Kohl

kohl

Created, are desolate dunes,
for slow gait and ponder,
what did you expect except a sandstorm,
burnt soles and a heart of wonder,
is there anything left, but introversion,
mysticism, and vanishing asunder?

She appears as a horizon of lifted dust,
scathing at the atmosphere for a caress.

Loves me through her pain,
anticipating my wholeness,
even if in and through me,
again and again.

Intimately unselfish,
angelic and devilish,
salted lips and hurricane of chase,
it’s not too hard to see her desperation.

Kohl, looks better on the deserts eyes,
the salt of longing,
makes a far better canvas for tears.

W.E.

Inferno

inferno
Stoke me with poetry,
or kindle me with love,
prod me and clear a path for a wind,
and I’ll rise to engulf you.

There’s cedar and agar,
there’s amber and sandle,
Cackle and crackle
for most, too much to handle.

What did you think would happen,
if you touched my fire,
Of course I was going to burn you,
though a scorch, I want to brand in you desire.

Find me at the extremities of volatile,
and the edges of flint and molten,
fluid and ready,
lava-like-prosen.

Amidst all this inferno,
all you can be is frozen,
don’t complain of this heat,
if you want blood hot and crimson.

W.E.

Inspired by something that happened this afternoon. Something that I wasn’t proud of, but showed me I am perhaps a little too volatile to be around at the moment.
Oh, and thank you to Nathalie who helped prod it out of me, a writer can never have enough muses.

Stillborn solitude

stillborn-solitude
I walk around with swollen lips,
and a belly of prosen bloat,
 of hand on hip,
pregnant with words,
that won’t go past my throat.

There’s no place for us,
in this swell of anguish,
a deprivation from joy is the norm,
but amidst this hollow,
and sanctioned banish,
awaits in the lure,
a hurricane of firey word-storm.

Silence and solitude,
quell and quietude,
are always the prerequisite to the writ,
poise and fortitude,
Zen-like attitude,
to deliver not the fruit,
but the pit.

W.E.

have friends become an accessory?

friends

I can count on one hand how many of them I have had a deep and meaningful with.
I can count even less I have done so face to face.
Where the fuck did I get seventy friends from?
This utterly dropped me today. I don’t know why I feel so dismal about it, so severed and removed from myself about it, but I do.

Not that I have this aching desire to have seventy friends, rather I was upset because I have become part of the system I so detested for so long.
I’m a loner by nature so it bothers me not one iota.
But I am scolding myself, thinking, am I a fake? A fraud? pretending to be your friend and haven’t done anything for you?
Forgive me if I begin removing myself, the guilt is more depressing than anything.
W.E.

a word to the passive

a-word-to-the-passive
Dear children,
this is for you,
or adults who haven’t grown up too.

Don’t let them tell you not to be angry.
This un-sagely advice,
has promised the owners of this world,
a safety and comfort to continue with their oppression.

Anger is the fuel for change.

They want to contain your rage,
bottle discomfort in a cage,
not let you feel outrage,
keep you living on the same page,
they want to stop you from the engage .

They want to control what you feel,
tell you how to do it,
preferably not do it at all.
keep your ability to think, to rise up,
to fight against the system –
small –
staring down a hall,
don’t listen to them,
that’s not tunnel vision,
That…… is some seriously heavy anger.

Staring down a hall is Prozac,
it’s Ritalin,
it’s the myriad of other psychotropics,
that numb you,
dumb you,
succumb you,
to the lifeless blank eyes that aren’t you.

They want to suck you,
quell you,
until you don’t know yourself,
and they can sell you,
a new you,
a happy you,
a team player,
not a naysayer,
a yes sir, no sir, not yes ma’am, no ma’am,
because that would not play into their plans.

God Forbid you should listen to a woman,
because the perfume of the womb that bore you,
can’t be scrubbed off,
but they want to cut you from that too.

Angry?
Have you seen a woman in labour?
She can be whatever the fuck she wants,
loving, kind, hurt, angry, angry as fuck,
so angry she can punch a 5 kg being out of a 5 cm hole.
That’s fucking anger manifest!
Don’t tell me angry is not beautiful.

Anger, is your fuel,
it is what will keep you inspired to change,
to fight,
to not stand for trampling of others rights,
to stay up late at nights,
write a stanza or two,
or watch five movies in a row,
until you arrive at the answer you were looking for.

Best of all,
anger shows you still feel something inside,
even if that anger is misplaced,
it can be redirected to something fruitful.

They want you to tone down your words and not use expletives,
and then they’d always find a troll of a white male,
or female with a principal like tone in their voice,
telling you how to say it.

Like ‘go fuck yourself’ isn’t expressive enough for them to understand,
sorry ‘entice yourself to a session of  lovemaking with your hand’
just doesn’t cut it.

So fuck off,
or my anger will magically morph from between lips,
to between clenched fists.

W.E.