25 November 2024

Three people sit at a table, drinking beer—one man, two women. The man is positioned between them. The women appear to be vying, battling, for his affection.

The woman on the left is fiery—red, fierce, speaking. Her hand makes a penetrating gesture into a beer can. The other two receive her words. She must be the single one, trying to intrude on the couple. A disruption.

The man seems pure, surrounded by white and shafts of light. The woman on the right has a gentler pattern rising above her. The red woman is placed highest in the composition, the woman on the right second-highest, and the man sunk lowest. I suppose all these subtle placements send a subconscious message, revealing the real discussion taking place beneath the surface.

26 November 2024

With a voice like seven peals of thunder. Eat this book.

West meets East, with an angel mediating.
She buzzes like a fridge.
She is like a detuned radio.
This image has left the planet.
The bias of the director.
Her agenda.

27 November 2024

Where are you in here?
Write this down. Seal this up.
Reveal. Conceal. Real. Veal. Veil. Deal. Teal. Tail. Vale. Pale.

A bowl receiving light—light penetrating and filling the bowl.
Skin from the inner thigh peeling off.
Defecation with some kind of cap, plug, or container.
The Diederik’s cuckoo sings in a minor key—my favourite bird call this time of year.

I must remember that I have a lot of Afrikaans in my brain too, mixing with the English sounds.
Cuck. Kak.

This image is leaving its context.
Lightning strikes. Catching it in a jar.
Pearls swimming in the nonsense.
Significance hiding in the pointlessness.
Diamonds in the rough.
Taking a chance.
Zama-zama.

Out, out—go out!
Rasping for air.
Sitting in the sweltering heat.
Camel toe.

There is no direct line of communication between these people.
Their direction of thought seems to meet somewhere above them.
And I think I found my pearl.

A tear—not of water, but of fire.
You’re going to sit there and watch me burn.
Wow.
Look at her burning.