rotoscope

Some time spent on a roof

A bug.

Sleeping in.

There’s a crack in the paint in the ceiling.

      Its veiny finger routes out a distance between me and the light.

A jagged curve snaking its way across the pure

    white absoluteness of architectured anatomy.

My eyes are spent.

SO I close them-

     and continue the mapping elsewhere.

I don’t like cracks in paint.

These four walls and their family of brick

 stand strong at each other with mindful twist towards the change of day.

I hang pictures on them and tell them not to move.

Please.

Charged with a raging passion to conceive the formless void of idea I lie beside

 my corpse

 and open my eyes

again to see not the crack in the paint

but the course of a dry a riverbed leading into

 the deserted mist of

boredom.

Nelson Mandela bridge: It's different everytime.

A city poem

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A strange joy-

Is the Joburg sun,

Burning the sk”eye”

And piercing itself on the thorny

Protrusion of city.

Green, orange and red are

My knuckles round

The steering wheel.

I hear

The homeless talk

And swing plastic crucifixes against cold glass.

I am afraid

But not for the dark alleys

or their slick shadow of black

Cat

that lick the walls

and dance on dustbin lids.

Nor am I afraid of the night

as it stomps its feet,

clicks its heels and shimmy slides

to the whispers of a devils jazz.

I am afraid of the true, blue rhythm of  my heart

making space for a place

 I know nothing about

save for the river of gold coursing through its veins.

I make peace with the day and the

traffic it caused to cross my path.

I turn the key and feel the tired hum of fan and

movement slowly cool and switch to sleep.

Is this, this?

This feeling sleep?

Only sometimes