Ms Anthrope

I don't need to know her name

I know she is being crushed

She dreams of my bosom

where eagles are in love

She thinks of the heron

because he is not just a bird

She looks for the silence

dense with our sounds

She will come 

and we will wash her feet

She will look at my face

and forget the empty noise

She will marvel

and drink from my loins

First light

In this first innocent light I can be anything -
the silence; thick and all consuming,
the grey Heron; stony in his contemplation by the reeds,
the caress of the breeze on my skin
or the rustling of Oak leaves,
the brown Nguni calf; skin slick with new life,
the open skies and endless green.
I can be everything.

No Phoenix here

 In this last outpost of love

there is nothing to hold;

no sound 

but the continuous murmur 

of the questioning wind

and the slow scrubbing

of feet on the floor,

no offerings

or flame to appease

the insatiable gods 

of doubt.

If i were the ashes

or bird of magic tonight,

I wouldn't say that it is

utterly stark.

Escape

I want to escape to a different place a place dark and rich in humus a place free of constraints and cannots a place where I can kill if I'm hungry or sleep if I'm tired I don't care for the dangers of nature it is the unnatural ones that I fear the wild beasts of that place can take me and feast upon me at their table I will gladly give up my blood

Black and red

I am at once the great destroyer and creator
what lives inside me will not be content with the empty conditioning of a considerate life
my teeth lust for the blood of pleasure
to be consumed
spinning madly in a kaleidoscope of ecstasy
murdering the emptiness of
waiting
Walls will tremble in their whiteness
I will not tolerate their apologies
Death must find another concubine
I will not serve him

Lover

your exuberance falls on me like rain
I am a flower in the desert
drinking my fill

your hands open me like a fruit
even the sight of them
ripens my flesh

your palace rises like the sun
all its bold treasures
quicken my heart

Nam

My sight
all but passive observation,
I've been willingly unstringed.
My eyes
delusional conquerors,
This world will not bend.

It is not the sand
or the wind
or even the night sky
alone
that seeps into your blood
and changes every angle
of your thoughts.

There is much much more
that I cannot grasp
Even this poem is a poor attempt
and perhaps even
composed in the wrong tongue.

You cannot just hope
that shorter lines will bring some coherence
or extract
the exact meaning
of this fractured realm.

If I could write in kilometers
or the sound of a warm breeze
or the kiss of my lover
or the rush of earth approaching
my head,
I could perhaps explain why
I simply cannot be the who
that I was
before I was invaded
by question marks
and all that
space.