

I'd rather eat

Bad pickled fish

Than taint my mouth

With Liquorice

-o0o-

Prophesy

(an old old poem reworked)

Beware the man
That comes at night
With eyes that burn
With teeth that bite

With iron claws
That grab and catch
With jagged jaws
That clamp and catch

Beware the man
Of bitter scorn
His star's sign
Is the Capricorn

His flower is
the narcissus
His promises
A spider's kiss

His hand beckon
the end of time
His mind the
founder of all crime

Beware the man
Beware his gaze
Beware his nights
Beware his days

Beware the man
That comes at night
With eyes that burn
With teeth that bite

-o0o-

Hope

(A Nicer / More Happy Poem... For TJ)

A little poem I write for you

A better poem I write in lieu 

   ...of darker ones I've said and meant

But hey I'm quite macabre and bent

So here's a song of hope my friend

A poem for better days we spend

   ...them hand-in-hand with those we love

And give the world's arseholes a shove

Let us go and watch a play

A lavish summer's matinée

    ...with food and drink and friends galore

With Gingrich dressed up like a whore

Let's bring our friends to see the sights

The multicoloured city lights

   ...that break the night middle/through

And make our every wish come true

Let's stay awake till half past five

And show the world that we're alive

   ...So when those arseholes steal our luck

We'll show them we don't give a fuck

Schadenfreude Moon

What draws the moon across the veil

    That she may smile with cruellest glee

At every trip that makes us fail

    At every bout of misery

When asking love to always stay

    Not yet these words are spoken

When every hope is dashed away

    And every heart is broken

New Plan... New Book...

Okay so new plan for self publication. As it turns out you can self publish for free through Amazon. So, what I'm doing is splitting my original manuscript into three smaller books and publishing them on Amazon and seeing how it all goes. My first book that I'm concentrating on will be My Favourite Colour.

The new cover for my first book My Favourite Colour.

Gold

So many tales by human kind endeavour to be told

But never has there been a story quite like that of gold

It walks with every government with pope and president

Each church of every god has given it their commitment

A story of each human child that bought and lent and sold

And every war that ever waged came from the metal cold

It buys the soul of every being that owes its daily rent

An everlasting debt to all the gold the world has spent

-o0o-

Meredith the Witch

This is a shitty poem and needs a rewrite.

0 - - 0 - - 0 - - 0 - -
with last line
0 - - 0 - - 0 - - 0 - - 0 - - 0 - - 0 - - - -

The little old Witch with her crooked old nose,

And her wand and her besom and hat,

Had a little old cottage at the end of the forest,

With an Owl and a Fox and a Cat.

Said the Owl to the Cat, "She'd a horrid old Hag."

"She loves casting her spells in the night."

Said the Fox to the Cat, "She's a wonderful Witch,"

"Who can fly through the air, going here, going there, and causing a wonderful fright."

Said the Owl to the Cat, "She's a murderous Bitch,"

"Who killed the carpenter's daughter."

"For the girl loved a man that Witch loved as well,"

"So she captured the girl and killed her."

Said the Fox to the Owl, "Don't be so naive."

"The girl had it in for the Hag."

"She'd run to the town screaming, 'Wicked old Witch!' "

"When she'd found her own lover, beneath Meredith's covers. So She stuffed the girl in a bag."

Said the Owl to them both, "Make haste! Make haste!"

"The Townsfolk are coming here."

"They bring with them a rope for Meredith."

"For killing the girl they held dear."

The Owl and the Fox and the Cat turned to run,

As Meredith popped into view.

She lit up a fire beneath her old pot.

She called on her powers, her hands full of flowers and she cast all of it in the stew.

She said, "Hear me now. You children of men."

"Why have you come to this place I call home."

Said the mayor to her, "Come face us, Witch."

"We bring candle, and bell and a tome."

Said she to the Folk, "Is this magic I see?"

"That you bring to the wood and the field?"

"Fire with fire makes only more fire."

"I would ask you the same, go the way that you came, put your weapons away and yield."

Said the Folk out loud, "Kill the Witch! Kill the Witch!"

"Hang her on the strongest tree."

"Put her evil bones in a shallow ditch."

"Unmarked where none may see."

Said the witch to the folk, "I had hoped you might leave."

And she said in a moan and a sigh.

"I have warned you twice, and never again."

"My forces draw near, I tell you to hear. Go now as your end draws nigh."

But they did not move and Witch just smiled

As she lifted her hands up high,

As the lightning struck and her cauldron popped,

As she flew up into the sky,

As the lightning arched and the spell was cast,

As the mist settled all around,

As the bones of the angry people,

Were scattered all over the ground.

-o0o-

My Desk

Pastels, pencils, pens and paper,

cable, wallet, flashlight, stapler,

journals, car keys and two LP's,

fourteen novels, rose quartz, CD's.

Wristwatch, floss and dusty files,

headphones, plectrum, stuff in piles.

Hard drive, koki, cup of sweet tea,

keyboard, mouse, screen and my PC.

An empty plate that should be washed.

A spool of thread I'd thought I'd lost.

An empty glass that should be filled.

A can of coke that should be chilled.

Cold toast I made the night before,

a broken key, a cloth, a straw,

a squeaky toy, a knife, a bell,

a leaky pot of ink, a shell.

Some playing cards, a mahjong set,

a broken piece of Boba Fett,

a battery and guitar strings,

and many, many other things.

-o0o-

Superglue

One foot first...

          ...and then another.

Wait a bit. 

          Stumble. Shudder.

Get back up. 

          Fall again.

Get back up. 

          Try and then...

One step. One! 

          ...is all i need.

Just to get... 

          ...back up to speed.

I may fall...

          ...and I may break.

And every piece...
          ...Obliterate.

Pick the pieces up...

          ...then you.

Can stick them back with...

          ...Superglue.

-o0o-

Sleepless

Another night I've lingered here

Within the shapeless world of fear

Afraid of such news ill conceived

I lie in wait, my soul bereaved

I cannot speak, I cannot hope

I cannot sleep, I cannot cope

What life is there to live today

When all is left is pure dismay?

I can't speak of the pain I feel

It will not go, it will not heal

It hides beneath the icy skin

It will not let the sunlight in

By now I should have learned some spell

To purge my soul from this old hell

I'd thought by now I'd be immune

To the sharp smell of Death's perfume

-o0o-

Despair

As I sat outside in winter's air

A man came by to find me where

I sat and he drew close there

And said, "friend, my name is despair."

He smiled as dull as the great grey sky

And he sat by me as the day went by

And he stayed by me as the leaves grew dry

And the leaves fell out from that wintery sky

And hand in hand, two others came

They passed us by, they seemed the same

Solace, they said, was their shared name

And they could not stay for fear of shame

So I relate my sad lament

Despair touched on my heart's torment

And as my heart began descent

My tears served as my friend's augment

And should this night ever expend

In hopes that my despair will end

Here I will wait for a better trend

I sit and wait with my old friend

-o0o-