vry my

maar ek het ‘n kreupelhart

vir jou groot oë

 

rotspoele

 

versamel skulpe en klippe

vang vis met die gety

laat die mossels klou

 

‘n spieel

wat alles in die lug vashou 

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‘n bietjie stroop vir ‘n soda stream:

ek wens jy was hier

Tamboerskloof is mos op sy mooiste

in die somer

 

ek sal vir jou ‘n poskaart moet stuur

van die lug

soos spookasem

geraam in my balkon

 

sal dit in ‘n kind se hand moet stop

met ‘n vyf-rand

vir swiets

en hom afstuur

na jou straat

 

want hoe anders kan ek dan nou vir jou sê

dat ek jou graag hier wil hê

‘n gedig oor ‘n oranje bank

al ouerig

uitgebleik hier

en daar vlekkies

vermom met kussings

deel hom uit aan naweekgaste

en deel te veel op hom

oor die algemeen

 

dis ‘n talk-show droom

ken al ons geheime

weet ons laaik van skinner

dat ons bang word

dikwels huil

en lag, gelukkig

 

seker al gatvol gepaartie

laatnag

loopdop

opwarmdop

uitdop

meer as dop

 

sat vir wyn

as opkry

al die los gevryery

wil nooit weer hoor “waste skoene?”

dat daai doos alweer ‘n doos was

en dis nou verby

weet ons soen al het hy ‘n meisie

soen ook soms meisies

ons periods is opgesync

en dit veroorsaak ‘n kollektiewe ineenstorting

 

ek kyk gereeld na die donnerse ding

en wonder

hoe gaan ons maak

as ons ons saamleef ontgroei het?

I put

my coat on

to meet you

at the deli

for a secret

lunch and coffee

crossed the station

that smelt like piss

collar up

as the cold

sucked me in

like you do

we ate

you stared

at my mouth

I wanted to

suck your fingers

you asked

for the bill

they brought

the wrong one

I joked

and said

it’s the right bill

in a parallel universe

where we touch

each others’ legs

in public

finish lunch

buy art

and furniture

for our apartment

head home

make love

like normal people.

krismis

daar’s ‘n antie met wie ek ‘n kortjaart deel

maar ek plant niks daar nie

en as die Suidoos waai vou sy lakens

om die krismisrose vas

met wasgoedpennetjies

krismisrose so groot en bont

soos toe ek kind was op die Blaauklippen-plaas

en my ouma hulle rangskik het op die toilet se vensterbank

en ek dink krismis mag nou maar kom

en die pennetjies mag maar losruk

met die lakens daarmee heen

en mag die krismisrose dan ook in hulle moer in waai

tot in my badkamer in

want van naby af is ‘n krismisroos tog inelkgeval

‘n klomp klein blommetjies

in

my

kortjaart.

Dawn Saylor | When I was 14

When I was 14, I got down on my knees because he said I would 
if I loved him. 
And what did I know then? 
when I first betrayed my body. 
Sold it for a kiss and a smile, 
thought to please at any cause, 
left to fight for independence in the backseat of cars.
On stained leather interior dank with the smell of expectations 
I traded integrity for security and called it love, leaving pieces of an empty shell falling behind my mother patting my head and saying 
“What happened to that nice boy you were dating? ”. 
Well, I pushed memories farther down 
buried beneath piercing sunlight, 
dreams my night would come to save 
and prayed 
scraping already skinned knees 
while I cried myself to sleep. 
So I bit the apple in confusion, 
abandoned my innocence 
beneath the tree of knowledge 
and became as bitter as the fruit 
I couldn’t refuse. 
Time and again, 
giving in, 
giving up, 
waiting, 
always wanting something more than pick-up lines, 
promising more than promiscuity, 
clothing myself in false hopes, 
enclosing my weariness in frail arms for years… Cars turning into bars with one lamp, 
and piles of discarded clothing, 
and I heard myself say “no” over and over. 
But he didn’t hear me, 
wouldn’t listen when he called me a “whore”, bringing me down and took the only innocence I had left. 
And I was searching still for purity, 
lurking in hidden corners, 
hips swinging, lips pouting, 
trading and shattered innocence 
for bared and braised and offerings 
I learned how to control 
and three years of vengeance passed 
while I was that woman despised. 
Well, they begged for plastic perfection 
found in the temptation inches from their faces and I could feel the longing, 
the lies when they said “You’re so beautiful” 
And it wasn’t enough
And so he loved music more than me, 
loved work more than me, 
loved money more than me, 
loved her more than me. 
And I loved him more than me. 
And I gave in 
to where I thought love hid; 
to the times I thought it was real. 
We give in to what men want, 
we paint ourselves with what we think are the colors of the rainbow, 
when we’re really cloaked in hips and lips, 
the brutal realities that leave us grasping 
tatters of the illusions of love and longing 
and the shattered threads of innocence. 
Until we wear our own colors 
and part the curtains we draped over our mirrors in mourning 
and look ourselves in the eye, and say 
“With you I feel like Isis and I am beautiful”. 

16-bit Intel 8088 chip

with an Apple Macintosh
you can’t run Radio Shack programs
in its disc drive.
nor can a Commodore 64
drive read a file
you have created on an
IBM Personal Computer.
both Kaypro and Osborne computers use
the CP/M operating system
but can’t read each other’s
handwriting
for they format (write
on) discs in different
ways.
the Tandy 2000 runs MS-DOS but
can’t use most programs produced for
the IBM Personal Computer
unless certain
bits and bytes are
altered
but the wind still blows over
Savannah
and in the Spring
the turkey buzzard struts and
flounces before his
hens.

– Bukowski