The Neglected English Composer

When it comes to creatures, we must be

flawed in much the same way.  Or we are


entirely alien to each other.  Stars are

blotted out of our vision—by the very man-


made devices designed to propel us

to that great expansive space


of universal oblivion—but they are silent

there expecting to be noticed.  Still there is so little


that endures, an echo from the E. J. Moeran rhapsody,

“In the Mountain Country,” sings to you


from an open window of a building labeled NO

TREASPASSING over the cracked pane of glass,


leading you to accept rejection as a component

of beauty, while “Lonely Waters” begins


to play.  When we lay our thoughts to rest

we forget we even bothered to have


them.  Where is that love so grand it changes

the whole game?  We are just keeping


ourselves from it because it doesn’t fit

with these ill formed sensibilities


making it.  There is little sense to make

of it.  Indeed, we are senseless to the sufferings


of the songs.  Songs whose lyrics can only be heard

in the soul calling out to any beautiful thing


to enchant us with wide space in the endless

horizon where the stars spend their time waiting.


What I Gotta Do

Just kiss me where it’s sore, please,

make it better.  Will it

even do anything at all?  I have always

one foot on the ground, but I have in my mind

all of these words

which break my heart.  Suppose I never ever let

you take me in as your pet, so these bars

were never built up around me.  Yes,

of course, it will get better.  I get lost

in my mind with all of these promises

for music, and the beauty

which couldn’t exist.  They are just

imaginary moments of angels.  Don’t say

you love me how I am. Clearly, your mold

of any ideal can never comprehend me.  No

tame flattering persona, here, sorry to let

you down, but all you got was me, and that’s all

I can be, begging on bended knee.

Definition Truth

v.t.  1.  subjective;

constant changing 2. human





It Happened Right in Front of Everyone

My grandfather was a war hero, at least I was told

he was. He was a Marine, I know that is true.

The man I knew was a drunk

who laid on the couch in his underwear. He called me

his “Snuggle Bunny.” He encouraged me

to keep…

my feet special warm on his penis under his underwear,

under the afghan,

on the couch,

in front of everyone,

all while the family watched

Kung Fu and Bonanza reruns with us. His oldest son went to prison

having been a real life Pennywise

who had a sailboat to touch children

on. My uncle learned how to face the truth of being

fucked by grownups,

my grandfather never admitted

what he’d done. He called so many people Snuggle Bunny

What does that make me?

Open Letter to My Evil Stepmother-Gloria Morell,

I have no clue what is wrong with a woman who is jealous of a man’s daughter’s, but you are a rare flesh in your bald shallow self. You have shown me nothing much more than FUCKING UGLY. I will rise tomorrow just to pray Ja finds your black soul. Don’t give me a reason to unleash my “Evil Stepmother” poems on the world, because your name will only be remembered as the evil bitch who created the wall between me and someone to fucking protect me. I am a world respected POET. Who do you think wrote ALL OF THE RELIGIOUS TEXTS? Hint: all religious books are written by POETS. I fucking Judge you, because, as a mother- I can turn no child away from my heart, and I fucking help burn counties to the ground for it. To fight for the innocent is the only worthy fight, but your vanity and ego are your worst enemy, bitch. I posted this all over the Internet, so your nieces, nephews, and most of all your son and daughter can see the pain you inflicted. You were the reason I went fatherless. Yes, my father obliged your wicked intentions, but my poor father was broken by war and countries haunting him. Vietnam haunts that man, much like South Africa haunts me. I judge you, with all of my suffering of being a fatherless child: molested and abused over and over and over. YOU EVEN KNEW! A little girl raped by a shameful count. I trusted the grownups. Fuck you, Gloria Morell. Redeem yourself, or face the wrath of God the Almighty. Ain’t my fault you pray to the wrong one. REDEEM YOURSELF! #OccupiedEverything

The Book of Fuck You

for Desmond, my Warrior and Ani, my Meek

It is self evident that it don’t matter how you want

others to love you—candy coated

gumdrops or sweet

potato swirl, if you, Stupid, do

not already love yourself

that way. The golden rule

is such that if you are

always 100%, you will have

the Midas Touch. This truth is

far easier to grasp by the two’s

years and the treacherous

three’s, and it takes a lifetime 2

figure it out, if you are not taught

this as a small fry, a snot tot. Our culture,

the whole damned

world culture, teaches everyone

from birth that love we receive is

indicative to the amount of shit

we are given. What kind of shit

~~~~~~~~~~~~it is really is entirely

up to you to determine. “I’m the Shit”

that turns to gold, Fucker. People will

~~~~~~~~~~~~get butt-hurt.

Eat Your Fucking Cake

I am the Disdainful

Beauty. I am here

to serve you your just dessert. My judgement is

sound. You have devoted centuries denying me

my place among myths. I

am that catch in the

throat. The leaks your eyes form when the rush

Joy makes chickens in

your skin. Now you feel

the waves and waves and waves of pressure I drop

like bombs on your mind: a puff of Angels Breath

made from the glorious

angel trumpet. The last

thing you remember is an acrid smell-my breath-

there is always the drone of ammonia under it all.

I’m here to sanitize

everything. Wash

the atrocities you are

away with a cloud of white. I will destroy everything, coolly.


The Orphanage in Jo’burg

The children had noses dripping green, while smiling at me.  My own boy on the other side of the world—running around unaware.

Manzili wanted my camera.

Do you want to take the picture? He climbed up on a table.  Jump off the edge.  Yebo![1] Pictures for charity or souvenir, not for memories.  Children should not remember these things.

I’m guilty.

Reminders of Amy—the little girl whose name was changed when she turned six.  She was found bleeding on a highway with a different name: Ekaghogho—born on an important day. Not important enough.

Zilabamuzale had not been breathing—not that he had much breath— long enough to receive a white name.  There was the smell of sickness in his kiss.

I could smell it when he smothered me.  I wanted to swallow him—he could live in me.

None of them were allowed to have the illness. Amy wanted me to play.  I was scared.

Amy wanted me to play.

I was scared.

She had no shoes—climbing on scrap-metal jungle gyms.

I did too little.  Still—

I weep.

My pictures.

The only remains of children found in dumpsters. Their faces are tribal proverbs: Life is a shadow and a mist; it passes quickly by, and is no more. This place had clouds hanging.

Hushed words spoken so a child’s ear couldn’t hear—but no one really did.

Knowledge is a garden: if it is not cultivated, it cannot be harvested.

Amy died.  They all did.  Ube nohambo oluhle.[2] They journey, painfully,

through me. Pictures of dead babies.

Ngiyaxolisa.[3] Ngiyakuthanda.[4]

[1] Yes

[2] Have a good journey.

[3] I’m sorry.

[4] I love you.

We all could have died on Picture Day, had there been a gun there that day.