Floating ships

If this world was a ship race, then I
Would stare dolefully as the rest floated
Calmly past, towards certain generally expected
Should haves, as I lag here
Thank goodness the world is round, and even though
We all converge on the same ports, beyond, we each have
Different tides, tempests, calms, storms and undiscovered islands,
So no, sweety, you are a ship with a Sail
Let the Wind guide you

Time and Love are at times the most bosom bedfellows

Time, is an interesting creation of our createdness,
and what I find most fascinating about her is simply
the more I require of her bounty to lavish another with,
translates into more bounty in the requirement lavished
Astonishing

Matter

Her first love, it was murmured
I cringed in aptworthiness
You are, yes are, my first

Firsts are forever present
In childish flirtation and blind exploration
Then the firm glorious sensation of, we are real

And cascading, the understanding, you make me feel
I make you be, it even came to that hurtling pressure
Point where you only made me together,

And those nights where I held your ailing hand
Through nursing wounds I fel pleasure and
Fascination at my presence in your strength

It is love, no doubt that keeps one's heart churning
To the rhythm of even regressive suicide
And smiling in pride at the source

So this is twisting my own flesh, searing my own ecstasy
To look into your irresistible vision
And break, shatter, scatter

Shivering, hearing, yet unresponsive
This path enshrouds towards
Solace, regret, matter

Cyculation

I worked it out of course
Even if all the privileged, spoilt, carefree people
Like you and I and Jack and Jim
Worked 24/7, All of us, all the time,
It's not enough
Our lives will be toiling, shovelling
Grumbling, and it would still be less
And so we could just turn around,
or We could read the fine print,
And see it stated, one is all you need.
That's all that's asked. One.
So now you have no excuse
Stay. Hurt. Believe.

What are we doing, God?

Quietly at the back of my class,
He sat, I never spoke to
The boy who shared that same space,
All those years, that same "Muslim" space
Whereafter he moved on, looking for work,
And his mother died and he was alone,
With himself and himself and the alcohol
And then the dagga and himself and the hunger
And just the person who sat at the back of the class
And now he is still at the back,
I with my parents and my comforts and myself
And one self is more equal than another
And all wrongs are more equal
And this sears me as much as the
Cold blooded Israeli murders
And what are we doing wrong here
What are we doing, God?