Tag Archive for The Nature of Reality

A Bunch of Nonsense

I am a super hero!
I am the lingerie loving,
Plum dancing,
Popcorn serving,
Potato eating,
Viggo Aspiring,

I am…

The Last General of the forgotten creed,
The laughing Grand Mage of forgetfulness,
The Ranger of the play grounds,
The Arch Duke of the melancholy collaborators,
The Poet who talks to little hairy fat naked Fay…

say to me,
shall be knighted,
shall propose,
   He shall kiss the earth and be blessed,
 He shall cry when his children are born,
            He shall
rise and be recognized…

But in my mind I see,
curling up in the covers,
I make breakfast,
   &nbsp      And I’ll wake you with
the smell of fresh orange juice.
I move your hair from your eyes,
a half daze till our children come barreling in…

Because I say happiness is a long winded poem,
being read by an overconfident, Lord
of the
maniac, with a little too much time on his hands… And
a whole lot of nonsense to share
with the world…

Siinter Klaas

I saw him today, I swear

on the sidewalk beard and all




with a burlap sack of treasures in a battered shopping cart.

He was walking past some guy in a red suit

ringing a bell chiming gimme gimme—


quite unlike santa, who didn’t beg

and sat slouched alone with a bottle of paper-bag wine.


Afraid of the light

I hide in my red



From the other side

it looks like black and white

but from my angle:



It haunts like some stalking shadow,

a vague whisper of night.

A relentless night,

an endless night.


Someday you will find me

crushed beneath the weight

of my sins,

stiff and cold. What a sight.


I long for warmth,

but the bright glare



into startling gray dots

that swim past my reality.



pour of blue substanceless


Empty words


as meaningless as any truth

scream aimlessly

into pretense.


Mythic hopes

vanish delicately

into the blackness.


Please ignore me,

and shut that door behind you.

I shun the day,


and the phosphorescent glow

that accompanies it.

It hurts


stabbing like a murderous acupuncturess

with dark advice on the sensitivity

of nerves.


The salve of darkness cloaks

while I rest from the numbing


An Observation on Perception


I was walking


At one point

I looked up

Across the street,

And I saw a little boy

Drop his bottle on the sidewalk

At the base of the Woodman Tower.

He bent down in front of a

Mammoth marble pillar;

Then, giggling wildly,

Was plucked from the ground

And danced in a circle

By an energetic mother.

And the whole time

He never

Looked up,

Completely oblivious to the

Thousands of feet of

Concrete and glass


Above his tiny head.


And I thought to myself,

Hey baby,

I think we’ve all

Been there.

The Most Glorious Dream

I picture myself center stage in the most enormous and fantastically beautiful theater in the world. Its walls and ceilings are covered in impeccable Victorian paintings of angels in the sky. A single ray of light shines down upon my face, shining through the still, silent darkness, and all attention is on me and me alone. The theater is a packed house; however, my audience is not that of human beings, but rather the angels from the paintings on the walls come alive, sitting intently in the rows of plush seats. Their warmth encompasses my body, and I know at that moment that it is time to begin.

I open my mouth. From deep inside my soul a melody flows out of my chest, off of my tongue, and finally caresses my lips with the sweetest touch, and my song fills the air with a boldness like that of the glory of the angels. The sound of my song is that of unfathomable wonder, a voice as sweet and smooth as the face of a child. I sing and sing and sing my heart out, and I wonder and wonder and wonder in awe of the sound that is coming from my mouth and my throat and my soul, and I sing with more power than I have ever felt before. It takes over my entire body and the adrenaline surges like I never imagined it could surge. My whole world is aglow.

For those precious moments, everything is right, and then I am alone. The angels have disappeared, yet the stage is still mine, and suddenly, from out of nowhere, a piano begins to play. I can’t see it, but I can feel it in every cell of my body, and my voice again takes charge and rushes out to court the empty notes of the piano. The two become one, and never before have the theater’s walls heard such awesome music. In this enormous theater, I am alone, but I have never felt so fulfilled in my life. I look out to the very last row of empty seats, but there appears a man. A moment of shock and fear is quickly overridden by a quieting peacefulness. The piano stops playing, leaving my voice the only noise in the arena.

The melody I sing slows down to a soft and calm ballad that I sing wholeheartedly for the man, all the while with a locked gaze into the man’s eyes. His eyes are a mirror. They show me myself. They show me my beauty—my beauty on the inside that I never allow myself to see. He shows me who I am meant to be. The ballad ends. There is silence, but a continuous locking of eyes. They are the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen—more beautiful than in my dreams. The silence continues, and my feeling of peace continues, until finally I say, “Yes, I understand.”

In an instance He is gone. I take one last minute to breathe in the emptiness of the stage and to imprint the experience in my mind where it will stay forever like a fountain from which I will draw happiness. Then I pull myself back into reality. I walk off of the stage, down the steps, through the empty audience, and out the back door of the theater which has changed my life. I walk outside into the new world that has been created for me.

Why Can’t We Reach Out

About a hundred meters away from the busy intersection the robot turns orange.

Then red.

“It’s time to stop,” it says. “Sit back, relax and take a look around you.”

Her eyes, yes, as always, looking down at the road.

And on her soggy, grimy, corrugated-cardboard ‘licence plate’ are four similar downcast faces.


Sabotaged by the climbing ivy wrinkles of unnecessary worry and… confusion.

“Just look at her! She could pack bags at ‘Clicks’ if she were not so lazy! She makes more money here! The fool! The… the…

The robot turns green and the car rolls away…

It’s Sunday; we sing a hymn and a tatty old man stumbles in and sits down.

He is sitting alone, by the last stanza…

On my way to school a taxi flies past, full of noisy, tightly packed, screaming ‘animals’ off to their enclosures.

They are unaware of themselves.

Just minutes after…

another one!

But, this time full of children. “Gateway Village Bus” flickers in the sunlight.

Little faces—badly deformed—are pressed up against the windows.

As the bus goes on, they smile at me so warmly, oblivious to the hurtful, harsh criticism filtering through my ‘sophisticated’ mind.

Their faces disappear down the road.

Still smiling…

Sometimes we pass “the flats” on our way to the city.

Two young girls play with knives. They hack away at an empty cardboard box lying in the mud while their parents lie drunk on the patio…

My mother drops me off at the school gate. I wave good-bye and walk into yet another sad story.

Some stand in groups and talk about their exciting weekends. How they went to the ‘Vaal’ with their speed boats and had a really good time.

How they worked all night on Friday, but got a good wage.

They laugh together.

Their friendship is special and warm.

As I walk over to my own group of friends (happy to see me), I see others walking side-by-side sharing with one another… and I see those standing alone, looking at their watches, reading through their school diaries. Looking busy.

I know that they are just shielding themselves from the reality that no one is willing to be their friend.

“And me?”

I turn my head and walk on. Much faster then before.

“Got to get to my friends now!”

The bell rings. We go to class, only to face more mysteriously withdrawn characters. Only, they sit at bigger desks. They are less approachable.

Yet, they have lives, too.

Some of them.

After school they climb into their cars and drive off.

But I’ll see them again tomorrow… perfectly veneered.

“And me?”

Well, I only have to see them for a few more months. What’s more, I have my own veneer to polish.

And yet, when I go home (to my comfort zone), put on my music and stare out over the hilltops and see the ‘sophisticated’ human anthill from my mansion in ‘Florida Hills’… it hurts…

Because I wonder how much I actually care.

“Not much,” I say and pick up a magazine on the glass-topped coffee table.

“So?” I think.

“Who cares anyway?”

Waking Up, But Not Really…

As the world spins, grows

and dies

I’m too absorbed in petty problems

constant apathy

an unhappy soul

to feel anything

I’m the embodiment

of a wasted existence

I notice nothing outside

my car or bank balance

and know no other way

I haven’t heard music

for such a long time

but it’s time for work

another day’s here

and these waking thoughts

will soon be crushed

under the terrifyingly simple

thoughtless thoughts.

A Symbol

Colors and depths, shape

Responding to my gaze

Or not

Ignoring the weight I put on them

Because they are not real

A window

A door

A comparison

A symbol

Watching me as if they had divine right

They tell all my secrets

If I cannot sleep

Then I cannot lie

As touch meets touch

So too does look meet with liquid reflection

A three-point star of onlookers

Who observe silently

Cloudy with a foreign intake

The salt tears that escape

And sometimes an inner light which shines them forward

The eyes become a vision.

Why Distractions Exist…

Once the sex stops

and the last bus has gone

you start to wonder again

and all you know

is that you don’t know

a damn thing

the cigarettes are gone

and there aren’t any distractions

to take your mind off the hurt

I hurt

but no matter how much I bleed

I still am myself

so what can I do?

I don’t want what I have

and have no means to get what I want

I’m lost at home

and full of emptiness

I can’t comprehend

a person called me.

Mirror Dance

Be what they want to see,

mirror their desire.

Don’t try to be

what you hope and dream;

it can’t happen

in this mirror dance.

Be what they expect,

mirror their thought.

Don’t try to do

the things you dream to do;

it will never happen

in this mirror dance.


The steps have been written,

the music taught.

There isn’t room for anything

that might be yours alone.


Be what they want to see,

mirror their desire.

Don’t try to be what you hope and dream;

it can’t happen

in this mirror dance.


Learn the steps swiftly.

Pray you do not fall,

for the music plays on;

the deadly music

of life’s mirror dance.