u/rogu3b0t1313

It is patience itself.
Ectothermic underneath
The wet press of leaves it whispers
A river through mud.

The crepitant spine winces, bends
A pale musculature backwards.
Splays open a bow
Strung with fishing gut
And bone. White belly scales
Flash nakedly, opening eyes to
A lidless iridescence
Somehow still secret
From the world above.

You can smell the reptile,
Triassic beneath
The sweet-milk of white flesh,
The film of its egg over wet gums,
The moon-ivory teeth.

Its too-cold blood burning,
Dry ice. The fevered flickering
Of the forked tongue
Feeling the air, seeking
Out the hot-blooded vitality
Of a hare, say. Fur wet
From the rain and long grass,
Its heart a fluttering wound.

Swallows it whole
With the morning sun.

It dreams it moves
And moves, it is both dream
And cruel awakening.
Its strike takes only
That which was its before time
Was theirs, or the world was theirs.

Swims black over
White belly, Sovereign.
The mind opal, the eye opaque
As the skull of a mouse. Hollow,
The smooth rub over bone,

As silent as the moon
Over primeval green.

Al lê die berge al so blou…

To me he was a red coal drifting, laconic
in the Phalaborwa summer dark. Blue smoke
coiling in the night air, cooling the sunbaked
tarmac and dirt. He was endless stories
of game-rangers and animals and the Anglo Boer war.
A fridge door opening to cold cuts, or
the window to the scent of tobacco or mango
leaves and the far-off baying of hyenas
or the occasional lion in a wild—his
bushveld, kept only a stone-throw away.

Al die nooiens…

He trained me to hear them over bats and crickets
as we orbited the saltwater pool he so proudly
maintained—the Lowveld’s alkalinity be damned,
or its surface being undisturbed but for the birds
for eleven out of twelve months a year. While,
with patience, he taught me my constellations
with a hand already trembling. His wizened and
unruly brows furrowed in his sacred task, teaching
his only daughter’s only son everything he knows.
Of crystal radios and machining, of faith, women
and being.

Sal vir van Aswegen onthou…

His arteries hardened quietly and he died
back in 2013, his ashes now the Bush and
the Kruger National, baked into the clay of it.
The dry wind still carrying the sound of lions
all the way from way back then.

And while I don't know about the nooiens,
I know I’ll remember him.

When my sister and I were called to ^((the crushing heel of))
the foot of my grandmother’s deathbed for the third time,
we knew we would not be called again

and were grateful for it.

We didn’t bury her next to my mother ^((dust on broken plastic flower domes))
like she asked us to but cremated her instead,
agreeing that not having a grave might be kinder than
never getting any visitors.

They don’t tell you this, but you’re supposed to choose
the clothes that her body ^((with temple fallen backwards)
^(over collapsed neck, her God forgotten there)) would wear,
and my sister suggested this one sweater she liked,
to which I replied that it might be too warm.

We both laughed at that and swallowed the lump
^((that used to be her)) whole.

It tasted like eighty-six years compressed into ash
and plastic. On the other side ^((of the body and out of reach))
of indignity, at least.

A name on the tip of a tongue, unmoving.

Or perhaps I should become a bird
and peck for seeds and worms in dirt
and, in intervals, return to shrub or tree—
dutifully—to preen my feathers and sleep
dreamlessly. My days metered in the urgency
of the ritual business of menial being.
Allowing nothing between my bird ears
and eyes but that which would sustain me.

And in doing this, perhaps I can find some
truer peace or purpose swallowed in
some swollen worm, or pick its seeds
from dried stalks, gleaming in the midday sun.
So it may gestate in my gullet or gut
and there gestate quietly, my peace and purpose
planted with my hollow bones,
and swallowed by worms again.

Or perhaps I should become a bird
and peck for seeds and worms in dirt
and, in intervals, return to shrub or tree—
dutifully—to preen my feathers and sleep
dreamlessly. My days metered in the urgency
of the ritual business of menial being.
Allowing nothing between my bird ears
and eyes but that which would sustain me.

And in doing this, perhaps I can find some
truer peace or purpose swallowed in
some swollen worm, or pick its seeds
from dried stalks, gleaming in the midday sun.
So it may gestate in my gullet or gut
and there gestate quietly, my peace and purpose
planted with my hollow bones,
and swallowed by worms again.

Galaxies swirled inside that cracked skull,
the yolk of its egg running over the body,
right down to the tarmac, warm underneath
the softs of cold feet, still standing.

As the last of his flickering stars petered out,
a white film cooked over black and yellow.
The future entire had congealed into a blood clot,
and the universe into an old man,

dead in the driveway before 10am.

Galaxies swirled inside that cracked skull,
the yolk of its egg running over the body,
right down to the tarmac, warm underneath
the softs of cold feet, still standing.

As the last of his flickering stars petered out,
a white film cooked over black and yellow.
The future entire had congealed into a blood clot,
and the universe into an old man,

dead in the driveway before 10am.

Galaxies swirled inside that cracked skull,
the yolk of its egg running over the body,
right down to the tarmac, warm underneath
the softs of cold feet, still standing.

As the last of his flickering stars petered out,
a white film cooked over black and yellow.
The future entire had congealed into a blood clot,
and the universe into an old man,

dead in the driveway before 10am.

I wake, my mind empty of anything
but you. Your untattooed body tattooed
to me, an emblazoned star burning
in the east, and in-between my eyes.
My every-morning, my every-evening.

My every-thought turned to you, echoing
within my hollowed skull, shouldering
through weekdays and things I used to
find important or something, something
other than the summit that I—through you

am now compelled to. To proffer myself
in cordycepian offering on your altar,
high among my drying leaves. To find
in my annihilation, my way to you unfolding
through stromata and strange deeds.

Knowing that you are already
my every-thought, my every-need,
my everything. Your hyphae buried
in the heart of me, your mycelium flowering
from my hollowed head.

I wake, my mind empty of anything
but you. Your untattooed body tattooed
to me, an emblazoned star burning
in the east, and in-between my eyes.
My every-morning, my every-evening.

My every-thought turned to you, echoing
within my hollowed skull, shouldering
through weekdays and things I used to
find important or something, something
other than the summit that I—through you

am now compelled to. To proffer myself
in cordycepian offering on your altar,
high among my drying leaves. To find
in my annihilation, my way to you unfolding
through stromata and strange deeds.

Knowing that you are already
my every-thought, my every-need,
my everything. Your hyphae buried
in the heart of me, your mycelium flowering
from my hollowed head.

I wake, my mind empty of anything
but you. Your untattooed body tattooed
to me, an emblazoned star burning
in the east, and in-between my eyes.
My every-morning, my every-evening.

My every-thought turned to you, echoing
within my hollowed skull, shouldering
through weekdays and things I used to
find important or something, something
other than the summit that I—through you—

am now compelled to. To proffer myself
in cordycepian offering on your altar,
high among my drying leaves. To find
in my annihilation, my way to you unfolding
through stromata and strange deeds.

Knowing that you are already
my every-thought, my every-need,
my everything. Your hyphae buried
in the heart of me, your mycelium flowering
from my hollowed head.

I burn holes into my days
with cigarettes, hanging
from fingers straining at deftness
over letterless keys.

Punching words into liquid crystal
while exhaling ribbons of blue
to fetter to thought and carry
my quiet defeats,

cupped pathetically
in my outstretched palm.
My second-hand smoke,
but dressed in quatrains,

in Times New Roman, 12-point,
single-spaced. And costumed
in codas that resolve quietly,
but without end.

Again, I light my cigarette
with the nip of another.

The blank page, an off-white tinnitus,
screams a fever pitch above
the frequencies entertained by dog or man.

It seems a stone wall, sheer and forced forward
into my forehead. I beat it bloody,
churning thought to the collapsed ruin of a rotted fruit
or a clutch of hollow boned newborn birds—
their bulging eyeballs, purple-lidded, pressed to
and straining veined paper skin, decomposing

in my fists like so much clay, refusing to surrender
the comfortable dark, or permeate where sits the stone.
Deaf and dumb and in defiance of flailing limbs,
the neck’s frantic torquing when pressed
against the block of the sodden skull’s
fruitless solidity. Its utter stupidity.

Still, seeking the fragility of creation’s ruin,
its hatchlings dashed against the page’s
merciless density, its cruel there-ness,
I dry-heave my want and find only unfledged bodies
overturned and thudding dully into heaps
of wet compost, crawling upwards and folding

into nothing. Nothing
but my fragmented skull and brain matter
clotted in my mesh-wire bin.

The blank page, an off-white tinnitus,
screams a fever pitch above
the frequencies entertained by dog or man.

It seems a stone wall, sheer and forced forward
into my forehead. I beat it bloody,
churning thought to the collapsed ruin of a rotted fruit
or a clutch of hollow boned newborn birds—
their bulging eyeballs, purple-lidded, pressed to
and straining veined paper skin, decomposing

in my fists like so much clay, refusing to surrender
the comfortable dark, or permeate where sits the stone.
Deaf and dumb and in defiance of flailing limbs,
the neck’s frantic torquing when pressed
against the block of the sodden skull’s
fruitless solidity. Its utter stupidity.

Still, seeking the fragility of creation’s ruin,
its hatchlings dashed against the page’s
merciless density, its cruel there-ness,
I dry-heave my want and find only unfledged bodies
overturned and thudding dully into heaps
of wet compost, crawling upwards and folding

into nothing. Nothing
but my fragmented skull and brain matter
clotted in my mesh-wire bin.

The blank page, an off-white tinnitus,
screams a fever pitch above
the frequencies entertained by dog or man.

It seems a stone wall, sheer and forced forward
into my forehead. I beat it bloody,
churning thought to the collapsed ruin of a rotted fruit
or a clutch of hollow boned newborn birds—
their bulging eyeballs, purple-lidded, pressed to
and straining veined paper skin, decomposing

in my fists like so much clay, refusing to surrender
the comfortable dark, or permeate where sits the stone.
Deaf and dumb and in defiance of flailing limbs,
the neck’s frantic torquing when pressed
against the block of the sodden skull’s
fruitless solidity. Its utter stupidity.

Still, seeking the fragility of creation’s ruin,
its hatchlings dashed against the page’s
merciless density, its cruel there-ness,
I dry-heave my want and find only unfledged bodies
overturned and thudding dully into heaps
of wet compost, crawling upwards and folding

into nothing. Nothing
but my fragmented skull and brain matter
clotted in my mesh-wire bin.

The blank page, an off-white tinnitus,
screams a fever pitch above the frequencies
entertained by dog or man.

It seems a wall, sheer and forced forward
and into my forehead. I let it go and beat it bloody,
churning thought to the collapsed ruin of a rotted fruit
or a clutch of hollow boned baby birds—
their bulging eyeballs, purple-lidded, pressed to
and straining blue-veined papered skin.

Pulling at clay that refuses to surrender
the comfortable dark, sits a stone, deaf and dumb
and in defiance of flailing limbs
and the neck’s frantic torquing when pressed
against the block of the sodden skull’s
fruitless solidity. Its utter stupidity.

Still, seeking the fragility of creation’s ruin,
its hatchlings dashed against the page’s
merciless density, its cruel there-ness,
I dry-heave my want, finding only overturned bodies
thudding dully into heaps of wet compost, crawling
upwards and folding in and nothing. Nothing

but my fragmented skull and brain matter
crumpled in my mesh-wire bin.

The blank page, an off-white tinnitus,
screams a fever pitch above the frequencies
entertained by dog or man.

It seems a wall, sheer and forced forward
and into my forehead. I let it go and beat it bloody,
churning thought to the collapsed ruin of a rotted fruit
or a clutch of hollow boned baby birds—
their bulging eyeballs, purple-lidded, pressed to
and straining blue-veined papered skin.

Pulling at clay that refuses to surrender
the comfortable dark, sits a stone, deaf and dumb
and in defiance of flailing limbs
and the neck’s frantic torquing when pressed
against the block of the sodden skull’s
fruitless solidity. Its utter stupidity.

Still, seeking the fragility of creation’s ruin,
its hatchlings dashed against the page’s
merciless density, its cruel there-ness,
I dry-heave my want, finding only overturned bodies
thudding dully into heaps of wet compost, crawling
upwards and folding in and nothing. Nothing

but my fragmented skull and brain matter
crumpled in my mesh-wire bin.

^(i)) A National Geographic I unearthed
while moving ran a feature
on the temple of Abu Simbel,
back in 2016 (or something).

^(ii)) Its colossi, flat-palmed and vacant,
scarred and gleaming in my kitchen’s
low-light fluorescent glow, adorned
the cover, which I turned and learned

^(iii)) about how they sawed it all by hand,
and numbered every stone, as if again
by Ozymandias’ command.
And moved it right above the edge

^(iv)) of the flooded Nile—turned Nasser,
held as if in Jackal’s jaw, levelled
at the dead king’s throat. Born again,
ancient earthquake wounds and all,

^(v)) to continue swallowing the Sun
into its bowels and feel its kiss warming
the fossilized clay of the Gods
it houses—still dead within,

^(vi)) as it warms the sandstone of my own
Abu Simbel, catching sunlight trickling
through magazine gloss glare.
My reflection, cut and numbered too.

^(vii)) My Duat flooded, my dismembered self,
remembered
block by numbered block
above my Nile’s newborn edge.