Here today….

I have always been a traveller
Even when I never left home, i always kept all my things in suitcases…
I was ever ready to take a trip and find the secret place the sun rests it’s head,
Go to magical places
Beautiful places
Sad places with muted cicada sounds.
I never fell for the hypnotic feels , of tender arms and imperative words.

I have always been a traveller,
I couldn’t stay,
I clung tightly on the wind’s back,
Became dust frequently,
Shed tears,
Lost without a trace, with every thought feeling like a trance.

But I have always been determined bypasser.
Couldn’t stop where I felt lost,
I left to find all pieces of me, scattered under all the train rails, bus seats or the noble eyes of a stranger.

I travel, but I return. In case I left a piece of my heart.

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Tastebuds

I tasted him,
His whole existence bare in his tongue.
Sweet, tender memories scattered on his lips
The pain in his slow breathing,
The love in his embrace.
I tasted him,
He had sweet flavours of masculinity,
And a soft aftertaste of a violent storm,
Parading on the eager corners of my mouth
Answering every question,
Reassuring me that as our saliva dances on the soils of our tongues,
His heart beats to know mine,
And this kiss won’t be the last one….

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“Mirror Mirror On The Wall…..”

A world with no mirrors ,
Eyes with no lenses,
Truths hidden behind moving shadows and reflections painted on still waters.
A blind man looks up to the sky and admires the world with intensities of an aunthentic eye.
Sunsets and sunrises give life to time, and still we search for mortal faceless clocks with breakable hands.
A lifespan of an owl exposed the footprints of local witches.
The cries of kittens spoke of dark clouds of evil that befell all who looked at the oldest bull in the eye.
Eyes, a power
Words, an altered sincerity
Appearance, a feeling,
A conviction
That even without mirrors
Small boys in search of happiness still find love on the driest grass.
A world with no mirrors,
A frightening world.

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Another Random Fantasy.

Sometimes i dream of kissing soft lips that have tasted a lying tongue.
To walk hand in hand with a girl that took long walks to nowhere,
Slowly,
Palm to palm with an abusive hand.
To hold her waist and touch the roots growing on her skin,
And the stories laying on her thighs.
I dream of whispering healing to an ear that has known hate and deception.
I want to kiss the jaws of a scarred black woman and bite off the shame wavering on her neck,
Stare into her eyes and plant little roses that will awake every sunrise and remind her to breathe ,
I want to run my fingers on her inner thighs and watch her blossom between my face,
I want taste her waters,
Drink all the sweat from her walking around searching for happiness.
I want to make her happy,
I want to make her so happy she shivers in pleasure,
She forgets the closet she once hid in,
When she tried to escape the beating.

Sometimes i dream of making love to a broken hearted girl
Just in case the same type of people can heal each other.

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The City of Gold

Over the river through the woods above the mystic forests,

There lies in concrete the city i’m from.

I’m from a city that constantly reminds me that sanity and happiness are chaotic combination.

Where the deeds under high buildings are beyond rationalisation,

A place with less obligation or justification.

This is not a fake paradise with birds chirping,

This is a jungle where minds are programmed to survive.

We have no vineyards but we drink the blood of grapes like thirsty wizards under the moonlight,

Our mothers clutch their bags closer to their chests,

We hide our phones like uncomfortable house guests

As we walk on these streets that have witnessed more pain than homeless orphans on a winter day.

I’m from a city where young age is not an excuse to escape agony,

Melancholy, scattered behind every , ” cel’ishumi sister”

Or “hello nice come let me do your hair cheap cheap”

Or Nigerian brothers moving around taxi rank buildings claiming every girl is their size,

Mize,

Move,

Keep your head straight this is my city.

Every journey has it’s story,

Every soul is on a path.

Some are riding on the wind just getting through the day

Other are scarred and thirsty for a life beyond the Mandela bridge,

Some are searching,

Others have found the gold under the reef city’s foundations.

Some are passing,like a police van passing a crime scene to arrest weed smokers.

Some are lost, and they are later found lying on the stomachs of dying old men with bald heads.

Some want to escape, to a life brighter, a city cleaner, maybe with less fake memory cards on the street corners.

Some are intrigued, like ex convicts being called on the Universal Church speakers.

Some are happy,they are home.

My city is home,

To undiscovered dreams

It is home to homeless destitutes with no guts to call anything else home.

It is a helping hand to the numb,

It is a roof for all African distant relatives

Soft smells of mogodu linger as young girls in short skirts rush to catch the 4pm train before it’s too late,

Kissing their lovers amidst the chaos of the city’s buzz,

The city’s lights,

The city’s eyes,

Staring at all the people that were brave enough to come to the city of gold.

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Rebel

I consciously rebelled against the rule book,
I tore the pages and decided to rewrite ancient laws on acceptable behavior.
Dared to paint a new image,
Where i knew my place,
As a young girl,
As a black woman,
As a human being,
I knew my place.
Not according to old men with ached backs,
Or the older women with experience and survival on their lips.
Not according to the guys in fancy cars luring girls under the Sandton sun
Or paintings on the streets of society about how i should carry myself
I decided to carry myself as high as my shoulders permitted
And laughed as loud as my high permitted
I needed no permission
The book was in my palms
The rules had to be all mine

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