Scorching dry summers and 

frigid cool wet winters

Carve your way down 

from the elevated 

white sand dunes and

watch the yellow yolk 

drop down behind 

the iconic Table Mountain

Adrenaline surges 

down my spine

through my core, 

hips swinging, 

calves flexing

And there he appears

The most striking dark Harrier,

large white panels adorning 

its underwings

His white rump patch and 

barred tail allow for 

a graceful dance

in the sky

While he glides his body 

high over the pure Atlantis dunes,

holding its wings in a V-shape 

above the Atlantic coastline

The charcoal juvenile 

stares me deep in the eye 

with its pierced amber jewels

My mind drifts sharply 

as I cycle back home 

thinking about his eyes

Thinking about 

how I can fly away from 

the sunken corrupted village

The avenue of blue

gum trees standing tall 

behind my gated orange house,

invigorate my lungs anew

But how do I inhale this new life, 

with the death along

the avenue of these 

blue gum trees?

The surreal world of Atlantis 

stretches a horrifying place

A place where their bodies were found

beneath the comforting 

shade of the sprawling trees

A place where the 

murderers bartered away

humans like livestock;

I yearn for hope like the mothers 

and the fathers searching tirelessly

amidst the trees and soil

I cling to my green-brown friend 

and I whisper a soft human song 

for the unbearable agony

They mirror the human experience, 

reflecting our joys, sorrows, 

and fears

I dream of the lost village as 

a utopian civilization with

great naval power, 

and concentric islands 

resembling the Garden of Eden

However.

The Atlantis that I know

 is not a myth Plato

The Atlantis that I know 

is not a legendary island Plato

The Atlantis that I know 

happens to be,

happens to be

the vivid essence of a place,

I will always call home.

Yesterday I was photographed in the Belgian Congo.
Today is Monday, we are amidst the white-washed villages.

"We are in Monaco!” — a perfect sunset postcard for mom.
Vanilla, an alluring fragrance designed
to exalt a harmed body.

A weakened body.
A body.

Nuxe oil, a bestseller pride.
Could not smooth over the scars I hide.

The masterpiece is the mind.
The femme body is brave.
The pussy roars valor in all the adjectives of the Bible.
My face is the shield of yet just another poet.

“My body is not in vain for your pleasure Sir.”

This is a battlefield, this yacht.
A stage for poetic supremacy and
the domination of the ovaries.
In these places, these thieves have
sexualized me, us.

Slithered me down, us;
I see one by one gasping for comfort.
Their eyes in rage and despair,

pleading for solace.

The Python princess,
creating a new program between her legs and hippocampus,
there they are, desperate to slither.

I am coiled against the turquoise leather.
The breathing down my neck, hairline is shallow.
The loudest silence, now lodged in memory.

A regular Monday morning
in the poetic air
of Monaco.

I knew it was over when I didn’t get a goodbye.
After all this time was our friendship based on a lie?
Did I make you sad, could you please tell me why?

You allowed me into your home.
You allowed me into your heart.
Little did I know that writing about you now has become my art.

Our cards are dealt differently, but yours to mine intentionally.
Did I abandon you because I flew away?
Can you let me know if we are actually, okay?

I will always remember your birthday, the 29th of May.
I am healing from the hurt of silence.
Maybe this is the lesson of friendship guidance.

What happened to my best friend’s kindness?
I don’t want him to lose his diamonds.

I can tell you are blocked.
You silently made the choice to untie our knot.
My palms are attached to my eyes.
My cries in disguise, waiting each night for your replies.

I called you my brother and accepted you as one.
What do I call you now? As this cannot be undone.
The distance was never a problem before.
Am I delusional for wanting more and more?

Goodbye has never been this loud before.
I’ll grieve your presence right out of my front door.

With grace in my heart,
I accept my removal from your cart.
It’s unfortunate,

I could never imagine us apart.

South Africa makes me think of your lips—
soft, broken lies, explosive.

I am from the womb of a lion.
The fizz in his sparkling water.

Your scent—green tea and jasmine,
Your body, black jasmine,
lingers down my throat.

Cape Town laughs in sunset colors.
Indian curry. Seafood. Milk Tart.

We have bread, water, potential—
Enough potential to shatter.

I wish I wrote the way I thought:

Vividly,
Passionately,
Almost necessary to live.

And almost immediately,
the L letter word comes along.

Learning about you.
Oats for breakfast — your favourite.
Venomous snake.
Early Childhood Trauma.

I am from the womb of a lion.
The fizz in his sparkling water.

Leave some morphine at my door

The bottle of agave still lodged in my head

Take my hand

Take my whole life too

I get a notion from the look in your eyes

An emotional imbalance of

what the truth looks like

That’s what makes the beginning so invigorating

You don’t know what will happen until,

until it’s over.

Give me tequila I don’t want it watered down. On some days I want amnesia. Please! Release me from the old, so that I can begin again. He is my soul mate because he is the only man to ever understand me to the bone and even further. There is nothing more beautiful than the shelter he has provided for me. He lives gently inside my core and is gracefully covered in his truth. Give me tequila, because I love him. Give me tequila because he doesn’t love himself. Give me tequila. How could he have loved me?