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(stay stubborn, questioning and irrespectable. desire a revolution of some sort. even a tiny, little one.)

Jozi

egoli swallows, we claim but die. he vomits us into seas that swallow & vomit us into distant lands. lands that unfreed our ancestors and shackle their descendants. lands that demand that we speak imperial. englishness swelling up, taking up spaces that our souls occupied. before. a year and three attempted suicides later, i […]

untitled

what happens to souls that die lonely? do they wrap themselves up in brokenness; soar into the skies; like contrails left by passing planes mix with clouds, unnoticed? what becomes of the soles of feet that have walked miles of lonely; thirsted for waters of unwanted love and lust? what names are conjured […]

Attn: The Vice God who tweeted Binya

I have been carrying you on my mind for a few days now so I thought I’d check on you. Tell me, how are you doing since your first tweet? Did your mother get well or is she still in hospital? In what ward is she so we may visit? How are the nurses […]

erections are exercises in futility (after Adrian Onyando)

what shall we call the wall we erect to defend ourselves? & how high shall it be? & under whose phallus shall the wall fall? whose shame will this wall carry when ten times, ten & forty seven souls can no longer be appeased by thoughts sent between a collective blaming & reflex prayers? “walls of […]

tell me what about yourself you hate so i may know what not to love, tomorrow.

retitled

(how else should i say this?) her brokenness has mastered mine —overwhelmed by feelings of mutual twathood— inviting us to staring contests at insomnia o’clock. his dictaphone has a single message: “i can’t fix you; I’ll carry you”. (does anyone else know this is happening? probably not.)

Scene II (for binyavanga)

in outerspace this morning sat a bird on my headboard twittering in a language they call love. (binya, if love were an act, what would it look like?) suppose love were a verb that does, and outerspace a place would you get into this steel pipe […]

(after witchboy)

we sit in bars waiting for time. speaking in a foreign language they call normative because it is no longer safe to be here. (a lover waits for death, across the other side) Also: there’s nothing left once the imaginary apocalypse is no longer a reflection of time and taty has since […]

surplus letters from the alphabet (for binyavanga)

but i wanted to first tell you about the invention of the pinched nerve by gods who can’t do prose. (now i have a different idea).