authored autumn.

Thoughts stripped bare, 
ink displayed as art 
against the rebel lion’s paws
you do not resemble 
the truth, the golden original
I used to love. 
You have robbed me
of wonder, 
of will, 
of ways 
I needed to inspire.
I stand here - against myself,
for myself, 
by myself
to fight the clock of an author
burning a soul in the wake of



Do you stand guard to the wind, too?

Have still images of the moon
displayed the vanished substance
of captured truth, yet?

Renew the novel tendencies 
of a gentle groan, 
forsaken in its uncertainty
to triumph over 
bright fashioned love unfolding. 

Distilled the verse that flurries, 
smoothly moaning words  
of departed phantom prayers.

Do you stand guard to the wind, too?

Shake the moon against itself;

Take pleasure,
pride - 

mark this rebirth.

i always said you’d only love me until something better came along.

Ink linked our thoughts, 
our patterns and our melodies 
into something - 
something a little believable, 
something that stirred art. 

We took pictures 
of metal love lullabies 
in the early mornings, 
in the whiskey-tinged nights
that crumpled newspaper 
under the soles of our dreams. 

We nursed the memories
of the other’s face
in song, in poetry, 
in anxiety induced slumber. 

We were nothing on social, 
empty promises on paper; 

we were a burden to time. 

I was crafting words
while you were line dancing
your way into the arms
of something different,
something other,
something more than our nothing. 

Forgotten I write stories,
I still love


that will never be you.


The crashing delirium of anxiety
crumpling like newspaper
declaring each eulogy
as a conquest to death.

The morning sun delights;
truth is ranked in heartbeats
with the bitterness of youth
cheered for its lack of authenticity. 

But perspective, my dear, 
is thinly sliced and layered on thoughts
that meet their reckoning
unapologetic - undervalued - unappreciated.


The substantial mourning, 
a triumphant prize 
purging the virtue of an oath; 
silence carved 
from the merit of a name - 
I call my sight to witness 
as the treasure of faith destructs.

Our thoughts resemble 
the solemn absence of a muse, 
the decayed creative tone
of misery in a poem.

I call my sight to witness:
sensibility - not memory.

good ol' same ol' new, thank you.

You have found a new //home//
        a new place to call your own (well, somewhat)

the city streets are getting
      to know your
     [ring] – (remember your dream?)

and I said if you’re happy then
            “I don’t mind.”
                        “I don’t mind.”
                                    “I don’t mind.”

but see, I never knew that when I don’t mind -
how much : oh how much : just how much

I would come to          MISS
                                    YOU and your hello
                                    and your Faulkner

{mostly you}

… . .

I am packing thank you notes
into the muscles of my left forearm:

Thank You notes
            I will never write
                        :: if I did ::
            you will never read

reading the same subject line:
RE: Valentine -
            I love you, love.

                                                I love you, love.

Now, every new day seems to be
another day further away
from the last time we had time,
we made time
for more than
hi and
good luck.

Now, it takes much longer to hit
          – Reply – 
when I can’t cram so much of me
into so little space
[so much space between us]

I am packing thank you notes
into the muscles of my left forearm:

Thank You notes
            I will eventually write
                        :: if I do ::
                        you will read
            I love you, love.

luci anima.

In myself, without regard
to the world that exists outside,
this ego is connected
to every fiber of subconscious
“the Luci anima”
if you will,
with neon music notes painted
inside my eyelids,
poetry flowing in stops & starts
of verses through my veins, 
fast twitch muscle fibers eagerly
awaiting the pain of speed & power.
Memories locked away in 
colored tabs of vertebrae, 
unconsciously lengthening my spine
to shuffle them back into place.
Simple in complexity, 
I am a chiaroscurist;
painting this heart with
different shades
of black:
[jet black : pitch black : pure black]
The threads connected 
to my personality plays itself 
in piano melodies, 
white as light - black as night
with nothing hidden in between.

This is the self, the self I love
in thought, in action, in solitude
without regard to the world
that exists outside.

niks so mooi./nothing as beautiful.

Daar is niks so mooi soos wanneer iemand voor jou staan, jou masker van jou gesig afhaal, jou in die oë kyk en saggies vir jou fluister;
“Ek sien jou, hoor jy my? Ek sien alles wat jy wegsteek en alles wat jy terughou.  Ek sien jou.”
en dan liggies die traan wat oor jou wang rol afvee nie. 
Daar is niks so mooi nie.

There is nothing as beautiful as when someone stands in front of you, takes your mask from your face, looks you in the eye and softly wispers;
I see you, do you hear me?  I see everything you hide and everything you hold back.  I see you.
and then gently wipes away the tear that rolls over your cheek.
There is nothing as beautiful as this.

to - day/morrow.

Growing upwards, 
looking down from 
the doorway to heaven - 
shoulder pads shaken 
by the shrieks
of your swan song, 
your eyes victors 
in the haunting of words 
I dare not confess on paper…

My night turned scarlet 
in the blushing autumn morn 
of an April reborn, 
April 27.0 - 
improved but not new, 
navigating the silence 
of your chest.

My breath is a down payment 
for all the days of flower picking
from the carnage of your dreams.

This is not the doorway to heaven, 
it is the stairway to sorrow 
but hold not the attention 
of my lips - 

I am already in tomorrow.

on return.

When you return to me 
I will be nothing but
visceral thought & bone 
fastened with ropes of rhyme 
fed only in verses of your poetry, 
standing on tip toe
peeking over the walls of your prose 
drenched in whiskey & menthol rings 
as the words flow from your river mouth
into my sea with no lifeguard to save me.

When you return to me I will no longer be yours, 
but you will always be mine within these lines.

i write my way.

The dark aftermath 
of a sullen conscience;
drunk from forgotten songs, 
lost in my own desert 
I lose the favour of sensibility.

This poem is already
coming down on me 
as these words 
invent their own passion 
to crash like waves 
against my thoughts…

The calculated motion 
of a thousand moans 
as ink from my pen flows - 
melodies that cannot 
hold my verse.

//You are moving past 
my static words like shadows 
skydiving from forgotten hopes//

I write,
I write my way 
through the map 
of your shade.

poetic indifference.

And what if your words 
proved to be as busy 
as New York City 
on a Wednesday morning?

The lines of envy running 
over well versed pages, 
filling empty stages 
with its charming thought, 

with your intuition expressed 
in blackout poetry for show -
interrupting the natural flow 
despite the rhythm.

How graciously can you bow down
to the success achieved 
by those who don’t believe 
in their own verse?

Poetry was never meant 
to be read indifferently.

desember reen in april/ december rain in april

Ek weet dat ek moet ophou soek, 
maar jy het jou dagdrome 
soos wilde blomme in my siel geplant 
en ek water hul met my trane 
wat vloei soos Desember reën 
wat eers in April val; 

jou drome is in volle blom
maar ek het lankal reeds verlep.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

I know that I need to stop looking, 
but you planted your daydreams 
like wild flowers in my soul 
and I water them with tears 
that flow like December rains
that only fall in April;

your dreams are in full bloom 
but I have long since wilted.

hello hello bye.

I have forgotten the taste of “hello”
especially since I’m still reminiscing 
on the phantom sounds 
of squeaky hinges on your goodbye, 
but “bye” has never been good to us, 
has it?
We can open and shut doors, 
make wishes in the hallways 
of forgotten prayers 
and still return to find the other 
silently wishing upon doorframes 
for an apprehensive knock 
that will make another year fly by 
and this moment here, 
this moment will taste 
of french toast and honey 

but this is not hello again, is it?
This is a nod and a shy wave 
across the oceans 
to merely acknowledge 
the other’s existence 
in syllables, 
in pages, 
in lies…

steeped in goodbyes.

this is what it is like to kiss a man with a beard.

Whist! -

Listen to the electricity zzzzinging, 
bzzzt bzzzt bzzzt bzzzzt
the red lights flickering, 
the autumn rain approaching 
one -
    one -
        one drop at a time

and you,
 & waiting
wall, your shadow 
on the floor                   next to you,

you brought your guitar 
and your Derby hat to keep 
you warm - to keep you company;

you strike chords and hum a tune 
to your shadow, to the raindrops, 
to the zinging electricity that make
the red lights flicker -
you start singing to

          the      man          
    /            in            \
         t                n
          h e  m o o 

I walk over to embrace you, 
to kiss your chorus, your ears, 
your lips and your guitar - 

this is what it is like to kiss 
a man with a beard, 
this is how you wish on
s               cars

and long healed scars.


Contort my thought 
to fit snugly around 
your words that are
meant to please
more than me, 
I guess it is easy
to weave fantasies 
with oxytocin release
as happy endings.

I am but a drop 
in the well of your
lustful exuberance -

toy with me.