Day 7

Today, the sun is out! For the first time everything is brillant and glorious. And we take advantage of it, sitting on the verandah that makes us feel oh so as though we are in Rhodesia, talking about clouds and other things that have nothing to do with anything.





Today, some of us will go back to the school. We will finish painting the dirty classrooms, we will print letters on the walls, we will plant seeds we came to sow. Today we will return one last time to receive our thanks.

Day 6

I am sitting in a van, listening to a song about home. A song about a morning star, about a town I know too well. A song that reminds me of you, of home.

We've been stopped, and I do not know what is going on.

'Where are you from?'

'Where are you going?'

'What are you doing there?'

'Why would you want to do that?'

So many questions I feel nobody can properly answer. And all the while I sit, forming my own questions and sending them away to be answered.

I am alright. Are you?

I am sitting, motionless and far away on the side of the road, rising with the relentless heat that clouds our brains and leaves us satisfied with the gaps in truths. What are you doing?

I am thinking of you. Do you think of me?

Day 5

We woke up early and packed simple lunches of sandwiches and water. It was still more than they had and I felt guilty that I had while others have not.

We painted. We dug. We laughed, flinging jokes and powder blue paint at one another.

Tomorrow we shall return for more.

Next week, I will return for more. All my life I will keep coming back for more, and hope someday I will feel it is enough. That I am enough.

I have been given a camera and without any pretentious ramblings of 'life behind the lense' I walk about taking pictures of everything. I capture pictures, not moments. I capture a lifetime in one shot of two children. Some smile, some do not. Not one of them is frowning, crying, shouting and beating fists against the chest of the world for being unfair. But somewhere in that neutrality is a look of serene acceptance, an awareness of what is and a hope, without dreaming too much, of what might be.

Back home, we talked. We discussed and debated but we never fought. Christianity, sanity, science. Organic living, literature, films, evolution. I find myself in a group of people who do not agree with me, but who can accept and love above all else.

After dinner, I showered and the water ran out halfway through. I planned to join the others, planned to read, planned to study. But I am exhausted. My eyes are closing and my mind is slowly shutting down for the night.

Tomorrow is another day.

I hope to be your 'what might be', and someday when we look back it will be what was. If we do it right it will be what will always be.

Day 4

I sit along with a boy and a girl. Everyone else is praying, but we three left the room because we think we know how to pray, but we haven't a clue where our prayers go, and so for now we pray to a different 'god'.

He is studying something which bores him. I do not have to presume, he says so himself. But he wants to use it to enable him to do what he wants to do, to help people. I hope he does.

Last night I went to the orphanage. We walked the moonlit mile down the road and met the 'orphans'. They are all boys. Not all of their parents have died, though they may as well have.

One is 7 years old. One is 19, and barely reaches my shoulders. He is still a boy, though he has not the time of youth ahead of him as we all did. One is dying. One is studying to become a doctor, and though he has been offered scholarships the world over he has returned home to visit his people. One is always smiling, another never does. One is finishing school, planning his future successes. One wants to make a difference someday, another just wants to look after his family back home.

And this one man is saving one child, who will grow to be the best surgeon in his country and remember that man who saved his life. And he will come back to his country, and save countless more lives. One man will change thousands of lives by starting with one.

One man is close to breaking point, but he is hanging on.

When we returned, I jumped into the pool. I dunked my head underwater and as my jeans clung to me, waterlogged and heavy, I screamed underwater to open up the faucet of my saturated mind. I let out the crowded thought in a stream of consciousness, finding comfort in the muffled sounds of my inability to understand.

And then there was you. You, whose accent I teased. You, the only person in whom I could bear it. You, in-your-face, and seemingly attacking but never with ill intent. You, with the strong-mindedness that clashed only because of my own. You with the opinions and the passions I love and share. You, who has so many stories to tell. You, the foreigner, who knew this place better than us all.

We are all friends in this place. We will hold hands and link arms and bend backs to help one another. We will carry together, we will cry about the load and laugh about our crying. We will wish there were more of us.

Last night, I slept.

Change, as it turns out, is good.

Day 3

I open up a crackling diary, with a burnt spine and stiff pages. I write a story that is still happening, and cannot help but wonder what is next. This has barely begun, I promise myself.

Today, we arrive at our destination. But it is but a place of rest in a journey I realise will take us centuries to complete.

We stay with a man and woman; they are married, with two sons. The house is a home, and has been for countless people that have already passed through it. The farm is enormous, but relatively small. The view has me fixated, the ground is useless. Forget about your alien crops, the only thing that still grows in this colony is the grass, the thorny trees that were here long before us. There is still room for them, because they never left.

The other farms are empty. They were claimed and left to die, like young boys who were never going to be any good on the battle field. A battle. A battle of power, and taking. Taking back what was, what was not, was is, what might never be again. Even the grass is threatening to retreat underground where there is no fight for just the next day.

We smoked and drank coffee for the first time in days. We played silly games under a thatched roof shielding us from the neverending rain. We told stories, and we listened to stories.

These orphans are not alone. They are the offspring of children who were too young, who made bad choices or who were the victims of others' ill desires, who are infected and dying, who have tried again and again to rush the process of death. They are the offspring of the dead, of the broken, of the incapable, desperate for capacity.

But they are the children of a man and a woman who will always raise them as their own. From here, they will go to school. They will take it more seriously than any of us did, and report to me daily with enthusiastic updates on their studies. They will live a sustainable life right here. They will be accountants for big firms, doctors who travel the world to study and return to their home to help their people. From here, they will grow.

This has barely begun, I promise you.

Day 2

Barely three hours' sleep in a strange place. There is hardly time for nightmares before alarms ring shrilly and one by one and bodies stir, accelerating as the sense of urgency dawns on us all.

We continue to drive as it continues to rain. Hours are spent lost in a place I thought I knew. I certainly found my way there, but I cannot seem to map my way out of this maze. It is a labyrinth of tall buildings breathing history with every day they stand, landmarks you pointed out as the best coffee in town and that place that burnt down. Everything I see is you, and though getting lost seems unnecessary I am glad for the presence of you and I in this strange darkness.

We leave the city and suddenly we find ourselves in the Eden of our land. The rain persists and everything is wet and green as though we never went near it. This marks the border between home and a foreign place, and we cross as though it is invisible.

It is an unexpected beauty. Though we knew not what to expect, nobody can prepare for this. It may simply be the dense clouds screening a struggling sun, but the light here is different. The landscape is breathtaking without being wholly alien to us, and as we gasp at the thick, moist greenness, the flatness interrupted by smooth bursts of rounded rock pushing out of the clay-like earth to bulge towards the moon like a pregnant womb, we are reminded of home. I, of you, as I envisage showing it all to you.

I cannot tell you that I am safe. But I am. There is nothing here- the towns are made up of toy houses and the streets were drawn by clumsy child fingers to allow play-play cars through. Everything is a little dirty. Someone has forgotten about this place and its people, forgot to clean the floors and give the walls a fresh coat of paint. Children stand around barefoot and still, mismatched and seemingly aimless.

There is no paint here.

It seemed a tedious day of not yet arriving, but no longer being at home.

Tomorrow is another, and we will indulge to let the daylight arrive before we do.

Day 1

I spent the night drifting in and out of dreamless sleep, reaching out and whispering things in your ear. Weeks later I discovered you had heard them, and I was glad. There are things you must hear, and I desired to leave you with these declarations as I left your side for weeks.

We, I and others but no you, left at four in the morning. The early hour, the being awake before there was even a hint of 'Yes, today will be another day' daylight- it was not new. Insomnia, and unconscious panic rendered this my most regular hour. And as the drunk students stumbled around in a ghost town celebrating something they have long forgotten, we snaked our way onto a long road to be more than that.

Nine others. Erratic sleep. Strangers who were fast becoming the opposite. Too few smoke breaks. A gradual build-up of stagnant body odour that nobody could smell because we all reeked of having sat still for too long, sleeping with our mouths open.

I watch this country of mine go by in an 80m/h landscape. First, endless flatness and galeforce winds. There is nothing, no mountain or ocean or any other landmark towards which the wind may be heading. It just travels, and somewhere over this desert nomansland it will stop suddenly, and drop to the dry earth as silently as it came. It raises no dust, and there are no trees to indicate its direction. It simply is.

Hours later I wake suddenly from a bad dream I hope nobody saw. I recognise this landscape. This is familiar, but I cannot say where I am. There are trees, and later crops. More wind, and dust. It lies above the ground, hovering about to make everything blurry and uncertain. Proportions and horizons can only be guessed, and the colours are not right.

I crawl down into the narrow aisle between the seats. My shoulders just fit, and I lie in the dark dreaming of another destination, forming the one I dream of silently in my thoughts. I am not sure where I am going, but someday you will be there too.

We arrive, and it is winter in November. As I stand outside in the rain, my hands stiffen at the unusual cold. With every breath my cigarette crackles softly and I think of you again. Tomorrow holds the unknown, but for tonight I will occupy myself with thoughts of you.

i'm on call to be there

I got in the car and drove. I could probably have walked, but I promised myself it was too dangerous in this town, this day and age. I turned the heater up, turned the music down and shivered in silence at the intersection as I waited for everything to grow slowly warm. The hot air seeped into my shoes and my sleeves like warm breath, comforting me with whispers of something we called 'future'.

I drove, and thought of you. I pretended I was driving to you.

Someday I will.

You, my beginning.

You, the one who will journey alongside me.

You, my end.

You, my future. My destination.

lipstick letters and souvenirs

I sit on a hill looking in all directions at everything that turns out to be nothing in particular. I have forgotten how to begin a letter formally, but I am sure you will forgive me.

I walked until I was sure I was lost. I walked to the place I always go when I’m lonely and want to be alone. I lit a cigarette, because I gave up smoking on Sundays.
I want to stay here until I get caught in the rain. But I shouldn’t wait for it to happen, so I think I'll find my way back now.

Sometimes you’ll stumble in the soft sand. Perhaps then it is better to walk on the hard ground. It is, after all, more stable.
I lie when I say I do not doubt. I fear, and I hesitate. I may not always inspect my landing before I jump, but I often look back and catch my breath thinking it a miracle I did not fall to my death.
So let’s not doubt. Let’s hold hands, and push our fears aside as we jump. If we fall, at least we’ll have another to hold onto.
Let’s pack our burdens together and walk to somewhere we have never been before. Let’s be scared together, until we are no longer scared at all.
Let’s find ourselves as we discover one another while get lost on our road to abandoning ‘I’ for ‘we’.

how should i complete the wall...

I just realised I forgot to pack socks. Could I borrow yours? Just to wear in the morning, when I sneak downstairs to make you coffee. You know how cold those floors get in winter.
And could I maybe wear your jersey too? You know how I love the smell of you on me. And you know how cold it gets...
Pass me your lighter, please. I can’t find mine.
I ran out of soap. Is it alright if I use yours? And perhaps you could slide in behind me, wash my back? There are places I could never reach without your help.
Have as many of my cigarettes as you like.
I can’t remember where I put my book. Would you read me some of yours? I’ll drift off to sleep, I’m sure, but I will sleep all the better for the sound of your voice.
Let’s listen to your music. I could do with some change.
I prefer it when you cook. But I’ll wash the dishes when we’re done.
If you would wrap me up in your arms, that would be nice.
I’m not very big, so perhaps you could make some space for me. But I’ll always put a question mark at the end, in case you say no.
But maybe you would say yes. And maybe we could make some more space. And maybe someday we could melt into one another’s negative spaces. And maybe we could see sense, and someday live together.
I made dinner.
I made space for you here.

silence was insane, the parting was mutual

‘There’s a dead horse in the road’.

The little boy looked down, mumbling, a dirty finger pointing me down a road I hadn’t even noticed when we drove past it. I cursed under my breath, bit into another cigarette as I fumbled for matches, scrutinising the filthy child through my eyebrows as I lit what must have been my thirtieth for the day. It wasn’t even noon yet. I flicked the match carelessly onto the hot tar road, inhaled deeply and blew the smoke into words of exasperation. I knew I would have to do something.

‘Show me then’. I pulled my hand away as he reached out to hold it.

She wasn’t dead, but she was certainly dying. I ignored the bulging stomach, convincing myself it was no more than a grass belly. It took one look to see that her back had been broken. Snapped in half, and twisted beyond repair as the truck that hit her dragged her behind it until the flesh tore away and the join came undone. A truck, yes. The tyre marks were enough evidence, and nothing smaller could have done this kind of damage. But the person who had done it wasn’t a monster. He, perhaps she, had gotten out, dragged the heaving horse to the side of the road, flung her front legs out of the way of any vehicles that would be using that road. And then he, or she, drove off in a hurry so as to leave the guilt in the dust, leaving the mare to slowly bleed out until the blood flooded her and she couldn’t even breathe deeply enough to feel the pain.

In my ten minutes of staring at the dying creature the little boy had run off somewhere. But now he returned, walked alongside a local guard of sorts. Hand pressed to my forehead, pounding from the heat and disgust, I told him to take care of it. But he refused. I looked up from underneath my fingers’ vain attempt at shading my eyes, sure I had misheard him. But no, he was adamant that this was one thing he would not do.

Another ten minutes must have passed. I stood, feet planted firmly and sure I could feel the tar burning me even through my leather boots. The guard’s gun hung at my side, limp metal and nothing more. I walked forward, the heat stifling the sound of my heavy footsteps. Knelt, stroked the muzzle and startled when the mare snapped out of slipping away slowly. She snorted, pained by jerking her head in surprise. I felt guilty for causing her even more pain, when all I wanted was for her to know that there was someone next to her. Someone who would never have killed her, much less left her to die so slowly.

The method was simple, and I remembered it despite always believing I would never have to use it. Base of the ear, to opposite eye. Base of the ear, to opposite eye. And where those two lines crossed, that marked the spot. The mare moved her head, breathing heavily into my hand. I couldn’t bear the thought of her open eyes flitting left and right, settling upon me as I pressed against the centre of the hand-drawn X. Removing the long-sleeved shirt I had tied around my waist, I wrapped it around her face, re-marking my lines on the material. I whispered something as I took a step back, but I never could remember what I had said. It didn’t matter, anyway. I cannot remember whether I had stoop up, bent over, knelt or squatted before her. But I remember the sound of that shot. Heat couldn’t stifle it, and it echoed down every road I had never noticed was there.

I gasped at the sound, the kick, what I had done and what it meant. Before me, there was no movement. To my right, the little boy stood with his hands planted firmly over his ears. He stared at me, wide-eyed and unmoving. I exhaled slowly, and searched my pockets for another cigarette as I heaved to my feet. There were none left. I bent down to take my shirt, changing my mind as I saw a slow stain seeping into it from the horse’s mouth.

I turned around, shooed the boy home, and walked back up the road. Twenty minutes, one deed, one death. No cigarettes though, and I cursed under my breath.

i should have kissed you by the water

I adjusted the brightness between us. Our contrast was already enough. The black and white was strangely complementary. But when we blurred the lines, high on things we weren’t supposed to do and lovedrunk on a future we knew we would never see, that was when it all smeared into a doubtful grey. Every morning after we would stumble away in opposite directions, stinking and hungover, squinting in the sunlight we wished away so we could do it all again.

I will never forget that place. I will never forget the balcony that overlooked a busy street where people laughed, danced, broke up, fed the diseases they never knew they had until one day they simply died, premature and unprepared to let go. I forget the songs that played, but I remember I liked the music. I forget how much the drinks and the drugs cost, but I remember I bought plenty. I remember running home at sunrise, keeping in the shallow waves so as not to leave footprints, convinced someone was following me.

It was you, wasn’t it? You followed me to the ends of the earth. Even when I disappeared silently for months, you followed me to nowhere and back. But I wish you had told me. I wish you had given me hope this was both good and true, and real enough to survive. But I was too busy screaming at you for not noticing that I had left to hear you calling my name.
Eventually, we both left that place. We had our last drink, paid our debt and walked out. I dared not turn around, scared the last glance would leave me petrified, unable to move a step forward but knowing I could never go back.

It’s all my fault. I know that. I’m just letting you know that I still remember everything.

we haven't even met yet, and I'm already sure that we won't

This is not vodka, this is gin.
You laughed at my claims,
I smashed the glass in your face.
And without turning my back I walked from that place.

This is not vodka. This is gin.
I said it softly, my head in one hand
As I sat at the bar drawing ghosts
On her dirty, scattered twenty-dollar notes.

This is not vodka. This is... gin?
I doubted myself as I did your intentions.
I believed the best, as I always do.
The worst in me, the very best in you.

Thisisnotvodkathisisgin!
Those were my last words as I stumbled home.
I wished I hadn’t shouted what I needed to simply say.
I wish I could believe I will see you again someday.

Do not dare turn your back on me as I try to tell you that I love you!
Do not dare doubt that I feel the way I say I do.
You never believed me, but that’s not a sin.
I wouldn’t either.
It was vodka, not gin.

you could wait for a lifetime to spend your days in the sunshine

Pour yourself another drink
while you drive into the haze
of a hot summer's day,
while you empty your head to think.

Light me another cigarette
as I lie on my side,
drugged-up but alive,
avoiding the eyes I once met.

One more line, one more time.
Hold my hand as I steer the wheel,
trying to forget how to feel
the stitching scratch these palms of mine.

One more night and then we'll know
by the shrill echoes and black holes
hiding what was once your soul.
I'll follow you, even when you go.

We should stop.
We should go.
We should know
to say no.
But it's me and it's you
and we never knew.

and in these walls i feel your sadness wane

I miss you.

I miss us.

I won't move an inch away from you

if you promise you will always be within reach.

I will wake you with a kiss, an audible smile,

and watch the sun come up with you every day.

I will make coffee softly as I can, to watch you sleep.

I couldn't stop myself kissing you-

shout it to the world,

whisper it in you ear.

Tell me you won't make me cry, won't let me.

I am yours, wholly.

As for holding you-

I won't let go.

playground school bell rings again. rain clouds come to play again.

Scars on desks are deep blue etchings

scratched onto wood skin.

But scars on a youthful child wrist,

a violated child body,

are a deeper red

scraped and scraped

and scraped

onto tender peach skin.

Burned into brittle bodies

and tattooed inside soft, impressionable minds

with swords

far sharper than cultured spears,

more powerful than

countless voices

dis

united

and mightier than

the lawless pens

that print

meaningless

black

on white,

merely glancing through

the dull

and uncertain

grey.

only bringing what to carry on so that you know i won't be long

I had always hated airports. The smells and sights, too much luggage, the assistants. People either walked too slowly or rushed, creating unnecessary panic. Leaving, crying, that sick feeling every time upon realising that if something went wrong I would be powerless.

But this time I was excited to go to a city I had never liked much. All through school and -university I had driven myself to departures, been picked up by men whose names I never quite caught. I walked myself out and I always packed too much.

But this time I had butterflies in my stomach as I counted down 36 hours. I could see you, leaning casually on the rail that separated us for one last moment. I would beam and kiss you shamelessly in front of everyone, after which I would casually say that it's good to see you.

Turbulence from start to end. The food smelt awful and the coffee is never strong enough. But I was flying, I was high as a red kite and I allowed myself to fall. I knew you would kiss my grazed palms and -knees better. I opened my arms, no longer resisting my own terminal velocity as I embraced powerlessness.

I will let you know what it was really like.

i read a book about the self, said i should get expensive help

Skaars twintig, het ek reeds geleer presies wat om met jou te doen. Dalk was dit my frustrerende intelligensie, dalk die eindelose swart gat wat sit net daar waar my siel veronderstel is om te wees. Dalk was [en is] ek bloot by nature manupilerend en aaklig om op te maak vir die feit dat ek oppervlakkig perfek is. Dalk was die speletjie sommer net my siek manier van pret he, om te kyk hoe jy uitasem agter my aan hardloop, soos ‘n drawwende oorgewig man agter die gedagte dat daar tog nog iets lekkers is agter die skreeuende wit yskardeur. Soos ‘n hygende Jack Russell wat net nog een keer die bal [wat ek gooi] wil terugbring na my. Hoe dit ook al sy, het ek dit gedoen en geniet, lag-lag voortgegaan, soos ‘n hanswors wat die kindertjies se omgedopte glimlaggies self so maak.

Huppel-huppel is ek oppad na die prikkeltjie dowwe groen lig aan die punt van ‘n eindelose tonnel wat ook nie rerig bestaan nie. Die liggie veg met alle mag, skyn sag, die kleur van die holtes waar my oë eens op ‘n tyd gesit het. In my hand is ‘n stukkie tou wat agter my aan sleep. En jy, soos ‘n katjie wat van niks beter weet, sig-sag oor die stowwerige, verlate ou paadjie, al grypend agter die waardelose stukkie dinges aan. Die fyn ou kloutjies kap-kap na die nuttelose toutjie wat net agter my hakke rond bons. Het jy nooit gedink om jou kloue skerp te maak nie? Daag my tog net uit! Drunk jou doring drade diep in my vel in, maak gaatjies in my skubberige vel. Moenie bekommer nie, ek is nie mens genoeg om to bloei nie. Glo my, ek het keer op keer op keer probeer, met lemmetjie-skerp woorde wat ek teen die spieël gooi sodat hulle terugskiet en my skerp op die wang vang. Klap my so hard as wat jy kan, daar waar dit wel sal seermaak. Doen net iets sodat ek jou kan haat, in plaas van myself- die siek sadis in wie se lyf ek vasgevang is. Sny my oop en plaas my groen-geel binnegoed in ‘n glaskas sodat almal dit kan sien vrot. Steriliseer my, sodat daar nog net nie nog sulke duiwels by my kan uitbroei nie.

Los my alleen en huilend op die koue badkamer vloer, in swart en wit geteël. Staar gevoelloos na my kinder-lyfie terwyl ek my vuiste dramaties heen en weer gooi en nog iets probeer breek sodat ek my dun polse met die splinters kan afsaag. Vra geld sodat mense die skouspel kan kom aanstaar, want dit is niks meer as ‘n mislukte aktrise wie se verval datum uiteindelik verby is nie. Jy tartel my met jou bose glimlag aan die anderkant van die deursigtige muur, so na aan my maar te ver om uit te reik ek jou gesig te krap met die gif wat uit my drup-drup soos ‘n kraan wat nooit sal ophou lek nie.

Ek het iets gebreek, maar vir die eerste keer hou jy die stukkies in jou hand.

and moving lips to breathe her name

I fumbled for a pen. Lipbalm, shopping lists, contraceptive pills; but somewhere there was a pen.

i re-read my own words. How often I am so lost in instantaneous thoughts that I, and they, escape my mind. I took a step back and smiled. i looked up at you, over the crowd, busy on stage. I smiled still, and looked back down. You could feel it. Not at that second, like the perfect romantic story. Always.

I watched the lights dim all around but on you. A hush. We waited to hear you speak. I waited to hear you. I waited to hear the stories, but I had heard them all. And there I stood, for all to see. A story. Ours.

Grace Cathedral Hill, all wrapped in bones of a setting sun

The path unfolds before me like a thin, winding ribbon. Overhead, the Jacaranda trees softly drop their flowers, adding to the mass of purple patches draped across my way.Picking my way carefully along the broken bricks, I take care to avoid the flowers spewing their oil, slippery as a thousand tiny purple banana peels. Staring at the colour brought to the moss-covered path, I remember hearing of a couple. They were driving, not too fast, and skidded on the Jacaranda flowers on the road. They crashed into a wall, both dead.

Reaching the end, I flop down onto the grass, shadowed by a pine tree, a tower of needles and strength. My eyes dart with the dancing patches of shadow and sunlight filtering through the thin green needles. I imagine grabbing onto a patterned patch, cutting it out and draping it around my shoulders: a cloak of colour and dancing sun.

I am amazed at how nature contradicts human art. Here, all colours are complimentary. My eyes, clear blue islands in seas of white glance up at the turquoise sky splashed with tufts of white and grey. And as I tread the grass, feel the strong shafts light beneath my bare feet, my eyes become pools of green flecked with yellow then hazel, brown, near-black as I brush my fingers across the gnarled bark of the tree.

Sitting down again, I remove from my neck the cross I wear as a daily ritual. I finger it thoughtfully, rubbing the smooth surface. The pale, pearly white shine contrasts starkly with my hands, brown, orange, pink, depicting lifetimes and loved ones with rings of red, streams of blue.

Somewhere to the right of my mind, children are screaming.

Sitting in the College foyer, I am encircled by a pack of black children, leaving from learning. Every Tuesday they are taught by the rich and privileged and I sit surrounded. They chase one another up, down steps of our school. Theirs is mere flat land. Their pink palms clutch chocolates half-eaten, the remainder kept for sometime before next Tuesday. They wear an array of colourful jerseys over their neat pants, under their yellowed white shirts. Their feet are a rainbow of mismatched socks or none at all.

Though they play games, where has their childhood gone? What are you if your dad is a boy, your mother a girl? When you work from birth, witness poverty and violence as ritualistically as wearing a hollow cross. A little girl walks to her friends, keeps a serious face, swings her hips and I know she could have been a model in ten years. But her hips and breasts will fill and spread and she too will plough fields while her baby watches her back, look after another with pink hands, not only palms.

I sigh heavily as I heave to my feet and walk away slowly. Glancing down, my hands, momentarily, are pearly, pale white.

"do they collide?", I ask you, and smile.

And you listened. Unlike the boys my age, who will not shift their ideas for anyone, any argument or -muse, you took my words as they were. You may be damaged, but there is such beauty in your scars, such rapture in tracing my fingers along the hills and valleys of those blemishes. I am in awe of your wisdom, your experience, your depths. You drink in my innocence, child-like but never childish.

I will help you carry your load, if you will hold me up on my weak knees.

and it came to me then that every plan is a tiny prayer to Father Time

What is en equal response to that?

Words do not often fail me. But we did not need them at that moment. I couldn't interrupt to talk, could hardly breathe to breathe, let alone speak. Sounds? Yes.

An urgency at first; tearing clothes, not caring as we walked out in the morning light, exposed and wanting the world to see the bare flesh.

Unusual surfaces, countertops and tiled floors, your perfect skin. A waterfall, wet skin on skin, soaked kisses, water running down my arms to where my hands could just not reach but did. Nails dug in, trying to hurt to plant our feet back on the ground.

Slow? Yes. Perfect, without a need to try make it more because it was an absolute. Transcendence of the physical, the climatic euphoria.

Arched back trying to bring me closer to you, you held me up as I tilted my head back, gasping. Biting, scratching until we bled what we felt. My hands clutching my hair and then yours as your tongue found hollows.

And then of course you had to find the last one and yes, we fitted perfectly. Like wires. Awkwards legs wrapped around you, and it only lasted a night but seemed an eternity. Breath on breath, biting lips, your fingers between my teeth, your palms pressed against my mouth and again, that hollow.The lips and hair and hollows and legs and cold feet that never once looked back were all yours. In the apex, levitating it seemed as you read me perfectly and yes, you could see my eyes in the darkness.

Your name was written all over my arms as we both fell back and still held onto one another, unbelieving of perfection, the apex of the rapture.

We never once used the word "sex".

all you want is a ticket to ride after you show me everything

You trampled my words,

stomping on them with your old

size sevens.

But I forget

and mistake

your

triple six

for a holy

one.

You promised to eat

my sadness,

devouring my innocence instead

as you made love

to the

idea

of me:

an unrequited

desire for my thoughts.

And now?

You tiptoe

silently

across my grave,

dancing above the ground suspending my memory.

Shooting up your obscenities

as I sell my sobreity,

my clear-cut conscience,

my unwavering consent.

in the back of the woods in the dark of the night

Something was wrong.

In fact that fickle, poetic past tense does

No justice to what it and what was,

For these crimes go on.

Something is out of joint.

Even the chickens flap furiously in disabled flight,

The threadbare donkeys trod nervously out of sight

As all come in view of the breaking point.

The zenith storms near.

Bare feet thunder away from the vicious tempest

That kicks up the thirsting land and seeks no rest.

Pure Fear.

It gnaws at bodies famined and weak.

Leaded legs and heads and hearts

Destitute from the very start-

The mild, powerless to raise the meek.

Who has committed murder?

Frozen on the ground, his dead eyes

Stare candidly into mine.

No eyes will look further.

Lizards twitch anxiously at every shot

That splits the vacant sky and

Its indifferent air above its uncaring land

That burns with passion I lack not.

The passion of a heart riddled with good intent,

Reeking like an offensive corpse of

A lack of conviction this can be solved

With mere passion, never spent.

There are no means and but one end

To these regrettable deaths

Who thrive on our empty threats

For this to be mend.

Who has gotten away with murder?

Surely not I, with my pen, so powerless

Doing nothing but crowing of my prowess.

Surely not the West

Surely not the best

Who lack all conviction

This fiction

Discernéd.

packing up on site, two thousand rooms

It was an immediate connection. A smile, a firm handshake and without realising we understood, kept the barkeep up later than usual with exchanges.

Mistakes. Mathematics. Music.

I do not feel twelve years between us. I am not sure if I feel older or you younger. Perhaps we meet one another perfectly in the middle.

And there was no solution and I've been awake all day

I had a dream about you today. A broad daylight dream, from which I woke with a start. There was no confusion about what it was though; you had been concerned and so I knew it was not real. You asked when I was leaving and I told you that I was already gone. I had a heart, tied to a chain, wrapped around my wrist and hooked on a broken branch so that I dangled with my feet just above the ground, squinting down and trying desperately to read the words you had scribbled amongst the crumbling roots.

I lie on one side as though you are still here, reading aloud and being unashamedly obscure. My purple sheets stained red with royalty, two colours too old to blend.

I am not haunted by what happened. I am haunted by a past that never came about. I am dwelling endlessly and aimlessly in what was and whatmighthavebeen.

But you are the then and even I do not hate myself enough to allow into my now. I may gnaw for years to come on that obstinate chain, but when I and my leaded heart drop to the ground I will trample your words with my bare feet, scramble the letters, scoop them up and carry them home like a stray. Someday, though it may not be soon, I will turn your bitter misery into art.

well, heaven must have sent you to save me from the rapture

Sitting atop a notably high lifesaver’s chair in the very centre of the city is a girl of nine years. Nobody could tell her why it was there and the paint was still wet, but she thought the candy red against the powdery blue sky too tempting, and she craved a better view.

Below: a boy and a girl. Rather, a lady, for she was 21 and while she felt herself no longer a ‘girl’, she thought ‘woman’ made her sound fat. And rather, a guy, for he was undoubtedly no longer a boy, but ‘man’ made her too aware of the fact that he was more than a decade older than her.

They met at the same place. Halfway through, after watching one another frown behind their lenses and cigarettes, they shook hands and each said the other’s name respectively. They had anticipated meeting one another, knowing all along their hearts belonged to someone they had yet to have met, respectively. Together they sat until sunrise, with cheap coffee, soft music, more cigarettes, waiting for the sun to come up because then the world would know what they had always known.

From there, it was like any other story. Every story of love and life and lyrics is invariably a mirror of every other: We are born, we live. As we age we get married, we get a home loan, we get wrinkles, we get promoted, we get divorced, we get cancer, we get progressively more listless until we are so sick of lying that we die. All of the holding hands, sunrise, sunset, kissing, sex, the perfect curve, mistakes, make-up, break-ups, wake-up calls at dusk, the crying infants and the new furniture. All of the happiness, the very quotidian continuity that happens by anticipation, happens. All of this while somewhere across the globe, just outside of where the girl can see, a child dies of starvation. Roses bloom and pennies drop, teenagers have unsafe sex in ignorance, students graduate, drug addicts fall in gutters, a Catholic boy holds his girlfriend’s hand while she has a backalley abortion where the streetlights have already gone out.

They waited for something to go wrong, as it would. All factors pointed them apart, not star-crossed but cock-eyed and so likely to fail. A desire, a prostitution of a free mind, a wish that they were generic beings genetically programmed to fit into one another like wires.

But the sun came up and the world knew but never really cared. The baby never cried again, another never would. Their fingers grew stiff from exposure and eventually they died too. It was the first beautiful death in history; a sunset, a pair, a song on repeat, and two hands that never let go, despite the lingering expectation of the inevitable, the wait for life to occur as it promised it would.

Was the question a point? I don't want your love.

A tube station, in any city. At the back of the stage, leaning against a wall, there are two beggars. One has his head against the wall, chin tilted up and mouth open, sleeping. The other is lying on his back, holding a paper cup. Overhead there are muffled sounds of the station: people talking, the sound of the tube, overheard announcements and footsteps. These begin quite loudly, and then gradually fade to a more hushed noise. In the centre of the stage is a bench. On it lies a girl, seemingly sleeping. She is lying in the foetal position, stirs slightly now and then but otherwise remains still. Her back is turned to the audience. She wears dark, loose-fitting winter clothing. By her side, on the ground, is a small canvas bag and a teacup made of glass. It is half-filled with a clear liquid. When the noise quietens down, a screen switches on, taking up all of the back wall of the stage. The image is of poor quality, giving the sense that it is seen by webcam. It is of a radio presenter, hosting a show that is mostly an interactive discussion with listeners, but also plays music. Though he is looking at the audience, one gets the sense that he is unaware of the mechanism ‘filming’ him. Behind him one sees a few Christmas decorations in the studio. An upbeat Christmas carol fades out and behind him a red light comes on. It reads ‘on air’.

Chris: That was ‘Jingle Bell Rock’ taking us into the second hour of the show. It is five minutes after eight and you’re with me Chris Mason on Talk Tonight. We’re taking calls now and finding out what you are doing on this Christmas Eve are you happy or maybe you’re sad and if that’s the case we want to make you better.

[connects a telephone line] Talk to me you’re on Talk Tonight!

[Every time the show title is mentioned, a short jingle of four notes rings out.]

Caller [female]: Hi, Chris! I just want to say I love the show.

Chris: [chuckling] Why thank you ma’am you sound in good spirits what are you doing for Christmas Eve?

Caller: I’m at home with my husband and my two children, and I just want to say that, Derek, Stephy and Andy, I love you all very much, and thank you for everything.

Chris: Lovely well it sounds like you are having a splendid time and I hope it continues so for the rest of the festive season. [looks down and presses two buttons] Talk to me you’re on Talk Tonight!

Caller II [male]: Hey, Chris, my man! How are you tonight? My name is Rob!

Chris: Nice to meet you Rob you sound like you’re in a good mood what are you doing tonight?
Caller II: I’m back at home now. My girlfriend and I just had dinner with my folks and now I’m off to the bedroom to unwrap my present...

Chris: Sounds like that could get dirty you kids have fun then and remember to stay safe. [presses the two buttons again] Talk to me you’re on Talk Tonight!

Caller III [female]: [softly] Hello?

Chris: Why hello there young lady who may we say is calling and what are you doing on this fine Christmas Eve?

Caller III: How can you be so sure that I am young? And why is my name of any consequence to you? You will forget it as soon as it leaves my lips.

Chris: Ooh a feisty one we have here so what are you doing on this Christmas eve’ which special people are you sharing it with?

Caller III: Actually, I’m alone.

Chris: Well that’s no good now!

Caller III: Isn’t it better to be alone, than to keep company for the sake of avoiding solitude? To share in loneliness does not negate loneliness necessarily. People have long outgrown being herd animals. We have long outgrown being animals, and even sex isn’t supposed to be had on two legs. The only action carried out better on two legs not four is acting. I’ll choose solitude over headaches, thank you.

Chris: And judging by the festivities going on around town there will be many headaches in the morning!

[Three young boys walk past. They were loose clothing and hoods covering most of their faces. One of them is carrying a music player, which plays a hip-hop track that can be faintly heard. They stop behind and to the left of the bench, facing the crowd, whispering to one another. One walks around the bench, peering first at the girl and then at her bag. He looks right suddenly with a slight start as if hearing a noise. He beckons to the others and they exit at the side they entered]

So what do you want to talk about then I know elections have been just been so why don’t you tell us did you vote?

Caller III: No.

Chris: Well that’s no good now and why not?

Caller III: Well, why should I vote? Yes, I agree that participating in politics is to an extent a civil duty, the involvement supposedly turning us into ‘sophisticated citizens’. But it is also a decision, one that needs to be informed. So many people vote for the sake of voting, and we end up choosing the party we disagree with least and cross off all the rest. We can’t find a party we agree with most, and yet we still vote. Why? Because we are that way programmed and it very conveniently puts in the position where we can complain about everything that is not to our liking, justifying our passive aggressiveness by the fact that we did our civil duty! The democrats are a combination of the old totalitarians who, despite all denial, remain racist and terrified of the majority. The majority must rule, and no reasoning can justify anything else. The freedom fighters once stood for something honourable, their cause ridden with corruption and driven by a myriad of individuals striving only to further their own interest. And communism is an ideal, an absolute. It does not exist and it never will, so why vote for a fantasy that will always remain suspended in that state?

[Throughout all of this, Chris keeps opening his mouth in an attempt to interrupt and make a point. Later, he glances continually at papers before him and his wristwatch, then tries to interrupt as if in an attempt to end the call altogether. However, he does not succeed. Towards the end of the speech he simply listens, becoming more shocked and dismayed by the onslaught of words from the anonymous caller.]

So, really, what is the point of it all? In fact, what is the point of anything at all? I am not angry because I am alone, so you can forget about throwing about your chauvinistic pseudo-concern and suggestions that I need a boyfriend. I am perfectly happy alone and perhaps not all of us need to get married and have children! I mean, the world is overpopulated as it is! Global warming and all of the environmental scares- we have it all wrong! It’s not the end of the Earth, it’s the end of humankind. Remember, the Earth has been through ice ages and the coming of Christ. So don’t save the planet! Save the human. Or better, don’t. Why not leave us to our own devices and watch as our wasteful lifestyles blow up in our beautiful faces? What is the point of it all? We get up, we drive to work to pay for our car, we pay for our car to drive to work. We get married and put bread on the table for someone we never really chose, and we have to not only have children, but love them too. What if they are truly stupid or ugly or just plain mean-spirited? I know you’re shocked. Because many people are thinking it, but few will stand up and say it. The truth is there is no truth, and if the purpose of life is not to make ourselves happy we have denied all reason and we are simply heading toward the end of an era of human rule.

[The girl on the bench rolls over and stands up, holding a cellphone to her ear. The caller’s voice now comes from her, not a telephonic voiceover. She assumes a strong stance, her voice raised but not quite shouting.]

So there’s your Christmas message: like this holiday, and your mindless talkshow I so mindlessly dialled, nothing has any purpose and even if it does, we have missed it entirely. So kiss your loved ones like you mean it, and tell them how you feel it. They might die tomorrow, and you might too! Merry Christmas, and to all a good night.

[The screen flickers and blacks out and a call-ended dial tone is heard. The girl looks at ther cellphone, then puts it in her pocket. She glances over her shoulder, then collects her bag, exiting stage right. As she begins to walk out, Oasis’ ‘Talk Tonight’ is heard overheard. The song plays right through. When it stops, the station noises are heard faintly, the volume increasing gradually. Lights out, and over the station noises a clock strikes nine times.]

Penny for the thoughts behind your disguise

A day like any other. Summertime with its unbearable heat which I love, and the new academic year had just begun. Class was as unexciting as always, and I sat with my head to one side, a half-smile giving away that I was certainly interested in something. But it was not guerrilla warfare or colonisation in all their fascinating tactics that had me engrossed. Even I was not sure exactly what it was, but there was an intangible thing or thought that had taken my mind gently by the hand and led me away to a far more beautiful place. I scribbled mindlessly on blank paper, words and music and images streaming from me like an unstoppable flow of blood. It all made no sense at all until years later when we looked back and comprehended for the first time just what we were back now.

We strolled outside at the sound of quarter-to, our hands shooting straight to our skew fringes to block out the sun. It was mercilessly bright, but at the same time it was more dull than usual. The countryside had been burning for days on end and even those we thought could help were seemingly powerless, perhaps useless, in clearing the air. It lay thick and low, like a person hovering over our shoulders, breathing into our ears with stale breath. We waited for it to end or spread to our doorsteps. Until then we brushed soot off our shoulders and tried to continue as we always did, while we breathed in flakes of ash and coughed up blood for the earth’s burning skin.

A normal day, as any other, except that we could see nothing.

and the weather changes not halfway between your house and mine

Wire planes and million-point stares dangle
aimlessly above my head,
suspended firmly by the thread
of my imagination, my memories, the dreams
of what was and what might have been,
your being in my thoughts, hopelessly tangled.

We stayed in bed all the day
while we were bathed by the light of morning
that cleansed our thighs, adorning
our feet as I lost myself in the maze of your hair
that blanketed me softly in the cool night air
as I drank in the words you needed to say.

And now just your memory remains,
floating before me like a lingering ghost
you are to me, who loved you most
and more than any other, remaining now in the dark on the floor.
I stare miserably through the crack in the door,
Shifting dreams but not the pains.

lapping currents lay your boat to the ground

I am an island. I am the utopian mound of which all have only seen pictures, surrounded by sea. And you are the surrounding sea. You are that unfathomably deep blue that keeps me away from the others. Your current is what keeps me apart, what makes me shy away from the rest of the world. Your constant shifting pushes me back when I reach out to any other; it is only you who will keep me afloat.

I am a prisoner of the very thing that keeps me from going under. But the days are getting warmer and as the temperature rises, so the water does too. I can still breathe through my nose, but soon it will all be too much and I will be washed over, washed under and drowned by your ever-changing you. I will sink to the very bottom of you, and stare past the surface into the glare of another unknown, unending blue. I cannot breathe underwater, much less with your weight on top of me. I cannot swim with my legs open and my hands are tied as my head rests in my hands because I cannot pray without them.

just let go and listen to the songs that make you stop and listen

Ten years. Three months. Three weeks and four days. That is, if you include this one. More than ten years ago you pulled a woman from the wreckage, her brittle bones crumbling away under your arduous weight. You never intended to survive but as it turns out fate has always ignored your pleas and preferences, as you did mine.

I, the wreck, sit silently in pensive nowhereness with wire airplanes and million-point stars dangling above my head, suspended by the unbreakable threads of my imagination. It shapes my reality, propelled by a force I can neither name nor explain, but which takes the shape of a you-shaped black hole right where my very being once was.

I am delving too deeply, going beyond the beyond, where I am able to breathe. The pressure makes my head swell and my ears burst with the pain of truth and speculation mixed forcibly into a poisonous concoction I would wish no one to drink. And when I finally reach the other side of your thoughts, where you sit alone and dead in a soulless sleep, I will bring you back from them. I will carry you from there and bring you back to here, if only I can ever understand.

Pardon me for all I have ever thought and dreamt and wished. All I ever wanted was for you to listen.