Category Periodic Composition

To your power and glory:

Barefoot I would run over stinging sand, Rocks with sharp edges – Blind to pain – Searching for escape, Hurtling headlong toward success’s heady rush.   Now I’m less nimble. I wait. Surrender. Succumb. Your sting has softened. Today you’re old bruise – A familiar discomfort, The mere memory of a wound. Glorious failure  – my […]

DooKoom’s the answer

The question: “Why did the world open up its loving arms, and loving legs, to those fokken naaiers? Kultcha verraaiers?” Roger Ballen stuck his lens deep upside their arse. Clayton Cubitt worshiped at the altar of Ninja’s piel. Dave Nevarro fapped on about being en-raptured. Boing Boing. And then the globe goes Gaga. But will the world love […]

Ronnie, Bob & River – 1

Moss-covered river pebbles. That’s the first thing that came to mind when Ronnie spoke. Moss-covered river pebbles, cold with fear that caught in his throat before spilling over his lips. “They took her, D,” he said. “What? Who?” “Child Services. They took River.” River was Ronnie’s only daughter. She was about seven at the time. […]

Lucy and I

I looked in the rear-view mirror and saw the taillights following us. Long neon shadows. I was speeding, but hell, Lucy and I had a party to go to and we needed another drink before the hangovers kicked in. Mine was already starting in the back of my throat, a weird place for a hangover […]

[YET ANOTHER WORK IN PROGRESS. PART 3]

On the twenty-minute tube ride from the Muizenberg Communes to central Cape Town – the Kid chose to take the hook route past the old townships instead of the direct Southern Line and I didn’t object – we played a quick game of Location Conquest. “Let’s see if you’re as sharp as your tongue, old […]

[YET ANOTHER WORK IN PROGRESS. PART 2]

“This is life, kid, sometimes that dream is right in front of you, you can touch it, feel its shapes and contours, taste it, damnit, and then it vanishes,” I said to him the first time we got drunk. On my balcony we stood, the bottle of whiskey changing hands, an old Russian rock ‘n […]

[yet another work in progress. part 1]

“The wind is changing,” the Kid threw into the open window and all of us nodded and grunted in agreement, as if we had any idea as to what he really meant, “Fuck the wind. Fuck Gibson. Let’s get out of here.” He pushed away from the window sill, measured us with the usual look […]