poetry, Prose, Reviews

fences

Inspired by the 2016 film Fences (click here)
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spin the ball with me…hold that leather skull in your hand it’s just baseball

it could be rocket science ingredients leaping from tube to tube with the fear of fire and the desire to turn into something cold and remembered

in baseball folks are running from plate to plate sometimes you miss the ball like it’s a force you can’t see…an idea you can’t free…a divorce in your head maybe

an old man is out building a fence…he buys sturdy wood…he wears a smile and a stare that crawls into your bones

he churns up the naked loam with an old spade…his hands cling to the wooden neck the same way a jaded man fondles a bottle of something strong enough to wash emotions away

“one day I’ll finish this damn thing” he tells himself…earth, sweat and spray rinse dense memories he cannot leave behind unless he presses his lips to the gentle kiss of a gin bottle

old, polished, strong to the taste just like a boy he remembers and the man he forgets

 

 

PhilosopherPoet

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Prose

Into the Bricks

(This piece was published in the South African poetry journal, Fidelities)

She was a grey blur. She hung around floating on feeling, the feeling of falling. She undid her top button with a pumping finger. She held on to that button, simple as a nipple. Simple as life.

I looked from my slow, hooked part of existence. My eyes bent into her heavy head. It sunk her face into the bricks, into the place where she lived.

She was alive for those moments, breathing in a massive world too small for her finger. I made a gesture (a snorted puff thrown away). The existence of my own hands clung on too few things.

I fell through the hole in her head. Her eyes made a gap, peering through the cloud that clung. It was then,

She sniffed

She blinked.

And every part of me moved. I sang in a gathered silence too strong for me. I felt my way through the folds in the shroud. The crowded corner picked me up with her, into the cloud with bricks and things. It worked like…a…clock…worked, too little. Too little split up time.

I thought I saw a smile. No. A slipped grimace falling through the arch she held in her hands. It was something humane, something nostalgic as the earth. It bred and rose in half.

I walked past and cried, because moans mean more to me than the feet of sleep. I felt like a dream that wakes up in a whiplash of emotion. I slept as solid as my bones, and the folded smell of sleeves.

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