Cape Nostalgia

Her soprano to my strum
Under stars on someone’s patio.
Sea-breezed highway rides
Stapled to his waist.
Honey-infused coffee, twice
At Dolce: 9 am.
Dozing to her heartbeat
Having conquered paradise.
Carpet, fire, popcorn, blankets
As rains rage outside.
All shapes and neon colours
running the city at night.
Brownies on my backyard-floor,
Just because we could.
Tablecloth like sugar-coating,
Or like smoke.
Giggly, tipsy, and best cheesecake in the world.
Twerking, jumping, sweating,
Hair sticking to hot heads.
Walking home and feeling safe;
And feeling it still.

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Keeper’s Haiku

Like the red pencil

That’s carried around always,

Easily erased.

 

Like the old pencil

That you still have in your bag

Blunt, but not broken.

 

Inconsiderable,

Never jeopardizing space,

Don’t dispose of me.

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Trust

I was still wearing

Your necklace. The whole

Golden weight of trust

Dangling against my

Collar bone, as he

Grabbed me at my waist.

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Cape Winters

Capetonian winters are orange at night.

When I wake up in the middle

Of an unsettling dream.

Capetonian winters seem orange at night.

For weeks now I counted the stars

From my bed’s safest spot.

 

The wind is disguised as thunder these days

And it’s the city lights, I think,

All mingling with the mist,

Which make Capetonian winters look orange

At night, when I make space for you,

In my bed’s safest spot.

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Dear friend,

Five thousand miles or more away, I think you’ll never know, how much you changed perspectives; back when you said, my physical desire was almost like a superpower.

Yours, F

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Formalities

Every Wednesday,

I intersect

their gathering

at 8 am,

Immediately

Before I cross

The urine-drenched

Corner guiding

Me to Main Road.

All blue and white

And tidied up

They counteract

The uniforms

With weed, booze and

Kendrick Lamar.

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Mother City Haiku

Each morning, I wait

Behind my two iron gates,

Like a caged-up bird.

 

When I step outside

The sunlight keeps telling me

I am a template.

 

Locking doors, I think

How fences seem offensive,

Almost violent.

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20.32: same place

Four hands intermingle besides

Two empty bottles of

One inch old coke.

 

Lit candles sometimes pierce the room,

Filled with the ardent steam

That is my breath.

 

I smell my henna-coloured hair,

Like dry earth in the sun.

I don’t like it.

 

Still, I lean over in my chair

To un-hide from behind

The marble shafts.

 

I think how I could write a note

With something loveable

To say to you.

 

I’d hand it over when I pass,

Sweet dreams are on replay.

Like my heartbeat.

 

I swallow the last luke-warm sip

And slide into my bath

Of narcissism.

 

Perhaps you’re peering at me, too.

It’s easy to think that,

In tungsten light.

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