The Customary Things We Do

Is it not fallacious

To call

That which causes

So much pain

And spills

So many tears

By one word?


This sacred ceremony for the fallen.

Unforgiving to the living.

A pair of constricted pupils

A ballistic limbic system

And a face of familiar agony.

A heterogeneous hurt

In rows of plastic chairs

Overlooking a wooden coffin.

And asking

Why this?

Why him?

Why now?

Dear God why me?

And the dead,

Burdening us with his absence,



His asking days are over.

A Wanted Pickle

A desperate hand straight out of the water,

The sound of a hound in hunting season.

Flotsam as it reaches the top of a wave.

A bend at the end of the forest,

A glint on the surface of a sharpened knife.

Anticipating ants underneath an officer’s donut.

The devout rubs his trout and mumbles in Latin aloud.


The look on the face of an expectant father to be

Impatiently pacing in the waiting room.

Or the grim grin on the face of a fisherman

Who has just got his grip on a fish.

Or the brisk breathing of a burglar

With his hands on someone else’s jewels.

Or the pleas of a rubber lover

Begging for an umpteenth chance.


A prism that refracts our thoughts,

Directing one’s mind.

Blinding and

Numbing them to reality.

The black of a broken bulb.

Light a candle in a dark room

And see how our focus shifts.

The Thoughts of a Small Fry

A speck of dust on a dirty window.

Insignificant blebs bobbing

Part of someone’s uneven skin.

Pay him no heed

A trifling, rifling through life,

A burden that has no place on their back,

Hanged on the gallows and beheaded by a guillotine.

Who cares though?

Certainly not them.

More importantly, who cares who cares?


Feelings are chemicals

Yet they ensnare us more than a bear trap.

My human brain tells my human mouth to say the most inhuman things.

The rustling of a remorseful man on his deathbed

So much left unsaid

No matter,

For it is as the Africans say,

One day, the charcoal seller’s son will wear a white shirt and smile.


That day has yet to arrive.

Close Your Eyes and Beg

A massacred mind on a morose night.

Never short of a few snapshots

Or indeed some sounds shoehorned in there somewhere.

Polluted by the bombardment of a long day.

Insisting on persisting even when asked to desist,

Who could ever control their thoughts though?

Not me.


Eyes earnestly closed.

An insane attempt to look into his own brain.

Entrapped in the black depths of insomnia

Let me go please

He begged

I need to sleep

The little fawn fidgeted until dawn.

Who needs sleep anyway?