i am impassioned

I am impassioned…

I am impassioned by your criticism
it’s driven me in the right direction –
it is a map by which I
plan my next move –
as long as I am nowhere near
I know I’m there.

You understand as little as I do -
Your ignorance is clear to me so
I fail to understand your feelings of superiority

somehow

somehow,
in the tangle of thread,
that tenuous weave woven through human existence
and the relationships that bind us,
I found you
you found me
and now
we are fastened inside a growing tapestry
of exotic colours
dancing
like a psychedelic kaleidoscope

dad 2001

i thought about You today
and the memory
  drifted through me:
there were no scars left this time,
just a sense of disassociation,
the strange realization that
you’re not here anymore;
not anywhere…

You were so big
almost bearlike, it seemed, at times
(perhaps not when you slept in front of the TV,
the cat curled up in the soft bulge of your tummy).
your large presence surrounded us,
sometimes imposing,
always secure…

now all that’s left of the big body that was You
is ash and dust
occupying less space than a carton of milk

but the memories i hold onto,
although they lack any physical proportions or dimensions,
are immense,
a synthesis of the episodes that were your life
and every person you affected along the way

and it’s hard to ignore it or miss it
   because
somehow it’s always in view

the memory of you

shan poem 2

I love this little girl she
wraps herself in blankets when no one can see she
uncurls her toes and makes me
rub her feet she
kisses me in the morning and makes me tea she
rubs her nose and she
loves
me

Love poem

Love poem

I love living in the gut of the city
with the rumble of traffic
static
morals elastic
smoke and fire tumbling over my wall
bums always knocking at my door
not to sure if I should ignore
them

house thumping from my neighbours
garden full of papers

cats prowling in the garden
TV’s all I’ve got to hide in

Episodic story part 4: off guard

My bar is understated. When I…when we first bought the house it was a garish affair fitted with the kind of kitsch paraphernalia you typically find in these kinds of places. My wife had other ideas – to be honest she didn’t even want the thing but I thought it would be fun so she made sure that at least it looked stylish. Now it had the feel of an up-scale cocktail lounge – chocolate brown suede, cream carpets, the wood stained dark. There are no stools – drinks are mixed and poured behind the counter and served in the lounge area which has a sliding door leading out into the garden and the pool. My captor directs me toward one of the armchairs and heads for the bar. My head is still not clear enough to contemplate escape but I sense it is impossible. He has a gun – I don’t want to die: I think we both understand this neat equation.

Nyathi cracks open two beers – imports – and brings me one. “Thanks,” I say, genuinely grateful. He nods and opens the slide door, standing for a moment to breathe in the fresh afternoon air. He takes his cigarettes out of his top pocket and lights one, swigging on the beer, then turns, staring at me until I look away in discomfort. “ I suppose you’re wondering why I’m doing this?” he asks, taking another drag, ashing purposefully on my carpet. “Not really,” I answer, feigning coolness, “This is
South Africa. Things like this happen every day – worse things, actually. It always seems pretty inexplicable.” Nyathi relaxes in one of the armchairs, placing his gun on the right arm, just within reach. He offers me one of his cigarettes and I accept, not caring that it’s been four years since I smoked – it hardly seems to be the kind of day when things like this matter. The smoke makes my head swim and the taste is sublime. Nyathi smiles, then says: “But you see, I do have a reason.” He takes a sip of the beer, “Mmmm,”he grins, “tastes good.”

In an odd kind of way I start to feel as if this were a normal social visit. I’m warming to my captor despite the fact that he’s crack my skull, broken my nose, threatened my life and made me shit in my pants. I heard once on TV that this happens to hostages. “You don’t know who I am, Mr Lupton.” Not a question. Just a statement of fact. “I’m not going to bore you with too much detail. It’s important that you know, however, that I was once an MK cadre. In fact, I was trained in
East Germany, even did some studying there. I did so well that I was awarded a scholarship and ended up studying in
London. Strange irony – if I hadn’t been fighting Apartheid, I’d probably have ended up following my father into the sugar processing factories.” By now his smoke was gone and he flicked the butt into the garden. Without thinking, he lights another. “Look, “he continued, “just so you know: I don’t have any plans to kill you just so long as you don’t try anything. This is a publicity stunt of a sort, Mr Lupton, not a robbery, not a rape. I’ve already phoned an old friend at eTV…”

“Isaac Khumalo, the anchor, “I interrupt.

“Ja…he was a little…perturbed by my course of action but he’s on TV and this is news so…” He takes a drag, a swig and sighs. “Such a beautiful day Mr Lupton. I’d suggest a swim if the police weren’t already on their way.”

We sit for awhile with our drinks, as if this were the most normal thing in the world. But his pistol keeps reality in check. Despite his assurances that he won’t kill me, a gun really has no other purpose than to take life – it is designed in every respect for that particular course of action so I have no illusions. So I sit there, staring at it, the faint hum of the pool’s motor somewhere just below my consciousness, the aroma of spring flowers drifting with the rising warmth of the day.  

Everything is still and then…

in the distance I hear the faint whine of a siren and then…

it’s gone. For a few minutes. And then…

it returns, this time more insistent, coming closer, transforming into a cacophony of wails, a wild, tremulous cadence of throbbing whoops. Nyathi smiles. “Looks like they’re here Gerald.”

south african in exile 2

You have to wonder why the official opposition went and elected a white person to lead them, again. If it wasn’t enough that they’re perceived as really only looking out for white interests, they have to go and keep the status quo by reinforcing this perception. Helen Zille will not build a party that can take on the hegemony of the ANC because it doesn’t provide an alternative to the majority of the country’s citizens. IT seems to me that the DA have ceased to care for the interests of South Africa and are more concerned with reinforcing their power base. Meanwhile SA continues to be a democratic totalatarian state with a government who are more than able to play fast and loose with the constitution. What worries me is not that the ANC would manipulate the constitution now if they saw a threat from another political force, but rather the fact that in ten years time, when they are used to being able to do what they please without anyone to stop them, that they might then, if a force were to arise that might oppose them, decide power has been to tasty and they really don’t want to let go. A further worry has to be the kind of rhetoric espoused by the ANC youth League, the future leaders of the country, in response to her election. Zizi Kodwa, it’s spokesperson used words like ‘fascist’ and ‘right – wing conservatives’ to describe the party. She then want on to refer to Tony Leon, Zille’s predecessor, as ‘racist to the core’, labelling him a follower of PW Botha, statements about as close to reality as characterizing a helium party balloon as a lethal weapon. It’s also rich coming from a memeber of an organisation that has all but assimilated the old NP into its ranks. Sometimes the similarities with the ending of Animal Farm are too stark to even contemplate.

Undeneath the rhetoric, however, lies a truth. Zille’s election changes nothing. How can a viable opposition or even alternative party emerge if the official oppostion are even prepared to face reality and take the leap they need to by electing not only a black leader but also a black leadership? They will never be a force in the country if they don’t. Clearly they are still not a representative party.

Episodic story part 3 – clean

As I step into the shower the blood stops flowing. The pleasure is sublime – the steaming water washes over my head; sweat dissolves, my body feels smooth and fresh. I forget the situation outside the glass walls of the cubicle, wallowing in the spray – I lose myself in the water and the soap and the steam, temporarily dislodges from reality. Then -

the glass shudders with the beating of his fist and is followed by a voice, commanding and specific: “Out now Mr Lupton,”- polite – “Come on.” I turn off the tap and realise I don’t have a towel. I open the slide door and inform the gunman. He grins, reaches for the rack and throws me one (lilac like the bathmat, like the walls above my Italian tiles).

“look at you,”he smiles, “All fresh and new, like a sunbeam at dawn.” I grimace.

“Very poetic.” I mutter. He chuckles.

“Not one of my strong points I’m afraid Mr Lupton. I’m more of a rhetoric man.”

Now…change then…the bedroom.

Once I have my clothes on, I’m directed by the muzzle of his gun into the room. My back is to him. Pain explodes , then…

I wake up lying face down on the bed. There is a sharp throb sat the point at which the gun connected my skull. I touch the bump, find there’s some blood but not enough to worry. I groan and roll over. The man is standing at the window, smoking a cigarette. He turns around. “Aaah, I see you’re up,” he says elegantly, as if this were a James Bond movie and he were the villain, thinking up ways to kill me. He’s wearing one of my T-shirts, a corporate weekend souvenir, and a pair of blue Island Style board shorts. He turns back to the window. He still has the gun in his hand, his finger poised on the trigger.

Time drags by. Neither of us move. The only sound is the hiss and crackle of his cigarette and the occasional chirrup from a bird outside: not a cloud in the sky. I look up at Devil’s Peak, green and lush and remember a walk we went on once, Louise and myself, on a day like this. “Do you have any beer in the house?” he asks at last, not turning from the window.

“In the bar,”I say.

“Oh ja, the bar. Excellent. Then shall we retire to the saloon, Gerald?” He turns and gives a mock bow, directing his bent arm towards the door. With difficulty I swing my legs round: my face aches, my head aches, my nose throbs. I feel as if I have a particularly severe hangover – it’s all I can do from stop vomiting. With an immense effort, and in defiance of my bodies wishes, I stand…stumble, lean against the wall.

“Come on Mr Lupton, “he urges, holding me by the arm, “let’s go.” My stomach heaves but I’m in control now. I pull my arm away from his hand and negotiate the stairs with some difficulty but the pain is receding. I remember to ask if I can have some paracetamol, and forget as soon as the thought flits through my mind.  

shan’s poem

You are my dream

            machine

you make me lean

 

You are my Lear Jet

You are my Jet set

You are my dream

            machine

you make me lean

 

You are my disco queen

You are my Opium

You are my dream

            machine

you make me lean

 

You are my sweet basil pesto dish

 So scrumptious and delish

You are my dream

            machine

you make me lean

 

and when you grab hold of me

you are my pubescent fantasy

You are my dream

            machine

 

you make me lean

you are my baby thing

you make my body  sing

you are,

SWEET JESUS!

 everything

 

You are my dream

            machine

you make me lean

The release of the Cho video by NBC

NBC – what a bunch of irresponsible, unfeeling, total and utter wankers!