kagablog

the towers are high
in a Babylon sky
a thunder, the sound of
blood raining down
of those who defy.

(the sun sets)

soldier slits night’s throat

when fear is the wounded one
crawling slowly, closer, black.

your love grows teeth

bittersweet
the red of colour

where are you now soldier?
dead
walking

going home.

I am in love with my art only when I am creating it.
Once the creation process stops, it means nothing.
I look through thousands of drawings, paintings and photos and it means nothing.
First it becomes rubbish, I just want to throw it away.
Then it becomes more than rubbish: I want to destroy it, murder it, make sure there is no trace of it left.

And all I can think of is to produce more.

I am hoping collaborating with poets will cure me of this destructive urge.
When the creation has a direct link to the work of another, I might have respect for these creations.
These days I don’t produce unless I am collaborating.
Two souls work better than one.
Symbioses saves my art from an unnecessary death.

A dew drop death holds
frail little ball of future.
It’s floating, circling,
Following me, Wanting me
to come whilst the sun still
soothes the edges of the other side.

Here Nowhere softly rains
little gaps, little heaven holes.
Soon it will be up to my knees
Pulling me slowly off night’s cliff.

These crows are black as rage.

One new day one backdrop of gold.

Then through one little gap
in the eye who’s called sky
a postcard descends, crumbling
as ash in the core of my grip.

The remains of touching you

falls.

when a cocaine dawn starts crumbling
and the heat of Africa snows

only fucking you
can make it all melt

away.

I don’t think it will ever spit me out.

iIliac angel she
swam
in humming anatomy,
ghost-bone
shimmering sciatic notch
whispers of pelvic cranes
and
femural bucking

a haunting
of sexual architecture

It’s getting dark,
the hues are melting.
I step in it and slip
on my way to light.

-Open window flesh my cut-

Come thick a letter velvet,
sodden with my date of death.
(Three frantic birds deliver it;
the words bleed me right here
on a large mirror floor.)

It’s nothing. Really.

Just death.

Now fuck off…

I need to paint!

more here

Enamel memories are chipping again. I can feel my moments, the ones I loved and hated, dissolving.

Grandma’s cupboard forever. Some things last, linger, slight, but always. She used to keep white pepper in used containers which once has other functions. Ouma. Your grace, even when dignity left you like a thief in the night. Everything smelt like piss, these fucking nappies. Your eyes are already stretched landscape, wise lady. Recite a poem , eyes glow, mash for lunch again…they forget about me.

There was a house on a hill, it smelt like rubber. It had porcelain saucers behind glass, displayed. Outside I used to run in between layers of clammy washing, drying perfume in a breeze. I built a house in the yard, for me, with roof-tiles an hope it would not fall. This house on the hill had a backdrop of brewing clouds, feverishly watching. But everybody thought it was just the weather.

And rain on a window as well, chipping, falling broken glass a scattered dream maybe. Grandma’s house in the rain, us shunning at first, the zinc-roof aggressive tonight. Scrabble, poems about dark horses, running through the woods, cigarette, gulp of wine sweet, bed. Now everything is luke. My grandma’s teeth are in a cold, winter glass of nightwater. I have the radio on my chest, on the lowest possible volume. I am listening to a voice in the night.

I did not care about where they buried her Ouma. Just a vessel, like those old metal jar and bucket, decorated, to wash, displayed on a dressing table with a mirror. Waiting, to purify, to bring warmth on a night when the windows battle with a wind that seems so angry. I started my love-hate relationship with doors when i was still growing, developing into another half of a gender. Close it, nobody is seeing me turn into a woman. Now open it and confront temperature, tearing at my skin.

I saw you the other day in the corner coffee-shop.
You were talking on a cell phone, ordering a laté at the counter.
We used to play together when our parents had Friday night barbeques. We liked going to the toilet together to watch each other urinate. Once we played doctor-doctor and I stuck a crayon up your arse.
We loved each other, didn’t we?
Your favourite cold drink was cream soda flavoured Soda Stream.
You were very possessive about your He-man. I could only play with the power of Grey Scull when you wanted to share your toys with me.
When I saw you in the shop, you stood in a suit, so tall and handsome and groomed.
Your girlfriend appeared briefly wearing label and a fake hair colour.
When she kissed you in the neck you laughed and I got a flash back to one day when we were running in the yard with a hose pipe, chasing each other.
You left the coffee shop with your cell, your coffee and your woman. When you noticed me, you quickly turned your gaze away.
I watched you leave and I remembered.
How I loved to watch you pee.

I was seated in a little coffee- shop in a narrow side street in Lisbon. I cannot recall if I was busy writing or if it was during one of my intimate photo-sessions of doors and windows. As I stirred my coffee I noticed a homeless man sitting on a step about ten metres away.
My eyes stayed on him for a while before I noticed his hand in his pants. I had to look again to realize he was masturbating, staring directly at me. Nobody else seemed to have noticed this. It was just him and me in this moment. He really was dirty.
I looked at him again, now moving his hand faster, his gaze fixed on me.
Though I was uncomfortable, I looked directly at him. Every bone in my body wanted to get away from this savage-looking being. I wanted to turn my gaze away, but I didn’t.

I kept looking at him until his whole body quivered.

go there! http://www.rashmag2.blogspot.com/

a lot of kagablog contributors on board, including cherry bomb, gary cummiskey, anton krueger, derek davey, vesa kivinen, dorette krueger and cecilia ferreira who also edits rashmag. it’s well worth a visit!