ECHOES OF ATLANTIS:
THERE IS AGONY ABOVE THE SOIL
ECHOES OF ATLANTIS:
THERE IS AGONY ABOVE THE SOIL
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.
MONDAY MORNINGS IN MONACO
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.
A POEM TO PETER
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.
DON'T TAKE ME HOME
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 BABY
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?