archive - issue 18
- All
- AUDIOVISUAL
- POETRY
- WRITING
- Default
- Title
- Date
- Random
-
A selection from a series of polaroids and paintings "We are Definitely Heroes" that calls into question our self-obsessed nature through the lens of…Read More
-
de-identified examines the impact of facial recognition technology on individual privacy. Using augmented portraits of 19th century women and an imagined narrative, de-identified explores how…Read More
-
I doodled your name by force. Yes please. I was not going to be that girl who'd pass through her teenage years without ever…Read More
-
She’s a natural brunette. She has an incurable case of Resting Bitch Face. She’s a poet. She’s a dirt road that stretches into the…Read More
-
Image GalleryRead MoreView the embedded image gallery online at:Character resonating out hard into the environs: with physical manifestations in Heaven and Earth; for better or worse; meteorologically, geologically, technologically; synthesising…
https://itch.co.za/archive/issue-18/itemlist/user/1539-josephclaassen#sigProId2cbf4bd9ab
Joseph Claassen
Monday, 03 April 2017 22:22
Danger behaves a lot like clarity on random workday mornings
I have discovered I prefer to walk with it tucked safely
beneath my descending aorta –
to me, it is the last bit of comfort a dying man will see.
Some avoid it at every cost and I – like them –
lock doors, pay insurance,
stop at red lights most times.
Every chance it gets, it punches me into its satnav
and with claws out cruises like one lost,
finds me like one sent –
I would have tried to hide
in the days before my voice broke, but now
I take it in daily doses, keep it on the nightstand
like one who suffers chronic mediocrity –
It watches me still my daughter as she wakes,
hovers while I offer morning prayers
so I’ll remember to drive slowly like a person,
reeling in those moments not caught on the Internet.
beneath my descending aorta –
to me, it is the last bit of comfort a dying man will see.
Some avoid it at every cost and I – like them –
lock doors, pay insurance,
stop at red lights most times.
Every chance it gets, it punches me into its satnav
and with claws out cruises like one lost,
finds me like one sent –
I would have tried to hide
in the days before my voice broke, but now
I take it in daily doses, keep it on the nightstand
like one who suffers chronic mediocrity –
It watches me still my daughter as she wakes,
hovers while I offer morning prayers
so I’ll remember to drive slowly like a person,
reeling in those moments not caught on the Internet.
Sunday, 16 October 2016 21:25
Joseph: Starlin
Joseph: Starlin
He rolls up on me while I’m whatsapping
calls softly from the side to not scare me
out here in the city’s dukderm
a man can die for trying to help
or for being the wolf that laps the blood
of the tender-hearted
I don’t know
maybe I look like one who has money
my wife gets me these ties that say
‘I own something’
maybe he sees ‘father krismis’
written somewhere under my
tucked in tied down buttoned up façade
Whatever it is
he says his name and I say – Stalin? That’s your first name?
like S-T-A-L-I-N?
– ‘No’ he chuckles and spells S-t-a-r-l-i-n
Breakfast and lunch are folded in my top pocket
it was gonna be magwinyas now
Wacky Wednesday this afternoon
but these Madiba faces are burning my chest
next thing I know we marching out the kiosk
at the Total across Thorpe street
loaf brown nestling on his forearm
my tongue thickening to introduction
– by the way, my name is Joseph
He’s up from Pinetown looking for span
left his ma and bru them back home
desperate
alone
says he’s been sleeping at a shelter up on Jeppe Street
wants to waai back pozzie now
says this place is not… tears throttle the rest of his sentence
light fades again
on the killing floor of his hazed irises
All I can do now
is leave him with God
at home I have a wife
a new baby
and maybe tonight
sleep
He rolls up on me while I’m whatsapping
calls softly from the side to not scare me
out here in the city’s dukderm
a man can die for trying to help
or for being the wolf that laps the blood
of the tender-hearted
I don’t know
maybe I look like one who has money
my wife gets me these ties that say
‘I own something’
maybe he sees ‘father krismis’
written somewhere under my
tucked in tied down buttoned up façade
Whatever it is
he says his name and I say – Stalin? That’s your first name?
like S-T-A-L-I-N?
– ‘No’ he chuckles and spells S-t-a-r-l-i-n
Breakfast and lunch are folded in my top pocket
it was gonna be magwinyas now
Wacky Wednesday this afternoon
but these Madiba faces are burning my chest
next thing I know we marching out the kiosk
at the Total across Thorpe street
loaf brown nestling on his forearm
my tongue thickening to introduction
– by the way, my name is Joseph
He’s up from Pinetown looking for span
left his ma and bru them back home
desperate
alone
says he’s been sleeping at a shelter up on Jeppe Street
wants to waai back pozzie now
says this place is not… tears throttle the rest of his sentence
light fades again
on the killing floor of his hazed irises
All I can do now
is leave him with God
at home I have a wife
a new baby
and maybe tonight
sleep