Just when I believed

with all of me

that I could never,

ever, ever,

ever,

even

possibly,

in one

billion lifetimes,

or two,

or three,

love a

millimetre more,

he goes

and makes

the perfect

chicken and

mayonnaise

sandwich.

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3. amen

on which

in his

name I will

be called,

I will

be

called

in his name.

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some cool down to rest this mind.

Looking for a gentle nothing,

some soft peace, the praying kind.

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hairdresser in Germiston

told my mother

We don’t cut Indian hair.

Their strange scissors could have

cut through concrete and my

toddler curls,

the way they sliced my mother so.

–

(Indulge me, I’m busy filing.)

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I only found my tears at the funeral.

That old man was too cool.

Star quality before stars lost their quality.

You shoulda seen the pictures,

like some David Carradine in the dust.

Wild Bill Hickock with a soccer ball

that Bhamjee could shoot.

And on a big night or holy day

you know how everyone asks for maaf**

and Papa would just say

“Agh it’s alright”.

Oh he lived full.

But too quick.

With a thousand devils’ cares

and the name of a winning horse

and innocent errant truths on his tongue,

like when he met a burkah-bi aunty

and told the room how they

go way back in the day

and used to dance at Chez Gay

(that was so far back it really meant the home of happy)

Ah Papa, I can almost see you now,

waiting for that reckoning.

And it’s going to be fine,

‘coz you know what He’s going to say,

“Agh Bhamjee, It’s alright.”

–

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They were dumb as molasses
they’d only harass us,
for homework
copied on noble gases.

Grown-up girls don’t make passes
at dumb boys, those asses.
Have no time
for those stuffed with what crass is.

I will tell you what sass is
it’s not for the masses
only those
men with coke bottle glasses.

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by not presenting

them with the

alternatives.

Think of the waste

that is a plait

pulled

and

oiled

and

love-in-tokyo-ed.

When God

gave us the faculty

to use scissors,

I could have been as free

as Abdul across the road.

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is God’s way of pinching.

“Wake Up.

Just a few more minutes

is time you

will never have.”

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As you

must be

with pomegranates.

The good jewels

stick.

Membranes

are finicky.

But do

take the time.

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I am me with you.

Just a tad more.

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the girl who can cry confetti?

Every shake of her head

scatters the celebrations

from her lachrymals

She wants to baptize you

In paper rainbows.

It’s freaky, I know.

But don’t turn away,

you can’t drown.

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Our love comes down to who picks up the socks,
And who leaves them on the floor.
Who switches on the lights
And who changes the lightbulbs.

We’ve scaled no mountains (well, maybe Kilimanjaro one day should our bones obey)
We’ve swum no seas (need lessons first, the both of us)
We fought not long nor hard for us.
He did not write a song for me.
He didn’t have to.

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I didn’ forget you Daddy,
Wasn’ that I didn’t care to write,
I know you get these letters Daddy,
That’s what they told me. Right?

We’re doin pretty good Daddy,
A whole old year has gone,
I slept through livin my dream, Daddy,
But this year I’m not sleepin on.

I’m gonna write these words Daddy,
Gonna write them until they sing,
You’re gonna hear my voice Daddy,
You’re gonna hear every string.

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–

Schismatics, asthmatics.

can’t breathe
When they’re telling me,
How I seethe
When they’re telling me,

Where to pray.
What to display.

Yes, yes,
I am oppressed.
Compressed
by your ignorance.

Don’t you see you’re all the same?
To cover me,
To uncover me,
for fuck sakes
let me be.

Forgive me
of profanity.
Dear Almighty,
Let it not be.

—

You’re dangerous man,
Coz they’re think you’re right,
And on the menu we
Have crooked rib tonight.

Mufti,
Is it permissible
for me
To sometimes
Maybe
You know
think freely?

As long as it is
Within the confines
Of your mind.

–

Don’t break my faith.
You won’t break my faith
You can’t break my faith.

I submit
I submit
I submit

God be with me,
I’ll be patient,
I have lived all my life,
For your judgment.

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make for

reading chairs;

these piles of bone.

jarring phalanges

too intimate,

nudge and press the skin

of our seats with that night

etched deep into calcium.

the bones are still

and we can not.

left-bum-right-bum

shift and sway.

piles of bones

do not make for

tea-time ottomans

but do brew

things you could never guess to tell

just by looking at her,

those never-never-agains

and silly-lost selves,

found now to ossify,

and dissolve off of our brains

but leave us sitting

foolishly, uncomfortably

on unoriginal secrets.

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I hope that when I hold
a child to my breast,
The crooked rib
will not jab through its rest.

That when it asks why mamma
is the sky that kind of blue,
This here deficient intellect
will cast some credible clue.

—-
Pooh to the patriarchy!

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On my syntax.

The words extort.

Whirred exhort.

It’s so hard to conceive,

When the mind is a sieve,

I’m a con.

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