In the event of my untimely death – a plea from a transgender person.

When I die, let me be dead with a little grace,
Don’t dress me up like a boy or masculinise my face,
When I die speak of me as I am,
They and them are my pronouns, even in death.

Do not call me by boy or man,
or male or son or him or he.
Do not speak prayers over my ashes,
and if you can’t control yourself, do it silently.

Do not bring my body or ashes into a church.
Do not have a priest give rites over my remains.
Do not show my body. Do not put my remains in a coffin.
Do not hold wakes for my body, I am not there anymore.

Any person who misgenders me or prays over me,
or befouls my corpse with patriarchal puppetry,
or makes me out to be a man is not my friend but my enemy.
They are committing desecration. I do not forgive them.

As for ashes, donate what they can use of my body,
and cremate whatever is left.
Throw my ashes in the sea, I don’t want to be shelved indefinitely,
a constant burden for the bereft.

Cry for me if you have to, but don’t you mourn my death
Celebrate the life I had with friends and food and song
Wear purple. Drink a glass of water. Eat something delicious or sweet.
Comfort those who hurt. And get some fucking sleep.

-o0o-

Ricky Man

Please go have a look at my poem "Ricky Man". It's up at Poetry Potion HERE.

Ricky Man

I knew Ricky Man.

I knew Ricky Man back when.

I knew him when the Earth was flat.

I knew him when the moon was holy.

...when Coca Cola was cheap;

when he sat slumped,

face down, drunk,

cooking his brain in some second hand philosophy book,

college of life burning late on his alchemical tank,

and adding fuel in small white powder sniffs.

-Breaking into one of his familiar tiffs with the tiny bar lady,

the one he swears he fucked.

..but I knew he was as gay as a seven rand note.

And he smiled at me with his knowing eyes,

the only times I swear he saw the world soberly.

I knew Ricky Man.

I knew Ricky Man back when.

Ricky Man smoked a pipe.

A glass pipe.

Called it his caterpillar stick.

And he told stories like a magician.

His teeth clinking on glass,

like a groom calling his audience to class,

and we small children sat at his feet,

in a long forgotten street,

and listened to spinning stories:

of long ago alleyways, brothels,

and that one cop that owed him one.

He curled over the edge of his table,

and drummed the story into the wood,

with the ball of his palm,

stuttering through the haze of drink,

and the jagged segues of coca daze,

his haphazard bedtime mazelike stories,

that twisted around you,

like carousels of living horses.

We didn’t believe a word he’d say,

but it was all about the way he'd said it.

I knew Ricky Man.

I knew Ricky Man back when.

His foot sticking out this way,

fingers pointing accusingly at every audience member:

till one by one we were shot down,

one drunk,

one coked up,

one just tired from a long day.

Us, just as hazy as he was,

boiled out by the familiar heat of a small town sun.

And he’d finally fizz out and pass out,

kicked out for sleeping,

or puking on himself,

he just needed to get up.

He just needed to find his feet.

One last person to greet.

...and as he crossed the street.

...well.

He didn’t see the car coming.

I knew Ricky Man back when.

I knew Ricky Man with his soda ash coat.

I knew Ricky Man with his blood libation to mother night.

I knew Ricky Man before we spoke of him in backwards facing sentences.

I knew Ricky Man.

I knew Ricky Man back when.

-o0o-

A year ago...

Sandra Bland died today

but long ago

the hurt is still in the faces of her siblings

the wound is still so raw

and her siblings die

her parents die

still

now

like it digs up old graves
and she's here again

as if she died yesterday

-o0o-

Bleeding Heart

you'll forgive me if I stutter

when I speak of things that matter

I'm sorry but I'm not that cold

when I speak the tales that should be told

I don't have that luxury to freeze

switch myself off with flippant ease

these things that hurt me so

I can't just let them go

I am not made of such distant stuff

or set in stone all cruel and rough

dispassion is not how I'm built

when innocent blood is spilt

so you'll forgive me if I cry

when I see innocent people die

-o0o-

Life and Death Drink Tea

old soul shiver

cold to the bone

stalking among the stones

alone

waiting for their friend

dreaming they might be there

in the end of the path

and they would embrace

at last

a heart to share

a cup to pour

friendship beyond compare

they that walk beyond the mist

between the rows

of fern frond and grey daisy bloom

knowing the end of the road

coming soon

where once again

to say goodbye

until tomorrow

when we meed again

when souls get shifted

here and there

like the cards on their tea tray

-o0o-

Azrael

Azrael drinks from the rivers

and she eats from the shores

that when it snows she shivers

and when she's tired she snores

Azrael cries for the living

and sings to the dead at night

she is utterly unforgiving

and her rage is a terrible sight

Azrael makes what's plain dynamic

where once was only death

she makes the stillness quick

and gives the lifeless breath

Azrael bears the departed

on wings as wide as sky

as the life she'd once imparted

she'd also doomed to die

-o0o-

I wish you were there

I wish you were there

for reasons the religious struggle to understand

for reasons atheists find inscrutable

I miss you

unlike I miss any god

losing god was like a chain snapped off of my neck

losing you was like you died a second time

this time for good

because I know this time you're gone

and I really need you right now

because I'm lost

while I know you're the only one who knows the way

though, now you've gone somewhere I can't follow

the solace of seeing you again is gone

the person I'm speaking to now

is merely my lonely heart

substituting an old memory

a kind nostalgia that keeps you alive

I miss you so much

far too many of you died
and there are so few people to talk to left this side

-o0o-

For what She cried

tonight i saw with my own eyes
how bone and flesh became a ghost
and manifests as all else dies
to which i played unwitting host

i looked into those eyes tonight
Her soul hidden in clandestine places
creeping there in plainest sight
with myriad masks and smiling faces

She came here late, at half past two
so pale as Russian sage is grey
Her eyes as faded Faassen's hue
Her visage nearly washed away

She cried before the hour passed
She'd left before i said a thing
returning as that sheerest ghast
She sang herself the sidhe again

Her night time call as subtle cries
that draws all colour from the street
at once will punch that puerile pride
and sweep the bravest off their feet

you think you know for what She cries
what promises Her womb had made
in swaddled cloth and deadened eyes
so warped from a Mother to a shade

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

His Sanguine Mark

I struggle to remember you,
on the day you died.
Eleven years ago.

I struggle to remember you.
I only remember that place.
I remember being in your room,
watching the dark spot on the carpet,
the spattering on the wall,
and the smell of it,
where life upended your bucket,
and the last bits of you spilled out.
The faintest smell of gunpowder.

I hoped,
perhaps,
that it would never go away.
That your mark,
red and rusting on the carpet,
would never leave this world.

I figured,
that we are creatures of pain,
you and I,
scraped raw to the nerve,
and you determined to go down that road,
to meet your reaper face-to-face.
I don’t think I possess your courage.

I miss you dearly, old friend.

-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-

Vir Ouma

Written on Tuesday 04 August 2009
The day she passed away

I know the things that they expect
To bow my head, to show respect
To still my mouth, prevent neglect
Such silly things in retrospect

But better a world for you awaits
Beyond the dark and gloomy gates
Free of pain and mortal bates
Of cosmos buds and sundried dates

Of vast fields of orange blooms
Of roasted lamb and black mushrooms
Of waltz and songs that no one knows
Where trees of eternal autumn grows

Where I rejoice when others pray
I know the things that I should say
And with some tears I know today
That heaven took you on your way

So don’t wait up, in time we’ll meet
And together stand at the Maker’s feet
So tell Oupa and our friends in the sky
We’re thinking of you, we all say hi

-o0o-