Jeu de politique

I read a newspaper and it was not good
That my dear is called a euphamism
Where it sounds better than it should
But the pain is still sharp paroxysm
There are boffins that talk in jargon
In flights of fancy and serial planning
As our precious time just goes to jog on
And we are all left empty, standing
Some take their fury, rage grasped in fist
And pound the streets in purest hope
Yet it goes, not might as well be, missed
So they return to their papers and mope
And some call it quits and hold back
They say the vote’s old pot and whatnot
But they still complain and sadly attack
And marvel at what they’ve not forgot
The story’s old, the excuses all the same
Like the elections they come and go
Maybe they stay and just change name
But regardless, they stay or go so slow
While pale men are made to rubricate
At the tosh upon a soapbox stand
Where words are used to masterbate
With lies, money and cock in hand
That throw dice and promises merrily
More loaded than interview silence
And turn a town to a round of monopoly
And call it good work’s recompense
In a game with players oh so feeble
And with so many risks, such high stakes
When you cannot choose the people
It’s no wonder we’re ruled by snakes



It’s discomfort
Bursting into flames
Plants creep
And ashes ashame
These windy maps
Patience attacks
Amazed still dazed
Rings of Saturn
Circle celestials daft
And hollowly return
Remade in dust
The Columbine
Spinning hell out
In bullets sublime
For Saints unframed
In Draconian rust
Their disagreed flesh
Carved in yes
As needs must
And musts earn
The researched earth
In skin abetted
By back seat sex fetid
Like candy pill marriage
Bound bright in liberty
As the waiting chose
Against promises lost
To traverse the last
Unusual pause found in
The raging torrents
Of cobalt water blue
That you left alive
And the reflections
That tell you survive
For the stars are nothing
But the fictions of heaven

Orchids will bloom loneliest

The dispassionate conjectures about being fine
Unrelent the decay of botanical space; empty time
With globes tossed, a disregard, reckless in it’s gravity
That pulls on floods: to preserved angelic singularity
Which is found in the impression of all things
The shadow that haunts, of more rosy beings
But no body lied so no body would be home
So the swallows swoop and the ravens will roam
It’s this paradox of what marks and is marked
Inner workings of clumsy clock hands forgot
They have been brought here and sit and are about
Paths that end in questions that answer in doubt
So this is the heart of the world; ungolden and grey
And thinks me, my heart, we cannot dare stay

“A half-finished book is, after all, a half finished love affair”

Hello bambinos

Let’s continue our trek du greatness off the title of the last post – The Book was Better. The classic debate by those enchanted by the silver screens or creamy pages, and those without much else to talk about.

The book usually is better; but why? I have a couple of ideas on this. The easiest is we all think we are better than Douglas Aibel and James Liggat. We make the perfect cast; we have no budget limit to stars we recruit to populate our pages. They needn’t be alive; they needn’t be famous. They needn’t be not you. So when we see that Ian McKellan was playing Gandalf, then we either love or hate Amy Hubbard – whether we consciously know her or not.

Next off – my red will be your red, but commonalities in descriptors leave out personal connotations and individual perspectives. Also, there is the processing of abstract images. We saturate each glance with our lifetime of experience and meaning – so naturally we will respond well to what we make. To illustrate this, I took one of my favoruite passages of text and had some draw what they thought while reading the text.


We build cinematography with the most intimate knowledge of our target audience, ourselves. We are the best possible marketers – we know what we will like and the world of a book (writer’s skill permitting) allows us to tailor make what we will.


There are moments when cinema does trump though. The lending of alternative perspective and the otherness afforded by another’s interpretation. The ability to bend the boundaries of where our own thoughts end and the world of the camera begins. Or the book just generally wasn’t great and there was a talented screenplay writer.


The latter was definitely true of both ‘The Prestige’ and ‘The box’ – two Sci-Fi stories that were as lifeless as the paged on which they were written. However, on the screen, the gained depth, magic and my approval.


Another up for the movies is the fact that we did not make it. We are exposed to new colours, faces we don’t know, sounds we haven’t heard – all with the ability to push us and challenge us. A description of Singaporian architecture won’t compare to a picture of it if I have no reference for what is being described. Perhaps then, a book – a truly great book – is limited only by the reader. Both film and literature are experiential, and experience constructs the way we grapple with the work. Allusion dies if it’s origin is not traced; metaphors falter as their subjects sit out of reach and meaning dies when it means nothing to us.


We invest so much of ourselves in decent works; why? Escapism? Maybe. Fascination? Possibly. Reflection? Familiarity? My roommate has a charming reason for why we enjoy reading fiction – “We gain the quasi-experience that we couldn’t gain elsewhere”.


One thing I find heart shattering is that sense of an ending, which ironically enough I felt for the first time in Julian Barnes’ ‘The Sense of an Ending’. We can be left fulfilled, thrilled and wanting more. Do the characters exist beyond the last page? Obviously not. But they didn’t exist at all, so it doesn’t matter.


The ending of a book is a destructive act – the lives we spent so much time meticulously unwinding now burst into flames and we get burnt. What I call Reader’s Remorse is quite awful – not wanting to start the next book because we haven’t got over the last one. They are like relationships. You are in love; you break up, lick your wounds and slowly move on. Maybe this is just my sentimentality. It’s not every book, but it’s what sets a book above the rest.


Until next time, I remain yours humbly; A reader; a filmy; a romantic; A Spectator


The Book was Better

Blank page dedications awaiting quotes
And lazily idle eyes drifting like boats
The turn of pages, so impatiently
The end of elipsis – indefinitely…
I’ll find swords to believe on both edge
And run paradoxes overhung; overhead
To them I cling – faithful frayed ends
That hold me up and give me the bends
It’s the random assemblage of lines
That builds space that diction defines
I long for life of paper – black and white
Unromantic, most romantic poetry trite
These are dreams I’ll hold aloud;
I’ll have an orchestra fade me out

There is no Burger like a Joburger

I don’t know how much I like Johannesburg. I think it’s a bit like being locked in a cupboard. At first, it feels very restrictive. Then, you learn how to sit just right and it’s not too bad. You find your groove. Then, you realise you are in fact locked in a cupboard and it goes back to the world of tedium.

.Red, dead and up

Stolen words

Bar the cupboard metaphor, it is quite a beautiful city. Repulsive, but with beauty. It puts the do and Go in Sodom and Gomorrah.



I got the chance to show some weary friends that had spent almost a month traveling from Tanzania to Joburg on public transport this city that is my home town glory.




It was quite a ton of fun. Even if they may have been too tired to enjoy it; my dog Jasper had a good time. And so did I.



Until next time, I remain yours humbly; A site see-er, A Joburger; A Spectator