Monthly Archives: Aug 2020

Fledgling or not -here I come

Today my thoughts confound me.

Bombard

Hijacked emotions detonated into a familar war zone.

The survivors feel mixed up for another mistaken identity

passport confiscated by newfound enemies.

A glimpse

the letter

E
motion

this queue finally advances

25 letters fated to the gates of uncertainty.

A survivor is stuck in the middle -it’s me -a headless body with a hidden agenda

Skin flushed assimilates bloody shadow a crimson hue mane of the unflinchers –
pale, skeletal, naked, destitute, some even of their robbed of own teeth

a pile-up -bodies all shook
adorned by a hand, ankle, A cold shoulder, one fair nipple, a flaccid penis

Perhaps your inner idealist
can resurrect these lives distorted by final moments -a conscious full of shame.

No dignity

No burial for those of faith

Souls denied a peaceful resting place.

The faithless blasted out mid breathe energy kinesthetic Life mid beat -legged it

A desperate plight -scientific proof hearts can beat or flee.

My body under constant surveillance

The scourge of self-scrutiny

Double doubt implants enhance all traces of unwanted memories

Should I hide my body

my identity?

The very essence of my being?

Caught unawares

emotions -use tic tactics

Thoughts use unrestrained strategies.

Haunched knees

propped up by bare feet

conditioned to protect my diasporic body

Roughly re-examine all once held beliefs.

Displaced her head!

how contrary I would have said

pure insanity I willingly would share.

If I don’t have any thought

or an opinion I’ve sought out myself.

I’ll become a diminutive

No person will ever see me

No person will hear my roar.

This voice will become non-existent -all my declarations are torn from the books of history
uninformed therefore never spoken nor unwritten

My right is to live and be!

My right is to feed peacefully

not between flippant mercenaries abiding by wall division protocol that I can’t see.

body displacement

head

disconnected to set a prenup engagement

How is it I feel the pressure of the tummy bloat after the soldiers who gloat

Finally relieved

of their lack of familiarity?

No sense die-hard before a sensation penetrates the first bloom of intimacy

They forget how hard they push

enter the orifice

Where I learned how to formulate words.

All I have is words and sound.

They take liberties- jabs & jeers are the echo chamber to my inner core.

Rotting

Bed rest

Bedsores,

These are the spoils of war.

Degraded

Defaced

Disgraced

My Emotions are absolute in their conviction

My sentence – A Disempowered daily mantra

I am to be their common whore.

a concubine filled up on spew, chunks of bile flotsam

traces keep me chronically ill.

Medical treatment denied because I’ve forgotten how to express my will

The West states I’m worth it !

the East send out a search party

Direction?

Possibly

on wise mind hill

There is no privacy.

My body is presented against my will

These clothes cover up the tight jeans that have become my only woe

Self-growth without a choice in how I present my self

I can’t

I have.

Scratch these newly formed scabs for I have lost my flair

writing words to recover

self-oppression lost out in the talent show of acquired skills

Recovery is heartbreaking.

Hoochie flavoured scent
sniff out trouble keeps me imprisoned

I look up -the window is clear still

Or perhaps my beliefs are outdated.

Murder with intent

disarm these emotions

strangers with a familiar stance

Physical appearance is my only strength?

How Naive a woman can be

One strip away from freedom

I claim a culture of sound

unification

Dance a tango inner peace with an outward serenity.

matching outfits

Silk lined hemmed skirts

embroidered letters spell out a movement of hope.

I’m one dancer

I’m one dissident

My possessions:
Passion

a fledgeling feather

& ink well
will deliver

A pregnant pause followed by a ward filled with the birth of more words

sentences will start to show

the labour of courage pushed out in its full placenta -reborn – free feathered fledgelings take flight

-A yoke is sky born

These are my words -maybe she wrote/ be happy or die trying.

Pulp Estate

The best way to get through rough times is to be creative.   It’s not Saturday and I’m feeling non-conformist. I guess its kind of my way. Haven’t done much this weekend — except nursing bruises, swellings, scrapes and downright painful blisters on the mouth. I’m fuming. The lows of last week found me beaten […]

Pulp Estate

Most of my memories are tangled up in music

A lot of inner emotional conflict arise from that music.

Even when I listened to these songs alone, on a tape recorder ..they affected me on a level where I didn’t know what to do with my essence, my spitirt, my soul.

Rave music takes over.

It has its place.

My first memory of music( no associations intended)

5 years old -a car – Johannesbueg -Step fathers car. bored. A cassette appears.

Album cover :(let’s give it a whirl /wind over/winde over)

HIT PLAY

Guitar -fliuck of the hair ( no girly cries cos I was 5 years old….)

Why did this song impress itself on my scattered/episodic memories ?

My step father was a rebel/bastard/pheadophile/cheat/wifebeater/ worked t Pizza Hut

?

Mom woke up to the fact I could see her broken noses and my blood stained underwear…

EPISODIC MEMORY

……..

No sound -only after that…

8 years old

Intro riffs couldn’t compare both of Waynes world soundtrack songs. 10 years old.

Mom’s bedroom.

I noticed every part of me stop& listen to my Mom’s music….

Mom listens to :DEEP PURPLE-okaaay I’ll give it a whirl)

(10 years old thoughts) Who is this person who calls herself my mother? (Riffs, rock?) can I smoke a “10 year old’ cig, sure, no? Waaaah?).

(Whatever. Another memory I hit play on the cassette player as I free silk worm / catapillers, I walk around and find my swing (I’m the…

How I swung to the best of ……

until…. I moved back to my Nan & black out

My Nan was a huge fan of Pavarotti -this part haunts every Sunday’s woken moments

I can’t write any more BECAUSE IT HURTS – NO – IT MAKES ME FEEL EMOTIONs I can’t identify and reconcile with…..

This is when words and scrawlings in black markers took over my 12 year old bed room walls & the Annie Lennox ‘s Medusa album became mom’s obsession & an album that haunted me through my teens