MTV Night Painter

This global MTV branding campaign by the South African production company Fly On The Wall uses poetry and video art techniques.

MTV Night Swimmer

This global MTV branding campaign by the South African production company Fly On The Wall uses poetry and video art techniques.

MTV Collector Girl

If there is anything that defies my curator's brief by suiting this project it this global MTV branding campaign by the South African production company Fly On The Wall. It uses poetry and video art techniques to bring across messages that seem really inspiring. Even though they might strike you as rather pretentious and banal if watched twice, Fly On The Wall remains one of the most interesting filmmakers around.

The City Breath Project aims...

• To seek and encourage personal voices and opinions
• To dream, remember and celebrate a sense of place as well as criticise and highlight issues and debates
• To present an alternative to industrial film making, its products and processes
• To encourage emergent forms such as video dance and video poetry through cross-platform collaboration
• To encourage new inter-disciplinary talent networks
• To promote both emerging and established artists on the same platform
• To multi-purpose content for maximum audience access
• To create a platform to gain maximum exposure for the artists and their work

Sam Taylor-Wood. Breach. video installation. 2001.

A video installation by the British artist with a quietly disturbing performance.

Julian Grey. Billy Collins. Forgetfulness. video poem. 2006

An awesome video poem by the US Poet Laureate and Julian Grey of Headgear. Big time inspiration.

Kai Lossgott. Melissa Butler. parentheses. video poem. 2008.

A video poem about Cape Town by the South African video artist Kai Lossgott and the American poet Melissa Butler, created to kickstart the City Breath project.

Anders Weberg. For Sore Eyes. video. 2008.

A recent work by the Swedish video artist.

Jeanette Ginslov. slip. screen dance.

An early screen dance by the South African multimedia choreographer.

Pippilotti Rist. I'm not the girl who misses much. 1985.

The Swiss video artist's famous first video, reworking lyrics by John Lennon, seen at the time as a comment on MTV.

Two Gifts

by Dawn Garisch

I’ve lived in my body in this city all my life
yet have not known this simple pleasure:
you took me to a lake on a fynbos berg.
I entered like a dream, plunging.

We sat on white sand playing
with shoals of meaning that shift
when you lift the lid off words.
You chose to sit alone while I went in.

The mountain offers up this cup
for gulls and clouds to drink; I, mere fly,
baptised my life within its living liquid,
emerging blessed. I heard you say

women want more than you can give; a man
was drowning in your eye. We walked back,
caressed by sensuous air. Your mouth
was tense. I shook your hand goodbye.

slaap

by Clive E Smith

waar die burger oor my hang kombers
waar die waarheid nuus word en snoes

bang vir slaap en koue dood op naak
my maan die bedlamp brug my dak om bo

kanaal mybad en wasgoed spoel was
haas vir niks en nie 'n baas

sit in son voor heater van god wat faal
kom help my vrou en smaak in mond

sy brand in slaap en hoop vir foet
beenafgesit en reuk in neus van braai

written by Clive E Smith 0834811203 clivesgarage@capepages.co.za

van suk en ses

by Clive E Smith

ek wen net emmies my hart is vol liedere
moses stoot water uitmekaar net vir my en
die son kom op en glimlag my naam hart oor die horison uit

die koerant se opskrifte is oor my en my hare
en my kuif en sagte vel soos room en die girls
skep lepels vol uit my wange en hulle harte is vol

die meide druk die sweet onder my arms uit
en maak hulle hare reguit
en galop in die wind en die skemer kan dit nie mince nie

die katte trek my tone en begin praat
en lag en se^ my naam hardop en miaaw
nooit weer nie en kry jobs by clicks en discom en pep

ek kannie gly nie
ek kannie val nie
ek kannie huil nie
ek kannie pyn of ly nie
ek kannie traan of stog nie
ek kannie alleen of loun nie
ek kannie mis verlang nie
my wiskey glas het nie 'n onder nie

Exits not taken

Arja Salafranca

The sky was a dark stain of
muddy purple,
as I drove home this Friday night.
The Coca-Cola sign blinked at me
from the round Ponte building
in the distance.
Jim Croce was singing on my car radio
as cars soared past
in a perpetual rush at life.
The end of a day,
endings, beginnings,
the exits of the freeway
that I no longer take
because they lead to my past,
other lives, people long since
out of it.
They flashed past me as I drove.
Another time I would've been going
somewhere else.
Endings, beginnings,
life's full of them,
becoming one,
blurring into a mass
of exits not taken.
The sky is a dark stain of
muddy purple
as I drive tonight,
I don't know where I'm going yet.
It's the interim,
between the end,
and the waiting for a beginning.

Hillbrow's Festival of Meat

by Arja Salafranca

A pair of ribs hang together
in isolation from the rest of their body.
Red and pink
packages displayed in the fridge,
neatly wrapped.
These raw pieces
waiting to be taken home,
made brown and disguised
for human consumption.

The Hillbrow Meat Festival
is a shop clean and yellow
celebrating
technology that can grow cattle
on hormones, keeps them inactive
to let the fat build.
We're capable of taking away their babies
for human consumption.

Far away from my home
lies the abattoir
and a head,
still screaming blood,
sits on the wet, red floor.

Far away from that abattoir,
the rest of its body,
on my plate,
ribs and all,
covered in a gravy,
surrounded by potatoes and peas
satabbed into by a fork
and something more ominous,
that I can't define.

On the way to work

by Arja Salafranca

On the way to work
I see a dead dog lying on the pavement,
one leg lifted in rigor mortis,
a meaty chunk of shoulder flesh exposed.
There are woven baskets for sale
on the opposite side of the road, and round barstools.
The sun burns my driving arm crisp brown.
A desperate woman sells wooden bowls,
comes up to my window. I flick my
eyes away behind mascara-flecked
sunglasses. Her mouth drops a little.
There are men selling bags of avocados
and boxes of green grapes. I say no.

Driving to work I detour
through poverty.
The houses are small, shabby, paint peels
and fades away. Walls are not high,
and many are crumbling. People sit
in their yards and watch rerouted
traffic bump through the neighbourhood,
observing the unusual event as if it were a parade.
The shops are hot, dark holes. The children amuse
each other by buying sweets, walking,
playing in the streets.
It's a different world here,
a world I've been warned against.

Driving home, one night, a dog leaps
into the dark road. I swerve to avoid its black
jumping shape. It's limping, sick,
frightened or confused.
A group of men stand nearby, laughing
loudly, clustered in groups by their cars.
I put my foot hard on the pedal,
the dog disappears, defeated,
limping back into the darkness.

I am not

by Ike Muila

i am not
i am not a roadblock
striker busted or
a steepslope
searching slide sethoba mazenke
forcevuur trigger jazzman star black pajero
suffer gate mourn malombo kite
i am not
i am not a flatroller thesha spin
tricycle green belt tsingandededze
byenbye
even in high vista rows
thiza ntanjane blazer phola cap
banana kar stork sweets badge
dorpenaar topshaela or molaola siphithiphithi
traffic cop sefate
i am not
i am not a town hall speedometer ball
trinity joke
in times of your life span
or a wheelbarrow crank
fix it all tick toes tick
foul feet take your times en fry
i am not

Ek gaan capital

by Ike Muila

i am going to the capital
for die dae kroning wil van do
or die indeed
lewe soos danger gevaarlike ingozi
ons net eenders like Siamese twins
ekke die en danger
cowsin gwavhavha conspiracy gate
geen thatha ama chance bo my
ek gaan capital
knock knock..,whos there
or wie is daar
jou bra
jou bra who
jou moer

--

Translation

Ek gaan capital

i am going to the capital -
i am going to the capital
for the crowning will of do
or die indeed
live like dangerous fearsome danger
we are both identical the same like siamese twins
me myself i and danger
bullish coward fear driven heart conspiracy gate
no taking chances with me
i am going to the capital
knock knock..,who`s there
or who is it
your friend
your friend who
joe nuts

Kiss kiss

by Ike Muila

bang bang kiss kiss
suna papa jellybird
madolo restaurant kiss bite the dust
bo die dae tweede double kick punch
thutha mabhakethi
no more eerie plastic air holding
backsite curve of the earth
tagshopspaza kisses above the axis
bums en buttocks fart
freely sonder klagte drive
over chest of drawer kit expansion
amen alleluia dabadaba muofhe
ramasoti offsite revs
dra proper proper
proper pi..,bo peep
amen alleluia folk songs

Blomer

by Ike Muila

blomer madala
ek is `n ou taxin terries
binne in die toene
change deurdlana
op en af
blomer madala
blomer jozi
blomer joburg
jakarumba spy vanity logo
big short kota
four five limited tamtasie
ek ken jou haba witty madala
haba stalavisto
niks ou medulla oblongata
blomer
blomer madala
ek spin in die toene ek nou die dag
jy sal nie skyf kry nie
check lapha site
calaza madala site
ek vang hulle is net dresh
die een..,is `n ou mdryseni
die ander een..,is `n ou malala
die laste een..,is `n ou mavuka
jy moet onthou
skyf is `n process
where by cigarettes
passes from the owner to the parasite
blomer
blomer madala

-----

Blomer ;translation-hang around

Hang around
hang around buddy
i am an old texas town
inside my toes
changing door to door
up and down
hang around buddy of mine
hang around jozi
hang around joburg
vanity logo foolish spy
big short quarter
four five limited witty case
i know you are not wise buddy
no by the by
nothing like witty medulla oblongata
hang around
hang around buddy of mine
i spin inside my toes these days
you will never receive a smoke from me
check this side
peep cautiously this side
i believe these are three only
this one is for while away time
the other one for when is time to sleep
the last one for when i wake up
you should bear in mind
pass me a smoke is a process
where by cigarettes passes
from the owner to the parasite
hang around
hang around buddy of mine

lunching at the foot of the gardens

Allan Kolski Horvitz

sir george grey
governor of the cape colony from 1854 to 1861
stands with one foot forward
quite fey
amazing to think he expanded the borders quite efficiently . . . ahem

a malay woman with sagging breasts
adjusts her black veil
strolls past with three small children
dressed in shorts and t-shirts that read:
well done uncle bin laden
sock it to the Yankees

a rat frightens a squirrel
wins the peanut thrown by a bratwurst of a tourist
camera lens as big as his boep

indeed
the heat forces us all into the shade
except for george grey who has to bleach
in the sight of history

*

and in this hour of meditation

the laughter of muscular nigerians
fills the lawns with mangrove swamps and oily deltas
bottles of baby powder masquerading as coke

the clatter of anorexic supermodels strutting down sidepaths
makes schoolboys
burst into pimply flamencos

secretaries in tight pants eating bananas on the benches
send text messages to their boyfriends
imploring invitations to dinner

xhosa cleaners in orange jackets and black hats worthy of halloween
sweep leaves from the feet of bearded Sikhs
sitting hunched over fake passports

mounted policemen nibble weeds
planted by hippies outside parliament on the day
verwoerd went under the knife

streams of curvaceous young women
fail to stop turning old men into yeats
goodgrace ah graciousness ah h a dis g rac e ?

1 january

by Allan Kolski Horvitz


1

I am flying over joburg

louis botha avenue ribboning
to the north and south
shops front dirty sidewalks

we are four million souls in this city
on the highveld
up from the
o c e a n s

I am flying

wondering
what thoughts and sensations
breed and bear fruit in this city
along streets lined with trees
rain has made green

and it
stri k es me

the first task: reproduce!
without a plan for succession there is no survival
every thing moving (except the cars)
is something living that needs to fuck to survive
(except the plants of course)

I am flying over joburg
louis botha must still be renamed
to mark the new age
(for the moment the general keeps his place
as a memory whose fame subsists in
designating this street)

four million souls

recovering from the new year binge
parties that shake off the shackles
the drinking and eating and laughing and bemoaning
spill into the new year

but
this is also time for reflection and passion
and hope

we need this week away from wagework
this renewal
we need to gather up strength
dream eternal


2

I am flying over this settlement
(named joburg)
waves of hysteria and boredom greet the pilot
the task of ascribing meaning
entrusted to tv anchors and workshop devotees
who declare:

human paths stretch meandering
at their own pace
those who wish to hurry had better show patience
-an inhuman trait not to be expected
though to be fair
those who wish for harmony had better first watch
the action of a star being sucked into a black hole
and then come out the other side
in the form of another primal explosion
to appreciate just what power and violence
can and do ando an do an do a n d o

at the cor e of the act of creation

Cityscape

by Michelle McGrane

Let me show you heaven and hell:
a city of gold veins and shacktowns;
a labyrinth of mineshafts and asphalt

where the Angel of Commerce and Industry
rises winking from his steel and glass edifice
and the Angel of Kwaito and Minibus Drivers
terrorises the neighbourhood watch.

The electric blue tower pierces the skyline.
The pavements teem
with the nightmares and dreams
of bankers, beggars and designer fiends.

The sparrows swing on the washing lines.
The church bells chime thirteen times.
The sky glows atomic red at dusk fall.
The miner's heartbeat echoes on the rock wall.

PICTURES (The National Gallery)

by Khanyisile Mbongwa

I SPEAK ONLY IN PICTURES THAT SEE THE EYES IN ME
BUT ARE BLIND TO THE KIND IN ME
IMAGES THAT LIE RIDICULOUSLY HANGING ON WALLS ENDLESSLY
EMERGING WITH CERTAIN SOULS TRANCEEDING INTO THE TIMELESS WITH NO BOUNDARIES BEYOND JUST BEING A MERE PAINTING ON MY WALL
THESE PAINTINGS OF ROMANTIC CHILDHOOD CONCEIVE NOTHING BUT ONLY CAPTURE THE POSSIBILITY OF ME AND YOU
AND I WONDER IF THEY DESCRIBE WHAT IS TRUE OR ARE THEY JUST AN INDICATION OF THE FAILURE WE DO

I SPEAK ONLY IN PICTURES THAT SEE THE EYES IN ME
BUT ARE BLIND TO THE KIND IN ME
IMAGES INNOCENTLY NAKED BUT FRAMED IN THE MIND OF SEXUALITY FRUSTRATED BEINGS THAT CONCEPTUALIZE THEIR INNOCENCE AS A FRAGMENT OF THEIR DESIRES
THAT TRANSPIRES TO BE HOGGING THE SOCIETY ROBBING IT OF ITS HUMBLE PRESENTS
TURNING ME AND YOU INTO A PRECINCT OF PREY VULTURES AWAITING NERVOUSLY TO BE FRAMED FOR A NEGATIVE IMAGE TO CAPTURE WHAT THEY DREAM ON ON WHITE WALLS
WHILST THE WITH RUSTY PAINT DRIPDRIPPINGS ON THE SIDES TELLING THE TRUE STORY OF WHAT WAS

I SPEAK ONLY IN PICTURES THAT SEE THE EYES IN ME
BUT ARE BLIND TO THE KIND IN ME
THESE IMAGES YOU SEE MIGHT DEFINE BUT DON’T CONFINE THE STRUCTURES YOU SEE DAILY - THAT SMILE, A LIE WITH HUGS, THAT QUESTION WHY THE LINE SPLITTING REALITY, WHAT JUSTICE I ASK, WHEN TRUTH IS LIES EDITED TO DISCREDIT THE PEDESTAL BESTOWED UPON ME
THIS JURYWOULD BE SERVED BY QUESTIONING ITS AUTHORITY

I SPEAK ONLY IN PICTURES THAT SEE THE EYES IN ME
BUT ARE BLIND TO THE KIND IN ME
THIS ENGLISH LANGUAGE UNDERSTOOD WITHIN ME AS MY LIPS ROAM FREELY,, MY MIND RESTS EASILY BUT MY HEART, PONDERS THIS REALITY
OF THESE UNSPOKEN WORDS THAT ONLY MY EYES WITHIN THE PICTURE SEE

I SPEAK ONLY IN PICTURES THAT SEE THE EYES IN ME
BUT ARE BLIND TO THE KIND IN ME
EARS OPEN UP TO THE WONDERS OF THE STORIES FORETOLD
THEN LOST IN BETWEEN THE LINES THE STORY HOLDS
DEPICT THE TRUTH AS A LIE GETTING OLD
WHAT SOULS HAVE BEEN SOLD
WHAT SOULS HAVE BEEN SOLD

I SPEAK
ONLY IN THE PICTURES
I SPEAK ONLY IN THE PICTURES THAT SEE THE EYES IN ME
BLIND TO THE KIND
EYES IN ME
PICTURES THAT SEE
AND I SPEAK AND I SPEAK
THE TRUTH AND LIES YOU SEE
PICTURES IN ME, PICTURES YOU SEE
I SAID I SPEAK ONLY IN PICTURES THAT SEE THE EYES IN ME
BUT ARE BLIND TO THE KIND IN ME

HERE

by Angifi Dladla

we have smoked away all forms and voices of life.
Our dumb river, like a faint, very faint path, drags itself
timidly across the city. What roar are walls
as we jostle our way to relieve fellow breadwinners.
What chatter are computers and mobile phones
playing with the unseen, reliving our childhood.
What hiss drive faeces and urine down
under our feet. What hoot are wheeled coffins
carved strictly for Kyalami and the highways.
No need of cockroaches, ours are two-legged –
just to spite our Mayor. Serves them right
when police, in winter, burn their rags
and with teargas fumigate their crevices. Here,
we all die from want, noise, crowd and loneliness
diseases. Corpses and carcasses live long
in coolers, waiting for the last festival in the bowels.

Here, flowers grow in pots, their gnarled roots grope
upwards, like their cousin stems, to the Almighty.
Small men masturbate from balconies.
Seeds splash on heads and shoulders of passers-by.
In corridors of trade, a troupe of gangly girls
with plain grins as smiles, promenade around
as if the floors they tread on are queasy. Then,
bingo! After a short interval – strip dance and
extras! dubbed sex engineering by our new nobles
dying from obesity in private villas. Here, hard
their experts slap the newly-born, giving them sham
violence and X-rated madness preparing them
for this life … Infants and their counterparts – toothless
wrinkles grow apart in quarantine to avoid exchanging
word of earth; word of the hereafter. Here, we lock
juveniles in jail or asylum as prematurely psychotics.

GRAFFITI-PRAYER IN A CHURCH TOILET

by Angifi Dladla

We wish wee, we waz deh Bushshop’s Chillen;
deh God of Isryel, he woud do deh res’.
We wish wee, we waz Politishen Chillen;
to Eleet Schools wee, we woud dhrive.
We wish wee, we waz bhorn to Eggzayls;
Heirs to Hi Konnekhshins wee, we woud bee.
We wish wee, we waz from deh Oryen’;
Yoga it woud meyk us suttle.
From infinit slum shackhs wee, we come;
named aftah deh Hevvy Politishens, wee deh shackhs
chillen. Dis iz deh time, now, show dem enjel feys,
Gabhryel of long agow!

In Woodstock tier die wind

by Danie Marais

’n week al lank.
Ons dak kraak soos die maste
van ’n ou seilskip in ’n storm
en die wolke maal en mor
oor Tafelberg se rand.
Aan die berg se voet lê die stad
oorbelig en uitgewas
soos ’n ou poskaart.

In Stellenbosch het jou senuwees ingekonk
en jou wil versaak –
oor die telefoon sleep jou tong
en tussen die snot en trane deur
hoor ek nie mooi wat jy probeer sê nie:
wetie & seblief & slaappille & rotgif & drain cleaner
& hospitaal & uitgepomp & ingespuit & jy oukei, ja, oukei
is min of meer al wat ek verstaan …

In Woodstock skeur die wind
gepas
terwyl ek wag vir die telefoon om weer te lui.

As die wind gaan lê
sal dit stil en skoon en leeg wees,
maar terwyl die palmbome stuiptrek
en die telefoondrade skud
is dit moeilik om te glo.

In Woodstock teister die wind my nou
met wetie & slaappille & rotgif & jou groot sagbruin oë
en alles deurmekaar

en êrens lê jy soos my afgekapte hande
in ’n voorlopige lakengraf
en lek verdriet en dooie gebede in jou kussing.

Ek wens ek kon sê ek verstaan nie
hoekom mense in noodweer rotgif & slaappille
en hul onskuldige lywe vol merke sny nie,

maar in Woodstock skryf die stukkende wind
jou wanhoop met wolke
huil jou woede deur die vuil strate en kartonmense

vir iemand om te hoor.

As die wolk skeur oor Tafelberg

by Danie Marais

"It's coming, keep the car runnning"

The Arcade Fire

Op pad huis toe in die laatmiddagson
op Eastern Boulevard
sien ek ’n watte-wit golf
stadig
oor Tafelberg breek
en teen die krans afspoel.

My ma sê as dit gebeur het
sou sy as kind in Tamboerskloof
op die sypaadjie gaan sit om te kyk
hoe die wille Suidoos die hemel
teen die berg afblaas.
Die prentjie van my ma ¬–
’n dogtertjie van 10 ¬–
wat bang-bang lekkerkry
met haar oë op die berg
laat my na aan haar
en die jaar 1955 voel.

Onafwendbaarheid het ’n vreemde bekoring
as dit soos ’n onstuimige wolk
oor Tafelberg rol.
Jy kyk na die noodwendigheid
van berg en breek
die hopeloosheid
van asem teen klip
die blinde soen
van hemel en aarde
ma en kind
en jy weet hoekom mense nie anders kan
as lag en huil
en vashou en verloor nie.

Jy volg die lyn van die kabelkarretjie
wat in die kolkende wit woeling verdwyn
en jy weet die goeie en die slegte nuus
sal jou altyd weldra bereik
waar ook al jy of jou ma dan is.

A woman's journey

by Bulelwa Basse

The universe itches
at the soles of her resiliernt feet,
with its persistent requests

step-by-step she treads tactfully
towards the accomplishment of each,
without a sigh in sound

Even when her shoulders emulate
the shape of her burdens,
the corners of her eyes
crease with a smile,
whenever she is greeted
by the innocence of her kind

Her arms, welcoming,
Her intellect, provocative
Her tongue, gentles enraged hearts
and her beauty, silencing

Grown men break into infant tongues
in her presence,
clumsy over her supremacy
Many have competed
and all have self-ridiculed,
in a quest for opulence,
yet priceless is her worth

Her love is nothing short of God:
She seeks connection
with every soul she meets
Found love, first,
before knowing who she was

In random tragedy
she learns hard lessons
Through loss of many sentimentals,
gains internal sharpening

Her eyes widen with awe
per universal orbit
And with life's surprising schooling,
steps the world
with a little bit of wisdom

Her footprints unravel mystery
Her word speaks comprehension
And her exchange rives consciousness
Like stitches on assembly on a quilt,
every encounter is history recorded,
as she journeys with all the living's aspirations
Dreams, their successes
Mourns their losses
Cries their tears
And fights for the feeble-minded one's sanity

It is this essence of woman
that propels the world
to dreams fulfilled
Gives birth to characters of excellence,
cultured minds,
conquering attitudes
and celebrated spirits
Because hers, has always been blessed
with the power of building
not only a home, but also a nation

Garage

by Gary Cummiskey

Knock back on the counter
Your superstitious coins,
the couple in the car opposite's
screaming, she might
pull a gun on him. The
leaves lift gently on the breeze
WE'LL DISINFECT ETERNITY
The smiling petrol attendant's
lost in an ancestral
hallucination.

Corner cafe

by Gary Cummiskey

I take you
to the corner cafe.
It is empty
so we slip down behind the counter
and start to fuck.
Afterwards,
when we are getting up off the floor,
we see the owner lying in the
doorway, dead.

Matthew said:

Lots of people in
Plumstead, Dad, play pianos
at night. It's lank sad.

(by Gus Ferguson)

Classifieds

by Gus Ferguson

Goldfish
coming to Cape Town
seeks bowl in city flat.

Cinnabar, Muizenberg:
An eyesore with
a splendid view.

Haikus

by Gus Ferguson

Eight o'clock - The cars,
how urgently they rush
to reach the traffic Jam.

The city lights -
a bed of glowing embers.
We dread the kindling wind.

Perspective

by Deborah Steinmair

I crossed the street
But a tree got in the way
I had to cross the sea to get the picture
Hanging from a window of your mother’s house in Graz
I saw our low brown house
swinging from the southern cross
From here it’s plain to see
We live on the head of a pin

Dream Weaver

by Deborah Steinmair

I’ve been bleeding for a week
deep in the night I watch you sleep
in the first shiver of winter
I walk the street with loose parts
my mind a memory card
head crowded as a cupboard
the pope has died and
wet leaves decompose in your garden
under the backside of Table Mountain
late at night I memorise you
like a prayer at the kitchen counter
with your cd collection scattered
like loose change on the carpet
at the tail end of April
with twigs, twine and twill
I renovate my heart for you
hoping, oh hoping it will do

Unaccounted for

by Deborah Steinmair

All sensation belongs to
The memory of a moment ago
And all the moments of your life and mine
The primary school sandwiches at lunchtime
The lakeside picnics, the boozy bashes
In seedy kitchens the minor car crashes
Led inexorably to the moment
That used to be the present
We spend the minutes of this morning
Sitting in a greasy spoon in Woodstock
And graffitied on a wall across the street
The name of your ex-girlfriend who didn’t get well
In loving memory of Estelle

Revelations

by Kai Lossgott

what ails me
what grieves me
bereave me the place where once a person stood

I saw Jesus and
the summer child light up
on every street corner in Seapoint
a legion of mute sentinels extinguished at dawn
calling from invisible phone booths
their farewell into the passing cars
a number not too high and not too low

just a second ago past my window
in the guise of a boy with a beard
standing too steadily on that corner
like the trees who know of too many
boys for sale ago, and the ones
who don't come back, and how much that cost
Jesus at sixteen with dreadlocks
how many leaves would you trade
to let strangers
touch you in that way
to play saviour to the night
all done up like a wise man
a wild man, a saint searching for saviours
Tomorrow in the day
you will be gone, and what has taken root within you
communing with the dark and silence underground

And you with your stockings ripped and torn
the crown of the witness
platinum blonde upon your head
like the may maiden the christians burnt
or the christians who were made holy
burnt by others
Saint of these latter days
with your cheeks of blood
you too facing the street
blunt and arms dangling by your side
dandelion gushing white and reverent
I don't recognise you here
guarding the block
You have no curfew. Noone knows
your tiny feet stand guard here tonight
tomorrow in the second aisle by the cashier
heavy with my tinned food and frozen fish
I won't recognise you,
or wonder how it is you live

The Mountain Is

by Tania van Schalkwyk

The mountain is
smoking dope, puffing out smoke and starting fires. A troubled hooligan.
Or maybe a freedom fighting terrorist. Or just a crazy bored house wife circa 1954.

As the sun sets, the clouds turn to pomegranate juice trickling
down her sides. The city is hazed by a menarche game of pyromania
as dusk drips with veld fire. Arson toys with self immolation
like playing doctors and nurses at a new age self help conference for addicts:

Tell me where it hurts.

Well,
my eyes itch.

Is it the light or the smoke?

I want to wear binoculars and a microscope at the same time so I can get closer
to the mountain. See inside. Journey to the centre like Jules Verne
and maybe discover understanding of what lies beneath this unmoving rock.
Feels so fluid. Following me everywhere in the city
like a moon does on all hi-ways of this earth.
Making you feel special. Cared for. Chosen. Thy will be done.

And yet the mountain burns just like the moon eclipses sometimes. So solid
and yet tonight it could disappear
like villages in a tsunami.
And continents in an ice age
and a body in cancer.
I am reminded of my grandmother’s death bed
and how her blood feeds mine, just like juice.

Just like the sweet sticky air clings to my thighs and cakes me in red.
A strawberry tart prowling the streets, protected by her mother’s anger,
maybe wanting to be eaten by wolves- but killing them first.
And blanketing them up in the catacombs of matriarchal soil,
beneath the night fog that beds our city as the wind sirens a panic howl.
Not a cocoon preparing for birth, but a burial chamber mummifying.
The black widow has spun her tale of revenge. She has kissed and made it better.
The mountain is dark and grey now, tinged by cloud echoing electricity
like the silver of my succubus eyeballs.
Screams die as more lights are switched on and dinners cooked.
After sex there is always silence. And sleep.

Tomorrow, if the mountain has vanished before my waking sight
it will still be there in the morning’s dew.
Clouds will gather and suck up water from the earth and form precipitation.
Tears will fall. Lives are lived. And juice is drunk.
Like a Mayan blood ritual to appease the fire gods,
we build pyramids out of our lives
in an attempt to survive. Sacrifice ourselves to the altar
when all there is
is a playground.

Shelley House Foyer

(from Rain)
by Mike Cope

Sign in at security.
They don’t ask for your ID.
It’s a farce.

The bored man at the desk, poor sod,
ignores your smile and little nod.
(Kiss my arse.)

Glass and steel and sliding doors;
the lift-shaft goes to all ten floors
of this place.

It’s all angles, modern, hard,
square as the holes on an IBM card...
in your face.

Waterkant Street

(from Rain)
by Mike Cope

Waterkant Street, Waterkant Street:
Not where famous people meet.
A few smart shops but mostly not;
Waterkant street is no hot spot.

Motor spares, shoe repairs;
The businessmen don’t put on airs.
Cash is mostly what you pay.
The bars are open night and day...

The Mansion: An Anti-Poem

by Tania van Schalkwyk

The mansion is white.

It has no clutter, but under-floor heating
and a wraparound view of the city.

To enter the mansion you need to either live there
or know someone who knows someone who does
live there. You have to ring the belle bell —
an art-deco-repro door handle with TV com
and wait to be buzzed in —
walk through the plaster-of-Paris lions
flanking the entrance. And then you are given access

to a sushi-laden minimalist very long wooden table.
You will be seated under a bourgeois chandelier,
entertained with noise masquerading as conversation.
You will sit, toes caressing the slick warm tiles
mind blinded as you inhale
and watch many people come and go —
but never remember their names.

You will recognize these faces around town, in shops and bars —
but never speak to each other again.
You have all come for the wide white open space
this mansion provides. The thought of having to close the emptiness
with plenty of meaningful communication alarms.
So you’ll argue over which CD to play loudly
and silence each other’s talk with.

After exhaling,
you will take a tour of the mansion,
leave the kitchen, its built-in aquarium and ice-making frigidaire,
pass the bare lounge’s ubiquitous plasma screen,
walk and grope along large, serpentine walls —
look for a photo, used razor, scattered dirty washing,
opened library book, some sort of personal touch, anywhere.

On the walls? On mantelpieces? In the master bathroom? By the jacuzzi?
Maybe in the toilet bin? And you find nothing —

but a rolled-up note with which to powder your nose,
so that you too can accessorise

the mansion and its abundance of emptiness.

The Electrician

by Tania van Schalkwyk

I understood I could change things. That day, I walked along the main street of Cape Town, changing light bulbs from red to green just by looking at them. This simple trick caused much trouble and mayhem. I wondered how much damage I could do by expanding my new powers to a broader field.

This thought scared me, so I went to a doctor who sent me to a shrink. Neither believed me and now I’ve gone and closed down Koeberg Power Station with my mind.

Nuclear leak they’re calling it, but the birds know better. They see me walking the streets at early light when the first cars roar in the belly of the beast. Mostly at dawn pre-feeding time when all is quiet, hushed in sleep. Then, the early morning travellers sound loud as they begin their hunt. And I am compelled to change light bulbs and sometimes even switch them off all across town. It is my mission to stop the rush of human traffic. It is a dangerous job. But still, I enjoy the challenge of a good black-out. And I feed the birds to keep them quiet.

werk toe ry

- Toast Coetzer

die man agter my ry ’n nuwe BMW
’n swart wolf
met ’n blink smile
by die rooi robot
koop hy die Cape Times
die verkoper neem sy munt
maar beduie op die koerant
die prys is op
ek sien sy verbasing terwyl hy
die ekstra 50c uitgrawe
R5,50 vir die Cape Times
what next
he must be thinking

10 000 of 20 000 of 30 000 Cosatu-lede
is veronderstel om die stad vandag te verlam
maar dit lyk nie of dit enigiets
aan die verkeer gedoen het nie

die vrou langs my
eet ontbyt
uit ’n silwer
stainless steel bakkie
agter die stuur van ’n
VW Caddy
sy lyk laat

die Big Issue-verkoper
by wie ek gister gekoop het
(Angelina op die cover)
draf vriendelik nader
en ons groet mekaar deur die oop venster
met toegeklemde vuiste
wat liggies aan mekaar raak
soos mense in 50 Cent videos
met mekaar maak
as hulle homies is

ek hou daarvan om die Big Issue te koop
wanneer ek voor mense in groot SUVs staan
(ek ry ’n Beetle)
dan gee ek die verkoper R20
en sê hy of sy kan maar die change hou
dit het nog nooit die persoon agter my
ook ’n Big Issue laat koop nie

twee ander mans
drentel verby
die een op ’n kruk
die ander met
’n gesnyde half loaf brood
die een trek twee stukke concrete
regop met sy voet
ek sê hello
hulle sê howzit

die lig is groen
en ek draai regs
ek is amper by die werk
die olimpiese spele begin eersdaags
die World AIDS Conference is aan in Mexiko
Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn is dood
my pa is in die hospitaal

ek parkeer ver
van die gebou af
en stap ekstra stadig
oor die vloer van die Foreshore
na die lang koue korwe

selfs as ek my hande opsteek
sou dit nie wys
bo die golwe nie

Kliptown Shantytown

by Siphiwe Ka Ngwenya


Kliptown shantytown
dreams silenced
by the morning rain
footsteps of running commuters

kliptown shantytown
the sky loses its brains
in torrents it starts to rain
people use tables as boats

kliptown shantytown
when day is young
women wash clothes down the river
children swim like fish in dirt

kliptown shantytown
frogs croak crickets chirp children snore
and nakedness entangles with passion
till dawn