SONDEVAL

Deur Marius Buys

In die tuin. . .

was daar n man. . .

Dis die man in die tuin en die groen gras groei daar rond. . .

en in die man, was daar n rib. . .

en in die rib, was daar n vrou. . .

en in die vrou, was daar n saad. . .

en in die saad, was daar n boom. . .

en in die boom, was daar n vrug. . .

en in die vrug, was daar n hap. . .

So. . . dis. . . die. . .

hap in die vrug,

en die vrug in die boom,

en die boom in die saad,

en die saad in die vrou,

en die vrou in die rib,

en die rib in die man,

in die Tuin waar AAAL daai nonsens begin het. . .

en hoekom die gras altyd groener aan die anderkant lyk.

HARTSTOG

Deur Marius Buys

My godin u mond,

sagte kus op smagbaare lippe

aangeraak met die uitlokking wat daaragter wag. . .

Bloed stort soos n wilde waterval deur my hart. . .

bruis taboe gedagtes deur my brein. . .

en verbode visioene,

van satyn en verstrengelde lywe,

wat soos vegtende slange daarin verdwyn.

LANKAL VRY

Deur Marius Buys

Gevangene

sy laaste maal. . . smullend. . . onnatuurlik bly

sy wag, vra oor die vreemde vroom voor die ewige nag.

Met oe vol lewe verduidelik die man:

"Kyk hoe die sonlig , die tralievenster, tralieloos in my glasbak reflekteer...

met elke hap verskuif, degenereer...

die ligkurwe verander in die nagereg se val, reelmatig. . .pal.

My geheim,

kan ek jou vertel,

deur daardie venster,

is n wereld sonder julle traliehel.

Ek,

is eintlik,

nie hier. . .

ek's net n prentjie in jou brein. . .

soos goebekende lirieke in n woordelose refrein. . .

ek's lankal deur daardie venster bevry, voor hy vernou, my virewig vashou. . .

in julle verbroude lewenskou. . .

julle wagte sien slegs julle eie drogbeelde wat julle in julle koppe aanhou van my. . .

ek's lankal vry. . .

Son toe.

LIEFDE IS. . .

Deur Marius Buys

Liefde is. . .

lig na donker

vir die mot, wat

dringend. . . kringend. . .

die liggod vind. . .

met genot verslind. . .

vergete die noodlot skoppelmaai. . .

van neongluu en hellevuur.

TIRED WORKAHOLIC

TIRED WORKAHOLIC
By Marius Buys

I yearn to flay me down, under a warm duvet,
to my brains very own club prive.

Oh how to end this dreary, post work malaise ...

To which, I quaff a mead, sweet mothers milk that it is,
and cut loose my eyelids from their heavy, self imposed, locks...

and to stop this silly strain to shut up shop.

IRISH CUPPACHINO

IRISH CUPPACHINO
by Marius Buys

I am but a poor verbal jester,
Who seeks to joust with thee,
in fair entanglement...

To mix opinion, to stir belief, to enthrall each other with the basic, mystic, building blocks of co-mutual fascination.

To cappuccino or not to cappuccino...
that is the question in my mind as I have mere perceptions of you,
and can only start our possible journey,
by giving you,
a glimpse, into me... my slightly more sensual side, which might appeal or might repulse.

Who knows in this chess-game of the heart ,
where all is fair, and, to break the rules, seems to be the only rule.

Thus...
‘Tis wiser in my mind to drink from many cups,
lest one not suffer the boredom that even the most vibrant taste sensation,
drunk from too often,
inevitably will deliver...

the true adventurous soul, who thrive on that elusive and fickle companion,
- stimulation.
Would you like, and do you have some to offer?

I yearn to bring together the cream, the java, the scotch and the gumption,
Into a glowing and enthralling irish cappuccino of co-engineered infatuation,
and a truly memorable encounter of the first kind?

Do I drink from the cup of love...always.
Love, in whatever form she desires to grace my presence,
is thee most important visitor on my planet.
She is not dependent on me, nor is she an interruption in my life, but the purpose of it.
She is not an outsider, but an integral part of it.
I am not doing her a favor by my servitude,
It is She who graciously gives me the opportunity to do so...

Will I drink from your cup? Maybe...

To express what is said by senses other than oratory is surely superfluous.
Rather then outrageously flirt and let the magma from the erupting volcano take its course…

I,
the amateur hedonist and bumbling love buffoon…
merely wish to rewrite the apex of bohemianism as my unique social therapy,
and thereby,
selfishly redefine the most happy of sweetest taboo's.

PHOENIX
by Marius Buys

In candid animation I see my sun's smile about to break through, and yet, remain, eerily suspended, forever on the verge. An elusive shimmer of light pretending to be shape...

I imagine me... a mutual muse, a long lost kindred spirit... awaiting resurrection,
like a trapped Phoenix under a sheet of emotional ice,
seeing, and never feeling, the warmth from your sun face...

My, by now so familiar, shout, wells up and courses mightily through my being until it bursts, uncontrollably,
from my lungs and out of my mouth - "Are you there!"
and the echo's mockingly return from the ice - "there, here, ere, re"
and fades into the vast nothing I face when I wake up form my empty and cold bed,
wide eyed and sweating, at three in the morning...

Sometimes...

as I drift restlessly back into sleep,
my soul hears a faint reply,
barely a whisper,
delaying my self imposed imitation of death...

only to be swallowed by the terrible void of meaningless, irrelevant-intra-personal-clutter,
the authenticity-detached-absurdity the human race calls;
"normal conversation".

Can anyone indeed
be so…
consistently fine for so long?
or so
consistently and convincingly lie to itself for so long?

Or could any honesty find an empathic but neutral and awkwardly standard reply...
and so, we necessarily substitute, with safe niceties.

There's that whisper of reality again!
I wait, holding my breath, feeling my heart beat expectantly for air to feed it again, the beats becoming more demanding, urgent.

Did I just imagine it or was there a real reply? Doubting, I wait, a little more, but, nothing...again... just like all the other times...

And so I call, shout, scream, search hammer and claw

and wait...
and desperately wait...

until... I die,
trapped in the dark-dead-dreary-watery grave below... separated forever from the life-giving air above...

or

until..I live,
your sun to shines it's warmth on the face of this gasping… embattled… Phoenix…
unfreezes this forlorn emotional hell of an unwanted ice age...

into a neo-resurrection.

Nkosi Sikelela Dark Afrika

NKOSI SIKELELA DARK AFRIKA
by Marius Buys

(With apologies to Simon and Garfunkel)

Hello darkness my old friend,
You’ve come to share load with me again,
came into the office without calling,
delivered your Eskom message without warning,
and blank pc screen is all that I see now,
and still somehow,

I fear the sound...of silence.

Get your work done come what may,
I heard my boss so wisely say.
Now in the dim light I must work alone,
with squinted eyes and heart of stone.
Oh generator please can you ease my pain,
come start up your motor for I’m really taking strain.

with more sounds... of silence.

2010 I heard them jest,
Will not see the country at its best,
Down from copier to carbon sheet,
From traffic light to darkened street...

we bear these sounds...of silence