Poetry Post

Arbor Dreams

I am trapped
No, rooted; bound
By the elements of
Concrete and soil.

The wind rustles me,
My limbs resist, though
I yearn to stretch
And sometimes yield.

I am shade.
I am home.
I am the bearer of
Hearts and intials.

The years appear in rings.
I flake and splinter, slowly,
Slowly climbing until
The sun and I are one.

Poetry Post

Edible

There are days
When a single touch from you 
Makes me want to eat a trianglular
Strawberry jam sandwich so that it kisses
Either side of my mouth.

There are days
When a single look from you
Sticks in my mind like toffee to my teeth;
A bittersweet irritation until my nail
Pries it free.

There are days
When I lumber through curdled custard streets,
Weighed down by pound cakes in my pockets,
Breathing fetid pea soup air,
Fragile as spun sugar.

Yet your love for me remains,
Comforting as tea and Marie biscuits.

Poetry Post

One Night in Sea Point

For Ingrid

My mouth is a furry caterpillar cemetery
And the stubs of too many cigarettes
Form a trail leading to a broken heart
On the mattress in the room next door.

It was a night of crossing too many
Imaginery lines in word and deed
And as I suck on a forgotten mint
And stare into the road, my eyes clash
With my weathered, dirty reflection.

The lion of the landscape seems to shuffle
And the litany of loudspeakers in the street
Does little to assuage the bass in my brain;
Those furry caterpillars taste of regret.

I don't want her to wake up and remember
That the man she kissed isn't the man she loves.

Short Short Story: Eugene's Shoes

Eugene made his annual walk to the Old Mutual offices on Cilliers Street without paying much attention to the shiny shopfronts that would have distracted any other pedestrian. It was as though he had been born the incarnate of a Dickensian factory boss: time ought not to be wasted and dithering was never an option. The purposeful nature of his life could be seen in his shoes, the old faithfuls who had seen the inside of Barksole stores more than he cared to remember, with their toffee hue now verging on green, like toads emerging from mud. He could not fathom wearing another pair: each toe was embedded in its own special groove and suitably cushioned by the latest latex layer he’d had fitted. Eugene hadn’t had the heart to repair the fraying around the ankle of the left shoe: he’d got that after being caught in a puddle on the day of Edwin’s birth; happy memories came with imperfections as his mum always said. Not that he could remember his mum so much anymore, but he could remember her shoes – black babydolls he’d have to polish before her performances for the wireless dramas. He raised his head as he neared his stop, remembering that the soles squeaked ever so slightly on linoleum and laminate floors. But he wouldn’t need to worry about that today: this branch of Old Mutual preferred carpets.

Short Story: A Plastic Surgeon, A Diner and A Star

With unfocused eyes, Franklin stared down at the puce-coloured envelope on the Formica table. Behind him the neon sign of The Greasy Spoon intermittently buzzed to life, reflecting on the chrome napkin-holder to his left. He had his back to the room -- fewer people with whom to make eye-contact -- but took note of the noises that illustrated the other diners to him. He hoped the slurper behind him, who he supposed was a rotund truck driver, complete with a sweaty check shirt, stained jeans, branded baseball cap and toothpick, would leave soon. So far, it seemed, neither the slurper nor the envelope was going anywhere.

Poetry Post

The Foil

I know chocolate bunny people
Who deceive with their shiny exteriors.
Despite my mother's warnings, 
I befriend them and am left
With sickly sweet disappointment
And no way to uncrumple the foil.

Short Story Sunday: The Pink Glove

The pink glove lay on the ground, almost covered. Mark kicked at a season's leaves to expose it. It looked like a wet marshmallow and was stained with the veins of oak leaves and rain. He leant down and snapped it with his Canon. He would caption this "Lost Childhood".