As with other days...

I am still resident in mystery’s wilderness. With the future’s entrance taut as the past’s, a tiny bubble of joy (heaven’s kingdom taken legs) in one of the back-rooms in the yard of my present station waltzes about; a queer tease to memoirs of my seed.
Only managing four audible words: Halo (said with a noose of a whine), Mama, Fine and hey! We sit today watching a bird scale concrete-cracks for bits of dried slaap-chips and like a leaf it floats back to its tree.
With friends under a scotching winter sun piercing viral into sleep-wrung skins – the nauseous belly of noon speaks unto insatiable silences of our make. A slight jest here, a snarl there; with coded languages fingered into portals of a computerized method of talk.

Un-good for the soul’s nerves, the idea of destitution reverses horns unto my love of self – loosing all lovable me. Angels waking my start, transmissions of nightmares by alcoholic arteries knowing I want to go start again from the end. Frothing mugs of beer golden with a child’s piss, should I drink? This is ghetto past-time; salons for women, and shebeens for the lovelorn men.

A comb and bottle caps lie strewn across arid cement flooring… then pleasure’s memory cries for no reach’s brace. The mother seems stricken by unfading abstinence towards these wails, tears soured with other mists of infantile rage. Catching a glance of a plane’s pale tail; only ever seeing such in winter, I recall – and flies inebriated by heat wrestling amid smoke puffs from irate nostrils.
Fluttering wings of a swallow – a twitched communique in feather-weight. A disintegrating tail of the runaway plane, and the engine chorale in the street’s vigil.

I watch the dried gold of a shedding tree swept into drains by intermittent gallant winds. Antennae are watching a sacrilege in moving shadows marked by the day’s slide, sending percussive hooting of a ghetto’s idiom into burning grass clouds. We talk about a pilloried generation spoon-fed dis-education through OBE curricula, the ridicule of thought-bubbles in matriculants’ textbooks - Nana labeling the advent: an inter-generational tyranny. The crying child’s mother is pregnant again (being one in the bag of Adam’s decayed apples bruised by nights spent with a drunkard), but “isn’t the baby only one?” the chef asking with due concern. Blotches of mosquito bites on the child’s limbs; tattoos of poverty on necks of those born unbeknown.