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‘miracles’

“Magic is the Highest, most Absolute, and most Divine Knowledge of Natural Philosophy, advanced in its works and wonderful operations by a right understanding of the inward and occult virtue of things; so that true Agents being applied to proper Patients, strange and admirable effects will thereby be produced. Whence magicians are profound and diligent searchers into Nature; they, because of their skill, know how to anticipate an effect, the which to the vulgar shall seem to be a miracle.” – The Goetia of the Lemegeton of King Solomon

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an afrikaans poem

Little Prince

 

daardie dag toe ek hom gesien

mik het vir die hek was die stad

wyd oop soos kake en sy klein

liggaam ‘n kwesbare bokkie oor

die rugbyveld onder die bome deur

 

en vir ‘n oomblik was alles net stil.

‘n spartelende swart voëltjie wat

rigting verloor het in die baai se wind

en dalk nooit weer sou terugdraai

om by my op die trap te kom sit

 

ek wou hom leer wat die wêreld is,

ek is mos nie sy ma nie; sy god nie

maar toe hy hek toe waai wou ek net keer

dat die strate hom vang; sy veiligheid skielik

‘n verlammende begeerte in my bors

terwyl ek magteloos gewag het

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happy mothers day

 

On Friday I attended a mothers day show my little one had at school, for us mommies.

Their teacher said “now turn to your mommies and sing this song while you look into her eyes” and she sang so, so sweet, my eyes welled up with tears.

There is no love, NO LOVE, like the love I feel for my girls.

No man, no cock, no drugs, no nothing can make my heart feel like motherhood can.  No purpose exist, for me, greater than this purpose.

I am so grateful.

photo me with Cyan, november 2015.

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purple ribbon

Pers Lint

 

Met knoop nommer een: van klippe en been

Knoop nommer twee: die branders, die see

Die middel knoop: ‘n vlam maak oop

Vier: winde wat waai van daar tot hier

Vyf: die son en die maanlig binne-in my lyf

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time

Metronoom

 

ek wonder of die lewe vinniger beweeg

wanneer ons harte vinniger klop

of gebeur dinge altyd teen dieselfde spoed

selfs al wens ons vir ooblikke saam wat nooit ooit

stop.

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posbus

Posbus

 

sy skryf briewe en seël die koevert

met donker rooi warm was

en in die was maak sy afdrukke

van haar mond haar brand haar

harde kont, die regterduim, haar nipple

 

sy vryf parfuum op, die koevert teen haar nek

en soen die brief voor sy ‘n adres opskryf

wat sy nou al uit haar kop kan sê.

 

Só connect sy met daai brief

 

soos ek en jy connect het, ‘n merry teenage camp

onthou jy, love at first fondle, ‘n real deal

ek’s mos meant for you

 

sy dink eers die brief het verlore geraak in die pos

totdat sy, soos ek, besef het daar was no reply

en haar hourly trips posbus toe was ‘n

moerse mors van tyd

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letters

I’ve been fascinated by the tension between the private and the public for a very long time. That curve, that edge where you say what you shouldn’t or not say what you should.

My new performance is about letters and how the written text transgresses to a possible outcome once it’s contained within the boundaries of the envelope. The envelope: thin piece of paper but a wall between here and disaster, or here and the sublime….

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lil-lets

Lil-lets
(Maiden, Mother, Crone)

soms is ‘n volmaan
‘n bitter pil om te sluk
rooilip-morestond lil-lets
as die winde plukpluk
en hormone waai soos blare

angstige vrugte raak sag
my liggaam, my vieslike
velligheid wat soek en leegloop
en uitloop, eventually, soos
fokken Days of our Lives
like sand through the hourglass

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poetry

It’s so hard for me putting my poetry out there. I have no issues with putting my art out there, but poetry! I fear those eyes on my words: so clumsy they are and so raw.

Here is one of my poems in Afrikaans, I’ll slowly put them out there.

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vir Armanda

Venus, jou mooi-dy, jou kurwe-vallei
rooigrond vrugte juwele van jou wande
openblou blouer die blouste mooi berge

ons staan hier op die hoogste kop
(ek en Armanda, net 10 jaar oud,
die kamera swaar in haar hand)

ma poseer verloor haar klere
lense maak oop en die berge blaf
sonmantels dek die ma-lyf se lyne

sy praat met skedelbok
sweef jy nog hier rond?
sy lê op die klippe en proe aan die water
sy loop in die aarde en sluk baie son

Luister! kind van net net 10
hoor die damwal se Druising!
Godswater oor Akker-krag
die Bokke, Bojane, die Bosbok
die Spekboom, die Loeries!

en luister vir Sarah se mooi-dy, kurwe vallei
hoor haar stiltekrag dreunend agter mure
klanke van vrou verdwyn in skakerings
soos haar wye liggaam strek oor duisende myle

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fresh tides

“She arches her body like a cat on a stretch. She nuzzles her cunt into my face like a filly at the gate. She smells of the sea. She smells of rockpools when I was a child. She keeps a starfish in there. I crouch down to taste the salt, to run my fingers around the rim. She opens and shuts like a sea anemone. She’s refilled each day with fresh tides of longing.”

– Jeanette Winterson, ‘Written on the Body’

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want, by gretchen marquette

When I was twelve, I wanted a macaw
but they cost hundreds of dollars.
If we win the lottery? I asked.
Macaws weren’t known to be great talkers,
but they were affectionate.
Yes, my mother said. If we win the lottery.
I was satisfied, so long as it wasn’t impossible.
The macaw would be blue.
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hello (me dreams)

So I’ve got some big problems. And ‘on the side’ of all of these problems I teach full time and study part time. I’m so fucking fed up with this race for survival. Today is Saturday. Today I send the girls downstairs to play and I perve on art and blogs and I drink wine and smoke a zol and dance to Ellie Goulding’s Burn and I lock myself in my room and I just am. Full of Flaws. And aches and hungers and pains and pleasures and punctured dreams and all of that shit, you know? If only you knew how lonely I am right now. And I kinda wish you could give me a call and we can play our escape game “one more time”. Even though I know it’s just as fleeting as my wine and my zol, and just as deflated and long gone as all me dreams…

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09/12/09

Found this old message in an old, almost frozen webpage of mine.

Written to me 22 days before Gabrielle’s stillbirth. So strange. it’s from someone I then considered a friend.

“hey – you’ve disappeared? i had a sudden concern about you tonight and tried to mail but your address isn’t functional and yr blog is gone and yr not on facebook…are you buried in a cave in a mountain? or worse?”