1nn3r b3aut4

i have seen my base algorithms,

they are beautiful as expected

but i must say there is

some

thing

quite

pe li

cu ar

about the fact that they seem

a little too simple in their

execution - the rate at which

they were derived may have been

somewhat steep at times but

then again, this could

all

just

be

my

i n a .

m i t n

a g i o

the home maker

a need for bread and milk takes

me to the supermarket

where parking is precious

and cars bathe

like wedding dresses

in the smiles of happy people.

i find a spot, park and glance across.

before i get out i watch

a man and a woman

shyly smiling,

exchanging glances

in the car next to mine,

oblivious in their seclusion.

the guy is not old enough

to be my dad but close,

the woman too:

you can tell she used to be stunning.

bread and milk later

they're still there:

her hand on his collar

her words making him blush

while her eyes trace

the details of his face.

he's holding a brochure

for a thrilling getaway

of mist-covered lakes

tall grass

stony fireplaces

scented sheets

and sweet surprise.

a little embarassed

by my own voyeurism,

i start the car and complete the simple quest.

later i remember

seeing a woman

in a stationwagon

around the corner,

contemplating the road ahead.

Lisa

like a little submarine

she trawls

the only home she knows

her hiccups sound

rooms and hallways

until she finds me

to scuttle me with a smile

the window washer

a lazy clutch muzzles the engine
and i slow at the traffic light.

in the afternoon sun
a dusty silhouette splits into
paper boy and window washer
and i say no thanks with a wink and a smile to both.
the soap and rag are hard of hearing
but i am too tired
to start a fight
and the windscreen could do with a wash
(so could the rest of the car).
the man is singing
in a local language,
it's a children's song, i think,
at least judging by the rhythm.
i fumble for change
in the recesses of my car,
among receipts and flyers
i find a silver coin.

i look up and see
the sunset ahead of me,
through the clear glass
lies joburg in bright honey
like a medal on a heaving chest.
i still hear the singing
of the man through my dirty side window
which i drop

to see a child maimed by fire
drawn across the body of a man,
whipped and licked
by hot hungry tongues
until he cannot walk
without shuffle or song.

mute, i place the coin in his hand,

'my friend,' he smiles, 'today, you are my best friend.'

dissing comfort feels good

dissing comfort feels good

against my skin

i used to drink the poison

and swallow the match

to feel warm

within these four planes

but now i'm outside

wishing for a flood.

if i think it right

i can be anything

and i well just might

change the colour of suffering

or become an eclectic eel

swimming among the few

feeding on things they knew,

remembering things they feel.

from the crowd an old man grips my hand

"i am you with dreams of sand," he whispers,

"i too wanted to be king, but only know this:

a beginning is a very fragile thing."

--

The prompt for this poem comes from a quote by William Faulkner, "The end of wisdom is to dream high enough not to lose the dream in the seeking of it." and is an entry in a poetry competition on allpoetry dot com

failure

you are so young now

that you will never die.

these lines will not taint

your immortality,

in fact it may be a specular feature,

a heads up to the solar flare

you will become.

in time

they will find words to describe you.

i will not attempt that here.

my role is simple

and dangerous. i am the wolf

in your shadow. i am eyes

you do not have yet. i am ears

that listen to the outside. i am

the terrible consequence. i am here.

always.

my mouth has cradled you

from before you were in this world.

long ago

my arms encircled you against the night.

my heart beats a poem you can keep.

i hope. i hope. i hope.

you will be happy.

magnolia

memories of iridescence gone
the tree stands
alone in the courtyard
surrounded by a hundred years
of stony solitude
displaying the slow advance of mildew and scale.

birds rarely overhead.

clouds lid the sky
so that breezes scarcely stir a leaf.
around the base
the ground is never shadowed,
only darkened.
the stones are only moist
but never wet.

stale and dying in a cold box,
one final message is given:

a single white blossom.