Find us on Google+ my wits' ~ licentia vatum: October 2010

Sunday, 31 October 2010


all night, it winks, on, then off, and on-and-off again; and again.

never-ending frig'id love song --  ad nauseam the neon sign,  the robot is a promiscuous thing

[and frigid mobile phones low their tumescent love songs rubato to the said, sorry dram'a]

kosher incense sticks

kosher income sticks more like...

halaal's the new black, sales pitch to an expanding niche market, door-to-door, back -door sales for your convenience.

agarbati licensed by heavens' proxies on earth

in the parallel universe, cabinet re-shuffle, and Prof Adam Habib enunciating in his jaw-breakingly unique, rich and gravelly brogue( he's Memon? Then, the Universal Memon he is. I salute).

his Johnson Baby Powder saturated coiffure the new black too .... :)


'me and you and a dog named boo...', turns out me and the dog are the same thing. Thanks Lobo #Boo

my mother's presence in the home, her oneness with prayer, and constancy of prayer, still stills the water. it's taught me the value of home life, and to be still, and to be at one with learning -- and my family

also thinking, discussing with Fats the evils of wealth and poverty, opposite sides of the same coin. think that apartheid, in extolling whiteness, created a cocoon for its beneficiaries, sealing them so effectively in their supposed superiority, they became stagnant, and perfunctory. just a thought

storm's brewing

cracklin' rosie, cracklin' rain -- no chef* at boarding school like Rosie from New Hampshire, no thunderstorms like these on the Reef.

*save for the inebriated cook from Ireland who threatened to hurl himself off the school's roof on Christmas eve '75, keeping his would be rescuers at bay with the kitchen fire-extinguisher's nozzle aimed squarely at the whites-of-their-eyes, a la General Custer-d

boy interrupted

trying to wax lyrical on the flute, summonsing ancestral spirits, that sort of thing.

waning, not even conjuring snakes in the garden at this stage. worms maybe...

to tell by the song-birds out here :)

cracked dreams

there are  hidden crevices in your dreams

crystal vision, crystal math; meth. spirits will singe and eviscerate, crystal meth will evaporate, and vaporize you  #gutted #guttered

i am ? the quorum to constitute my own life

thought condensate

words gate-crash 
care free and worth abandon
a band on caprice
doing the caprivi strip

dance, mock and seduce
reduce, refuse, then evaporate

evanescent, translucent, luminous
evince and eviscerate
redact,  numinous

humor i prey, 
prayer thicker
heavier for fear to desire
they don't leave 
forever this time again


easy to lose myself in a benzodiazepine haze, phenobarbital gaze: truthful fiction, useful it is

Saturday, 30 October 2010


i met a priest once
chose to minister on the wrong side of the tracks
where there were no trees
no wooded shade
dolomite for precarious rest

he broke bread with his flock
then burst a mandrax pipe
with the boys he'd helped grow
now a band

he bade farewell
to return where there were trees

unhurried wasteland

mid summer night iftar
'72, 15 year old chasing whirlwinds
james hadley chase, untipped crumpled Camel
smoke wisping
bare foot through Abbey Rd
tip toe hafez, sings come together, qirayet
pye and okapi in shirt pocket
pancakes and ice-cream
and dreams

night owl

moon's melted into the gum trees, dripping ecstatically,on the bark, in the full, unfurled night

a delight, so the crickies crick.

Thursday, 28 October 2010


the really important kind of freedom involves attention, and awareness, and discipline, and effort, and being able truly to care about other people and to sacrifice for them, over and over, in myriad petty little unsexy ways, every day.... The only thing that's capital-T True is that you get to decide how you're going to try to see it. You get to consciously decide what has meaning and what doesn't.... The trick is keeping the truth up-front in daily consciousness -- David Foster Wallace

Monday, 25 October 2010

veni, vidi, vici

Mohamed is retiring; model citizen, universal muslim,  content answering to Vini by his secular friends.

Company man, faithful husband and dutiful father, pragmatic to a fault --  the point of being faulty -- his, a guarded abut an enlightened weltanschauung.

When his nubile daughter starts actuating, Vini's nobly rehearsed contingency plans kick into play: defer to the wife's tutored authority to implement the relevant protocols he has painstakingly developed whilst removing himself from proceedings.

Ziza's suitor complicates the weltanschauung by announcing (all of) himself -- uninvited, one evening, on fetching Ziza as he's been prone to surreptitiously for some time now.

At  young Bhaiza's penultimate step to the threshold of Vini's domain  --  the abode --  Vini, thrown off-guard, gesticulates wildly to the wife. A desperate grin that grins the grin of a death-mask grin, silently mouthing No! No! No!, his arms orchestrate a giddy plea to stall for time in order for Vini to vanish.

To no avail.

Bhaiza had crossed the rubicon, the obligatory exchange of courtesies was underway. Death-mask grin still, the gesticulation segues into directing the young suitor to his seat.

Leaving the boys to acquaint themselves the better for it, Ziza escapes to apply her final cosmetic flourishes. The virgin banter between father and suitor steadying, she enraptured by the quickening intimacy.

Ziza and Bhaiza take leave finally, to repair to an evening sighing with the nocturnal youthful delights that is the preserve and mystery of the youthful alone.

The next morning, Ziza, tone sweeter for a fruitful evening, de jure if not de facto, lilts boldly at her father.

'So, Dad, what did you and Bhaiza discuss last night?'

'Who's Bhaiza?'

He doesn't break to surface.

little red riding hood

"Keith Richards looks like grandma dressed up in the wolf's bonnet",  to paraphrase from Freedom by Jonathan Franzen

NB "Keith richards looks like a wolf dressed up in grandma's bonnet"

fool's gold

I kissed once, and transmuted into a frog.

-- not all stoned states are born equal, nor all echoes in the void.

as I cradle in the crook of god's finger, at the crack of the rock of dawn

I'm a ventriloquist really; be my dummy juju doll.

100% uncut, plugged in blow this morning --  blues scales the flute

Friday, 22 October 2010

wind in my shoes

What  to me to had to be the absurdness, insurmountable difficulty, in acting nor feeling normal,  during a period -- my base, South Africa in the 1980's -- when political violence and civil strife seemed normative.

Dealing with (personal) loss and anger against this and embracing spirituality, trying, as a necessary blanket of modesty(serenity, taqdeer) and gratitude -- ' I've got space in my pocket and wind in my shoes'

The video clip was recorded spontaneously at an event after a once-off rehearsal (twenty odd years later)

Composer: Faizel Boorany
Lyrics: Faizel Boorany
Lead guitar: Faizel Boorany
Rhythm guitar: Jeremy Karodia
Vocals: Jeremy Karodia and Ayub Mayet
Performed at Mavr!x fundraiser on 31 July 2010.
Location: Emmarentia Protea Club
Filmed by Fatima Rahiman


losing my religion

From lessons at The Great Slime Pond, on playing truant,  #79:

I don't like forcing myself on or compelling others, in any manner and in every sense. Even where they might be obliging, out of compunction, a sense of duty to me; or just a sense of duty in the abstract. More so perhaps then, even, it generates loathing.

Being compelled to embrace perfunctoriness has got to rank as a suffocation in degree and discomfort more than, if not equal to, the humiliation or deprivation of an outright rejection, or even negation.

It's not my style, nor substance, to take, lift -- pilfer if you like -- and the petty theft diminishes me whilst reducing the volitional victim's shrugged-off equity, and dignity to boot.

I struggle violently to fend off the oppressive suspicion, the ignominy, that their ostensible giving, charity --  relenting more like --  leaves them irked and tired at the very least, and with the acquired need to compensate themselves with an undue and inordinate moral smugness, that which accompanies what can only be a begrudging sacrifice. Burnt offerings. Discarded left-overs.

Doggie-bag blues

Specious superiority, to be sure, accompanying minor altruism , but they're not going to question the false nature of, the false minor gods behind the collected authority of their ways.

They, the benefactors, have to decide what it is they want, and might willingly give.

But they don't(decide), because second guessing themselves is too hard, and consequently changing's a bridge too far..

And it might imply that they're no better nor less in their alleged altruism than the world they purport service to.

Never have been, never will be.

Ignorance is it's own seed and impulse, and when accompanied by a veneer of putative knowledge, becomes heady in its boldness to throw things asunder. Arrogance really

I've suffered, over the years, an immense need to explain myself to others, to make them feel better, because I've been made to feel that my inner state, and sometimes outer appearance, and demeanor affects them.. Perhaps because of my own past sins

It's rubbish really,and humiliating, when they're really not paying attention anyway, anyhow.

Some of those who would have abused, when I could be debased no more, have died.

I've had to negate a vindictive triumphalism, and pray on the removal of any sense of vindication on my part for I know, as much as id would have me believe otherwise, the universe is in me, but doesn't revolve around me.

I am not the center of my universe, nor do I expect you to (pretend to) treat me as such

Wednesday, 20 October 2010


Practise, write, practise. Write some more, ad infinitum.

Ad nauseam

Practise(sic) , to the grave.

Practice for the grave? It's [my] worship anyway (Maulana Rumi seems to think so).

Coffee break. Micro parole. Alfresco.

In the spring sun, thaw the icicles that form on the bones, for endeavors  which demand  physical stillness by stretches too long, in shadowed containers too dark.

Zainab, the neighbor, prepares the best condiments. And atchar. The word pickle just doesn't do the essence of this manna justice. She generously produces and transmutes, transmits the stuff,  for my father ostensibly (I hope:)

Two slices of bread, margarine, a shard or three of brittle cheese, and some of Zainab the neighbor's green mango atchar strewn randomly, with a dash of its aromatic holding oil for good measure.

A (veritable) lucky dip. Dunked fully in the strong, new-morning-fresh drink of choice of  sufis -- arabica.

And everything's OK with the world again.

PS Miles Davis, So What, playing. Delectable serendipity I mumble too, with the birds

Tuesday, 19 October 2010

'no name d'gin

The country staggered, uneasy; unsteadily, a drunk powder-keg conjured nightmarishly to life by Tyranny.

Interspersed with loose cannons bristling phallically, rearing to scorch everything in sight just to prove it could; to shut everyone up and raze everything down in its explosively sanitizing, greedily consuming crimson flames, as the untidy and tremulous scramble for political power and social justice, dispensed with herd-mentality and mob-justice continued breathlessly, madly apace, cacophonously sucking up the scarce oxygen which remained after years of struggle.

Between the interminable talking-heads and macabre images of smoking corpses, victims of necklacing; and train violence, political intrigue and assassinations, and hackings, life still had to run its mill.

As if all were normal.

One had to earn a living, maintain relationships (and separations) and attend school; cook, deal with the neighbors, score drugs (I had relapsed after a seven year abstinence), tend to the garbage, and in this incomplete litany of life's inanities, studiously ignore the standard daily reportage of everyday mundanities in South Africa like child-rape.

And see to the rental of course.

It was a schizoid mish-mesh, melting-pot, mad kaleidoscope; hellish everyday gig really.

I was studying Paco de Lucia's technique and mesmerized by his duende. And Sor, Villa-Lobos, Leo Brouwer along with the rest of the entire classical guitar repertoire, the enthusiasm for which I found oppressively necessary, incumbent, and only the polite thing to do, to reciprocate John Silver's entrusting his Guitar Studio to me, and towards preserving -- as he was prone to gently remind me every now-and-then  -- his legacy of Classical Guitar performance and tuition.

Privately, I had been re-visiting the Beatles' catalogue, nursing my addiction, and engaged in my on-going middle-nature battle with John McLaughlin's musical odyssey. That and my battle with my erstwhile domestic partner from whom I had recently and falteringly been liberated

It was now 1994, and in the quest for a next act in my recovery -- being broke, separated and close to being unemployable with a spiraling drug-habit again, I decided I was done communicating with, teaching and counselling human beings.

It had been self-defeating, quite honestly, anyway, working with addicts and their families prior to the Studio and my simultaneously conscious decision to use drugs again to Cope. It had just become too tiresome, along with convincing straight people that I could be one of them too.

The recovery rate of addicts was so poor (3%) and the collateral damage - transference, to employ the technical jargon -  that, coupled with my own difficulties -- and my invariable ennui  -- it was inevitable.

My own relapse that is(collapse, to be reasonable, would be the more precise rendition).

Started a year-and-a-half earlier (at about the time Bob Mabena was hosting funky pop songs from other parts of Africa on his Toyota Top 20 slot on SABC to which I would practise riffs on the flute), the relapse had seen its logical conclusion  -- the grande finale, with no resort to an encore -- in my rented-cottage, along with my car, going up in flames and burning to a cinder, down to the very same charred ground so gruesomely common in conflict stricken parts of the Townships.

The coup de grâce. Every addict knows in (her own) inimitable and unique self-inflicting style.

I managed to achieve personally, in a microcosm, an implosion the rest of this mad country could only maniacally posture.

Stoned negligence on my part, this time entailing a lit candle and a few Vesparax, a killer downer,  jostling for neuro-pharmacological space, binding with and finally overwhelming Ritalin, an upper, in my  not-so-central anymore, very-jiggy (un) nervous system

The sad, sorry saga reduced, along with my life-belongings and work, to a  squalidly literal damp-squib. Expedited graciously by local fire-men, one of whom, fanning his cigarette gremlin-like, beckons me for a light.  So much fire there had been, but none left to light one cigarette. After action, satisfaction, in the immortal words of the tobacco advertising industry. Incendiary irony, to hazard the pun.

Now, still sifting through the ashes, picking up the pieces a year-and-a-half  later, and among which ruins included my lost child,  access to whom had been thwarted by her, by now comprehensively resentful mother,  I set out to learn a computer programming language -- not knowing how to throw the power switch on a computer, and having walked out on the Studio; and John; and Music, which had become the curse my mother had cast on it

And thus did battle not only with the tormenting ghosts of yore and spooks of present, but set out furthering my elusive gains by attempting to get paid for seek-and-destroy missions, hunting ghosts in machines. For  what would turn out to be (the next) fourteen years.

Financially and behavioristically more rewarding  -- garbage in, garbage out, programmers laconically describe the process, possibly better than even Skinner might in Pavlovian short-hand. The battle of engaging ghosts in machines made for a decent living and temporary refuge.

It did so, however, at the expense of my already sufficiently weathered soul, mechanizing and stilling it too completely. The mercenary process of battling machines eventually off-sided and ossified my emotions, withered my impulses, threatening to turn me too into a cyber spook.

Enough -- more than enough  --  for my body to rebel, and retch. Enough for me to become more-or-less permanently inflamed.

The spook, the djinn  -- so to speak -- got out the bottle. This djinn had the bottle to.

For those with an itchy nous for such things, the djinn, according to the Qu'ran, was created by God out of smokeless fire.

In the taxonomic universe of modern priests and apothecaries, the particular condition of perennial inflammation I found myself now afflicted with is shelved under the quaint but socio-cognitively  awkward rubric of inflammatory, or auto-immune disorders.

The moniker, most specifically mine, no more common than rheumatoid arthritis.

My marker, the laboratory measure for this thing's febrile intensity, was about 120 greater than what is regarded as being normal. This made me feel special in a perverse sort of way though.

Specially feverish, and close to being crippled, before they finally identified and nailed the thing.

(They're good, when they're willing, the secular priesthood, to nail things.

And for this -- surgical precision -- I am grateful)

--to be cont.

nuclear fuse muse

My readings (on spirituality) confirm my instincts. one, to purchase a nuclear warhead.

People, all, possess, or possessed are by the geni'us for something, buried usually under the muck and trivia of their lives, too pleased rolling in to allow much to surface

There was a time in my life when i was in control. It lasted all of three hours. and that was usually with Obex, or Ritalin, coke et al. It happened multiple times though. And it helped when frenetic turgidity's the order of the day

Another day, another dollar. 

Into the breech, onto battle untoward with that hoary old thing some persist in dubbing life.The ebb and flow of the day, the waxing and waning of the moon a million times (in) one. Getting nailed, to my own cross is my forte. It's the Sisyphean task of the daily carrying it that rasps. Accompanied by the sound track of my life - a dirge. A paean to my short lived immortality and seriously circumscribed fame.The short leash chaffes, and. I champ on the bit to no avail. Sisyphus again; and the head of the Hydra. 

Let's just have a smoke. No grand opus this bru. Picture book, comic-boo(k), monochrome, but chromatic

Recovery  feels at times like I have to be a crypto-fascist:)

Let this morning begin...

Thin Lizzy, Still In Love With You
The Beatles, Don't let me down

Tired, chilled.

Renew living benignly, in word and deed, with #respect to everything, and all people. Hard. Try's all.  #NotTooOldToRockAndRoll #Ahimsa

Recall how as a young man I put a knife to Mordant's throat because he was being stupid and wiped phlegm on my back. He made amends by giving me cocaine. He was a sycophant dealer in training at seventeen, the scion of a wealthy, upper-crust anglo-jewish family,  pretending to be a renegade WASP. He was bright. Had to be, to nearly pull off convincing everyone he was  a London East-end cockney kid on a special grant at public school wielding a Strat.


The dichotomous pull between (playing) music and words. Playing music has become increasingly personal over the years, and really healing, but mostly in a vacuum.

Words allow(?) a greater connection with the external world.

Anyway, here's to the start of another day.

Alice Coper, I'm Eighteen

Jethro Tull, Too Old To Rock 'n Roll (???)
Stealers Wheel, Stuck in the Middle With You
Rolling Stones,Jumpin Jack Flash
Bob Dylan, Like a Rolling stone
The Beatles, I've Got A Feeling
John Fogerty, Almost Saturday
The Eagles, Desperado                 !!!!!!
Led Zeppelin, The Rain Song
Rolling Stones, Wild Horses

There's a #word for everything under heaven and on earth.What's yours?

Monday, 18 October 2010

jonathan franzen, freedom

Reading, so far, like Desperate Housewife's on steroids.

Some sweet prose, and gripping though. We'll see.

Your thoughts ?


Twenty five years of sobriety, fifty three years on the planet

Recovery, life, relationships: terra incognita.

Still; the fare's damn fine.

genesis, i know what i like

Tired, and bemused. Led Zeppelin say, Dazed and Confused.

Need, listening hard, to classic rock. LOUD.

Blowing, fusing and breathing, scaling, arpeggiating the length and breadth of this piece of glint, this smarmy tubing, pompously: traverse flute.

Displace the clatter of make-up, morning masque preparation

Music's my sounding-board, my salve. It cups and lets me

No longer a bottle-kop, dope, gangja, one end, chandie, sucker, blou-joe at the other. Used to be Born to be Wild. Now, Borne-on- the-Mild

This is all chandie, the silver side flute. In the chandies, always.

Minor pentatonic morning;  chromatic blues, chromatic hues.

Get back, say the Beatles. And Billy Preston.

That's the way god planned it, that's the way god wants it to be

Thought for the day:
It will be given to us to behold the Bodhisatta's infinite Buddha-lilha and to hear his word.
Jataka, 1: 54

Chance is always powerful. Let your hook be always cast; in the pool where you least expect it, there will be a fish.
           -- Ovid

PS listening...
The Doors, LA Woman.
Hawkwind, Silver Machine-my mother's old Bernina. M'ghrib blues 
Queen, Don't stop me now
The James Gang:,Funk #49
America, Horse with no name
Bachman Turner Overdrive, You ain't seen nothing yet
Led Zeppelin, Nobody's fault
Joe Cocker, Feelin' Alright
Bad Company, Feel like making love
Supertramp, The Logical Song
Jimi Hendrix, Hey Joe
Stevie Ray Vaughan, Little Wing  (that's my son now:)
Roxy Music, Love is the Drug
John Martyn, Solid Air
Bob Marley, I shot the Sheriff
Status Quo, Caroline
Boston, More than a feeling
Deep Purple, Black Night
Deep Purple, Hush

When my heart became constricted and my paths became narrow 
I took my hope in Your pardon and forgiveness as an opening and an escape 
My sins seemed very great to me but when I compared them to Your forgiveness 
I found Your forgiveness to be greater 
- Imam Shafi'

listening still...
The Rolling Stones, Honky tonk Women (she blew my nose, then she blew my mind...)
Santana, Black Magic Woman (blood letting extraordinaire !)
Thin lizzy, Whiskey in the Jar
Focus, Sylvia

It's funny that(being taken to task for the thing the accuser is an adept)

I'm like a confessor, a lightning rod-for others' sins. What I definitely ain't, is a spook. What you see, is what you get. That's meant to be a strength, but it's turned into a failing by others' neurosis. I too readily, coz I'm fundamentally a decent human being, allow myself to be the trash-can for their sins, the screen onto which they deflect their own short-comings and self-deceptions, so they feel morally invincible again. But you and I know that's ephemeral, and so the vicious cycle continues. I'm like a walking ink-blot for them. And the blotter. Makes me want to get blotto

The thought police are out to get me again, but I ain't letting them too close this time. 

The chinese sage says, feed ( their ) arrogance , even when it's presented -- and presides -- as something else, enough to even convince themselves they're the victim. The persecutor is mos the other side of the coin.

The most difficult part is just playing stupid. If I played otherwise, it'll piss everyone off, and don't have the energy any longer to fight, to whistle against the wind, piss against the breeze.

I've prayed for idiocy, lord knows I have. Perhaps I'm being granted it finally.

In the presence of the blind, dance, they that would not.

listening again...
Pink Floyd, Shine on, You crazy diamond
Queen, Bohemian Rhapsody
Eric Clapton, Let it Grow
Peter Frampton, Baby, I love your ways
The Rolling Stones, Brown Sugar   (!!!!!!!!!!!????:)

Right, can't fake it any longer... got to close me eyes, even if only briefly. Will I wake from this wake?

Sunday, 17 October 2010


People, teachers, who transform (class room) walls into windows, (that) open worlds beyond. Shukran. 


micro cosm

The whorl, coffee dregs design, when you drop them into water at rest.

Twirl, silently mushrooming. Expansive. Microcosmic clouds, bursting and frothing.

Life-ing themselves, taking the first breath.

Gulping the first breath.

Dusty liquid, dusky seeds. Blooming, blossoming. Morphing, mightily,  into cotton murmuring wool.

Not knowing their place, these drops, sudden and seamless, seaming, swooping, swimming clouds of ever-expanding, animate cotton wool.

Desert sand-storm. Sand song. Liquid storm in a Cup.

Free of its restraint. Its lifeless burden and gravity. The  tedious weight of its unknowable mortal sin.

Clouds please, they do, as they please, as they did, when I was still, a child. Always. moods beginnings.never ending.

Storms, in a Cup, clouds from my cigarette. Curling wisp-fully.


Curly, they call, me:)


thought for the day

Say, O my Servants who have transgressed against their souls! Despair not of the mercy of God: for God forgives all sins: for He is Oft-forgiving, Most Merciful.

-Qur’an 39.53

Language exerts hidden power, like a moon on the tides.
           -- Rita Mae Brown, Starting From Scratch, 1988

Jealousy is all the fun you think they had.
           -- Erica Jong, Fear of Flying, 1973

Do not consider painful what is good for you.
           -- Euripides

Preach not to others what they should eat, but eat as becomes you, and be silent.
           -- Epictetus

Saturday, 16 October 2010

...heir of the daw'g

unfettered, unhurried...

Reza Khota, with Solly Domingo, natural and gifted guitar players...

[#Babu #Live In #Antananarivo]

Tameez, following suit. If he doesn't burn everything in sight to the ground first in showing all the good qualities of a young man discovering the virtues and mysteries of fire

...gets a good tone, loping  -- much as he is; so always interests, tickles my ear, the same this eve, when I walk in on his bluesy riff work, uncertain and uneven, but nice, rich, warm, round.

... looks up at me, nonchalant, pick workman-like perched in his mouth, and says: Black Dog;  turns back to his muse, all concentration.

Brief synapse gap. Then, epiphany, light's on, voila.

Led Zeppelin's Black Dog ! One of the all time classic rabble-rousing, carousing, lice-killing, relationship-straining, paint-stripping sonic joys. Sonic boom. Boom-ba-ya

... making it his, on his own.

Black Dog !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Black Dog bit (Churchill), me, and now my son

Voila ! Or better still, in the lingua franca of Jozie, Eish! Shot! Ma-a-sha-llah! Ouch but eaze so-o ni-ice!

Per'shash !


The doctor who'd dedicated her life to treating lepers, treated her wounds with alcohol

We offered spirit-ual counsel. It seemed effete

Don't know if it helped, what became of her. I wish I did

I resorted  again, after seven years, to treating my own wounds with pharmaceuticals soon after.

the muezzin

Anton insisted that the ad'han should be called in B flat, to conform to neglected tradition. 
Appealing. But #urbanmyth. #des/s/ertmyth

heaven's door

Patrick ( Laureys ) would make me play Knockin' on Heaven's Door, like, all the time.I would strum it, he would sing it. It was a belter.

And Girl frrom the North Country.

We were seventeen at the time.  Pat Garret and Billy the  Kid we were.

He stopped knockin' at nineteen, succumbing to downers and booze.

Still imagine his wind-swept grave somewhere in France or Corsica.

Midzic, he was the Corsican bandit. And Pascal his acolyte. Me and Barrow. And sometime Forbes. We did a rendition of  If I had a Hammer.

That would get Trini Lopez out his rocking-chair.

We were so far from home.We still are

desai mansion

I still hear the cry, 'Kosalya'.

Ko-saal-yaah !!!!!

Where are you, Kosalya? Your Mother's looking for you. Again

And Kalawati? Bhalwan, and Softie? I'm looking for you, old friends and neighbours.

Still -- even more -- after all these years.

icons, baubles and a parrot

Bellini (guitars) and Black Diamonds, Raleigh bicycles in Krugersdorp. Hollywood House too in Krugersdorp. So Dr Dadoo, and Babla.

Not faraway, Ahmed Timol. Roodepoort. Deep. High School . Sookadia's Fish'n Ships. Billy Moonsamy.

Railway station.

Cajee's Bicycle Works. Got my first copy, seven single, Cat Stevens' Wild World

Wild, wild world, beyond that segregated park in Krugersdorp, where we were so severely humiliated and traumatized, all of  five years old, all of us. Pointed out, pointed at, jeered, howled at and out. And at five, I already rued over-riding my earlier decision not to go with the rest of the kids, 'cause I knew what would happen...

PS Parrot belonged to the Dadoo's, not far from Dr. Boorany's practice. What a practise...


i am

Ramble on, say Led Zeppelin. So I do.
Slip, slide away, says Paul Simon...and so the kids do on this fine Jozie afternoon
Living on love, fresh air, and bad self-composed poetry, I am
I am,  I said....Neil Diamond

the tortoise, and the hare

eating dry bread crust, still making amends 25 years on. Little mercies: it's a damn fine thing with a fresh, cold glass of milk

always lagging, the eternal straggler, who gave up caring, but cared still

other laggards spur me on actually.

(I'm) the tortoise. You?

the reluctant fundamentalist

Uniform/ity ( of ) Sex-ony, the global village, livery of the masses.

Bone-crunch clothing, blood staunching.

Aesthetic asphyxiation. Anesthetic

Long, accusing, bony finger, waves; wagers in all directions

Terse, taut, Hemingway; talismanic teller

cake/kyk is vry



its advertising, branding -- y'our 'rand. It's free!

[It is. really?]

ad vert'ego

y'am a run a way whore'n, free'k whey. the wird. the gourd awf ul d.git al d. men't ya; i say'd B', and you were, fash ioned out of b'its. run, run, the harder you run, the aarde to 'ide, your 'id' as brittle as your air vi ta': e vi ta, you whirl re'turn

di'a lect of skid zo' free n'ya? jis' say 'no. jis' du'a it. ban'k, your gourd on life. vi'abray't with co(s)mic vestness, yesness...

nerv'ous  cur leid oh scope
vacuous, d. c'it; re c'eat
pew t'rid plas tic

plas mapew ta'tiff
plugg Ed. inn pee'pearl

p. purls
s'weet s'wine
everywear yore d. pend en' c
d. ji till t.its

obese, pampered, ova air due catered me nee'ls, 

o'vine, nerv'  is hair bits, mist ache'n  tell err'nts. 

The F'rocky Sh'locker Ico'nah Shew

molecular delusion

cages wrought in gold, everybody's talking --and words brittle, digital mold

Ramases saying, singing, twirping, tweeting, stat'is updei'ting; circa 1971, from Space Hymns:

Molecular delusion, molecular delusion, molecular delusion
I am a voice crying in the wilderness
Molecular delusion, molecular delusion
I am a human caught in a world of conflict
Molecular delusion, molecular [fuck] delusion
I am part of everything that lives
Molecular delusion, molecular delusion
In the computer of my soul lies the secret of my living
Molecular delusion, molecular delusion
When I fall asleep I dream of things that stir inside me
Molecular delusion, molecular delusion
Where did I come from and where am I going to?
Molecular delusion, molecular delusion
Molecular confusion, molecular confusion
Molecular confusion, molecular confusion
I am a voice crying in the wilderness
Molecular confusion, molecular confusion


Friday, 15 October 2010

a lass in wan dill end

al'ice, gorn, to local clinic pho' rout'in 'flew tr'eat mint.

...the ray't things are thon'ging, they may as well  purr form dah' bill bye past sur 'jury

fried mourning

I'm n'er hap pill'y tyre'd.

Tie yid's (all weighs) a dark space

#define CrypticHash C7b5(#9); #smoking #hash; #playing #chords; #programming #c; maybe C# ; you're sharp, I'm flat. I say h'igh, you say #l'o

Thursday, 14 October 2010

waiting for godot

Cousin-brother used to say he was going to become a Marine Biologist.

Announced usually at the conclusion of  a Jacques Cousteau program, begrudging courtesy of the desiccated SABC

I'd say, a bit vindictively, what, like a fish-monger?

He fishes today, occasionally, at a local dam

TJ and the ninjas

You insist on donning the livery, the fatigues, the regalia, the garb with which you mean to say you're a person of God, in this instance being Muslim.  Than perforce act as one. It's quite simple, really

Show submission, humility and cleanness of heart, in demeanor and in your action

Else, you demean the thing you insist so forcefully to re/present, and embarrass those who prefer a steadfastly  quieter course

iron fist in a velvet glove

Ninja clad women, SUVs, chariots of steal...suburbia

Genteel storm-troopers, feline vanguard of monetary wahabi-ism.

Cross, of Iron.

Ta'weez of Steel


, 'twas in a private .Now, I scribble to a public void.

 to   to #Blogger 

Digital native, digital  

who ?

You listen to Who?

Yes !

No, not Yes,  The Who?

Be Free. The Free

Said Dr. No

PS You check the Robo, you turn left, right?. Right. No, not right, left. You check? The Traffic, Stevie Winwood's, that'd be right. Right?

guys will be Nina Simone

I'm not a wise guy, I'm not a funny guy, I'm not a stand-up guy,I'm not a good-looking guy. I'm not even a young guy.  I'm just a guy...whose intentions are good.

O Lord, please don't let me be misunderstood.

I'm a Nina Simone guy?

listening to the wind

The answer's blowin' in the wind.

If it's the wrong one, that's 'cause F# harmonic minor's so damn hard on this here tarnished traverse flute of mine.

And if it's Dylan, he's a shrewd marketer posing as a troubadour. A damn fine one yet, but poser nonetheless

storm, in a crack

With the first rains, the little remaining good sense on the roads in South Africa runs away, down the unmaintained storm-water  drain system --  already clogged with raw sewage and libertarian littering habits.

Drivers become (more) lawless. It's every man for himself, and God for all.

Except for the minor fact that God's given up on us recalcitrant Lot and fled the scene of his subjects's crime.

And the headline act? How do you disappear R44 billion? Why, budget it to the Houdini's of education. They've an act you and your children can't afford to miss

PS The same mandarins of magic,..and for our next filler act, we don't let the sh*t hit the fan, we let it rise ever so effervescently, metaphorically speaking, and literally through our drain-water system. We fiddle whilst the place floods. After all, it's just a variation on what that great bwana of European civilization Nero exemplified

Wednesday, 13 October 2010

para suicide

If there’s no or little sweetness, is there sense in living ?

power corrupts

make my day punk, piss on my park -- Dirty 'Hana

Man killed @ (ANC councillor) Rehana Moosajee's house for urinating in the park opposite

PS A neighbor's resident worker who was present attests that the violence, and arms presented, were initiated by the Councillor's security guards. A gun was trained on him and he fled. He refuses to give an official account as he's afraid for his life. The domestic worker grape-vine is abuzz; the chattering classes are not chattering about this.

Curiouser and curiouser


Told me many, many moons back, if you don't blow your own horn, no one else will

Huffin' 'n Puffin' on the flute...


As I get older, I've learned to listen to people rather than accuse them of things.
           -- Po Bronson, quoted in Publishers Weekly

The human heart is a strange vessel. Love and hatred can exist side by side.
           -- Scott Westerfeld, Peeps, 2005

One of the joys we have in being human is in exercising our freedom to choose and to take each case as it comes to us. We are not robots who are forced into behaviors by their programming. We see things; we think about things; and we choose our course of action or beliefs appropriately. And as long as that remains true of us, we will live every day of our lives on one slippery slope or another. There is no reason to fear this.
           -- Real Live Preacher, Real Live Preacher weblog, 03-23-06

Holding onto anger is like grasping onto a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else. You are the one who gets burned.
           -- Gautama Buddha

Monday, 11 October 2010

Bhabhi Barbie, blow ( it ) up doll

French MEP Rachida Dati confuses fellatio with inflation

lame spoon/erism: better to fell- your inflation -late than nether

f-air ex-chain'g (vows wows bau haus vra'u woes)

Wa'if'ee, wheedling; Out.Of.Something.

Duty; due to, hah!be -- so'licit 'n pretty, piety; pie 'n tea? Pi, square: "...but Fai'aiz'zil, I can't play guitar like you'oo..."

"I...can't play guitar like me..." Check?

Out! wit mi..mi't; d'ole phool. -- d' feat ert..

In di' ffer, ent...toe.

[s'til, d'earth do [aas] pra'art]


Slightly tarnished, but all told, in good nick. This year the Silver Jubilee.

Twenty five years ago they insisted that should I carry on, three months is what I had left, if that.

Twenty five years on, flickering still, free from addiction (there but for the grace…).  

Accolades, compliments, jeers, likes,  rotten tomatoes, indifference, deafening silence all welcome, to a rich compost for a life more aromatic(noisome?) and fertile...*takes bow as bus bears down on him*. 

My Band ( Fats, Raisa, Tito and Miks ), family, dear friends and detractors, real, virtual and imagined  -- you know not what grateful beast you help keep warm-and-alive. 

*the serenity prayer(using the word god as i do, and don't, understand it)
god, grant me the serenity
to accept the things i cannot change
the courage to change the things i can
and the wisdom to know the difference

and, using the word god as i do and don't understand it,

rab-i-zid-ni-ilma-ya-allah  ( my late mother, who refused to give up on me , even as Thanatos and I insisted, taught this as a central prayer for knowledge, secular and sacred)

Sunday, 10 October 2010


Maturity is only a short break in adolescence.
-- Jules Feiffer

Too many people are thinking of security instead of opportunity. They seem more afraid of life than death.
-- James F. Byrnes

We are confronted with insurmountable opportunities.
-- Walt Kelly, "Pogo" (comic strip)

Power corrupts. But it’s more that power attracts the corruptible. The sane are attracted by things other than power -- David Brin (1950- ), Author--------

Words are the physicians of the mind diseased

It is in the character of very few men
to honor without envy a friend who has prospered
-- Aeschylus
(525-456 BC) Greek playwright

PS Zane stopped over last night.

spinning a yarn


[story of an Irish fisherman, discovers a woman in his fishing net, be'lief a mermaid.]

...water sprite; relationship between her and Syracuse's daughter's need for healing, his recovery from alcoholism.

Syracuse, relapsed, told, ''misery's's happiness you have to work at."

[bumped wa'droon, and gay'bee aft', mos' x'silk]

-- Pat Metheny, pièce de résistance, Bright Size Life intersperses the sound track...

Saturday, 9 October 2010

looking at the river f'low

...small peace's, writ large'ss ..

... at nineteen; post release from a sanatorium where one might be held to loss of control, pharmaceuticals and (other) oddities, obtained, perused to the gains of a [high Ye!] il'im, to Know, un der stand

... child  l'earning , yearning, rest'o'ration...

...rough, always still, once-off re'hear'sill, the piece 30 odd y'ears later,  vocal/expression Jeremy: protégé-brother-teacher-warrior-muse-enemy-friend; the Yusuf, grande sun of the grande matriarch A'pa-Ma

...for You

Ps...he fuck'd the lyric up, from the time we qi'ds, Yusuf,  I Vent 'he Terre Bul....but as Bibi taut, "..ease n'er mind...", small smacks, nix neks, "Je' roam loy for you, most loy el for you..."

eat prey love

No need to plod through someone else’s fiction to figure that out

I do it daily in my gate'aux anyway


flocculent (f)lacebook flummery...flat-top flunkey-ism. Bag-ism, shag-ism, this-ism, that-ism... -ism is a miss. All we are saying, is give fleece a chance  -- John Phlegmon (a rat-row-spectre.F )

Friday, 8 October 2010


"A liberal is someone who feels a great debt to his fellow man,
which debt he proposes to pay off with your money."
-- G. Gordon Liddy
(1930- ) Lawyer, radio show host, former FBI bureau supervisor, former prosecutor, campaign manager for Richard Nixon

Thursday, 7 October 2010

speak to me/breath

[ru'h ba'rb]

dark sigh'd o' the moon

run, rarebit, run

[lirving in qui et desperation; ist..].

Wednesday, 6 October 2010

mood nes'

so, many shades, extreme
vague; nebulous

in a tear-drop
a microcosmos
in, finity
ever expanding
imp loding

re'verse, spiralling
mushrooming and ever changing
in a day, a minute

one minute noodles
one minute lifetimes
the guitar, bellini? black diamonds
blues with me
with my mother

long hair twirls
in the grave, mist
in the air
earth, wind, fire and ethos
ether, I mean; does it mean anything?

everyone crying for rain
i, singing sunshine superman
season of the witch
don-a-van, hit the road
like two old baalies
mine, still gives me odds
and ends unknown
space oddity
David Bow-your-E
sitting in a tin-can
floating in a most pe-peculiar way

dreaming, gravity hurts

(other) thought for the day
One will rarely err if extreme actions be ascribed to vanity, ordinary actions to habit, and mean actions to fear. -Friedrich Nietzsche, philosopher (1844-1900) 

Tuesday, 5 October 2010

reed! war't ?

...children-- adults putative --  elect to stay in state. in sit'u naked, innocence;  tabula rasa, blissful ignorance, al-fitra, garden of Eden safe, cosier, safer still. 

Remain wil'e fool'ly beautiful, beatifilly empty; untainted, by nibble or bli'te of apple, a bit on the side by the tree of nor leech.

OBE? Thought it an a'ward off the tit-ula' head-of-state off England, conferred per functor'ly. 

...meaningless in its consequence I s'pose. Hear, there and no wear 


If am to reveal all I am to, in the name of love, or some such higher ideal, commercialized into a non-recognizable bitches brew, then respect the risk you foist so carelessly. The same risk when you take, then breached, you complain bitterly so about.

The body corporate tired and fading, carefully yet  constructed thoughts and feelings, laid splendidly on a finally wrought platter, by neglect tu rn cold.

It wasn't just an sms, an electronic communique, the thing you brush it off as, when otherwise you scrutinize assiduously in your fine communications purse, twenty moments robbed with intent in the space of an hour that is ours?

It's like,'water, water everywhere, but not a drop to drink.  email, sms, facebook, phone, chat... so much communication, but nothing real gets through. Why bother at all then? It's easier, no? No expectation of a reply, a call whatever. I don't know. It's just all ridiculous to me right now. it's all fragmented and unpredictable, chaos. So, let's not set each other up then? When we're together, it's real. The rest of it surreal. So let's not get het-up about communications, and see it for what it is, a psychotic, desultory playground