Superheroes

If we go back in history and look at the mighty men and woman who graced the pages of the comics, blew our minds and eye sockets on the big screen or the toys that we eventually threw away with age. But lets be honest, we never grow up, we love the mystery, the romance and the action they portray. What we would give to be the damsel in distress being saved by a hunky beefy man with a skintight  super suit. How are they made? Some radioactive freaks made from a genetic spill gone bad making a huge giant of man, who is green and sports a pair of purple pants that expand and contract and never rip off with every change. or the Dork turned superhero from a tiny spider, one little bite had him spewing webs and climbing on walls. Then comes superheroes that are made from money, the dark knight with the man abilities of flight and awesome gadgets that will make any girls panties flair up or at least explode. The man from a distant planet with the ability to crush a car, or fly and hear a cat peeing on a tree. all these guys either are dressed skin tight, or half naked, muscles rippling and have girls and sometimes boys fainting. Why are we mesmerized? Why do we want to super powers, we are human, we have enough power within ourselves to do anything. Save the Rhinos, protect a president from a bullet, trying to stop global warming. We have it in us to be great, and some people just have 'IT'. For me the people that are lights in the darkness, or the people in white coats, they are our superheroes, they save life's, they make it better. They are our doctors.

Doctors are magical, with the ability to fly from one side of the hospital to the other in the blink of a human eye. or the ability to bring someone back from the brink of death with some magic beans aka medication. They never stop to amaze me, inspiring me want to be a better person. Want to help the needy, but we weren't all born with the ability to heal and cut, some of  us paint and write. While my Grandmother was sick and in the hospital, i never wanted to go to the hospital, never wanted to see her ill, i wanted to remember her as she was, not the lady in the bed. But the day i went i was not disappointed with the angels in whites ability to care, to help to make the family feel better, then it dawned on me, why do they do it? why do they want to help and heal, because they are superheroes, they dont need purple short shorts no matter how awesome and funny that would be , they don't need to flash their abilities. They dont need muscles to fix and help you, they need hands, miracle hands. Like the dark knight they are driven to do good, like the hulk they change and adapt to their surroundings, like the superman they hear the pain, cure the pain and then fly off into the distance to next needy person. The radioactive spiderman, not saying they can hang upside down, but they do have the energy of an atom bomb, doing 24 hours shifts and still put on a comforting smile. Doctorman doesn't really have that awesome ring to it , but who needs tights and spandex when they have white coats. The rock the wards, they rocked my mind. They are a blinding inspiration.

Internal War

For centuries people have fought for beliefs, religion or land, now a new battle line has been made, you need to divulge a plan to defeat the new threat, problem is, you can’t see it with the naked eye. An internal war within the micro organisms that make up a body, although we cant see the war, we feel it. Violent Guerilla tactics are deployed in a battle between a foreign invasion. The conflict between the forces that heal and grow our being. The struggle within your own body sometimes causes an unexpected and spontaneous combustion from within, an escalation of inside happenings causes the wheels and cogs to turn backwards, they loose control. The foreign intruder nests in the places where the cogs steadily grinded, there it has waited. The battles have just begun.

Making a castle in your temple of self worship, the invasion has reached maximum effect, tanks, guns and bullets echo off the walls of your once proud cavity. Inflicting pain and suffering within your home. The foreigners patrol the hallways, gate keep and watch and inflict torture on the captives they hold in their cages of emptiness.  The invaders kill their king and divide and spread, making new places to carry out their deeds. They hurt you deeper as the tunnel into your soul. Their fighting amongst each other causes them to barricade themselves into the carved and hollowed out spaces they once held in high esteem, now they cower, not afraid of themselves but the impending doom. The final hour is near, they wait. Bitter, they try hurting you to the full force of their capability, fight to the death, they say no white flag. Hearing the trumpets and horns of heavens army, their blades of renewal and goodness are coming. Hold on, the Armageddon for the enemy of the body is here, sounds of the white army killing the corrupted cells can be heard in every fibre of your human form.

One by one the soldiers perish, they are devoured by the sound of slaughter, cut from cavities they carved, removed from the places they called theirs, they are annihilated. With the sound of sweet silence, and stench of sterility, the holes start to mend, using hope as the thread and life as the needle. Sewn closed, the soul replenishes and gives birth to a new existence. With the invaders removed from the gaps that cogs once rotated, new wheels and cogs form, stronger and more resistant to intruders, now cogs do not roll over for foreign policies, they roll over them, crushing their envious, futile lives. You prevail. You succeed. You win.

With the battle won, you are the victor and conqueror of invasion. Hail the greatness and beauty you are, go on and prosper.

Alpha Barbie

Plastic, perfection and beautiful? The little, young minded girl, playing with her dollies, seeing the beauty the doll is, and never realising real people are not perfect until it is to late. Mis-guided fantasy to reality. Does the playing imagination, get shaped into a false perception of the ‘real’ world? Barbie, the must have toy for girls everywhere, behind the plastic see through box is the biggest liar in toy history.

Skinny, flat, toned and ‘natural’, some words to describe Barbie body, like a one faced army lying in wait to bought and played with. Who is playing with who? Making Barbie’s perfect world, cars, houses, Ken, all accessories to her existence, all objects. The little world absorbs the girls imagination, making it her place, as she is living through Barbie, basing all decisions on what the Barbie ranges carry. There is only a pink car, the girls new favourite colour is pink, Barbie has make up on, the little girl is 6, wearing make-up. Basing sanity and rational thought on a ‘toy’. Barbie has a variety of dolls, Theresa the Brunette doll, so the dark haired girls can find common ground with the doll and in essence see themselves in her when they are playing ‘House, House’. Making dolls in different races reaches every little girl. If they can afford it.

Barbie has its own idealization and standards, its all about status and having more. My Barbie has fifty eight outfits, three cars, two houses, three Kens…the more the girl has promotes and shows dominance and a sense of power over the girls with less, becoming the talked about ‘it girl’ or ‘queen bee’. In having the best and becoming the best does this come out in latter teenage life when talking behind backs and being jealous takes place. The quest to stand out and be noticed starts at a young age, when Barbie is being played with, or Barbie playing the girls strings like a puppet?

Shaping on Barbie, her beauty, perfection, the femme fatal. All the glam she stands for hits the girl’s reality when they see pimples, hair growth, body changes… normal reality is nothing like the Barbie said it would be. Thus the girls esteem is dented when the ‘it girl’ strides past all beautiful and lustful, as Barbie is. Barbie makes rivalry, if her range carried the fat friend or the spotted geek,  in society it would be ok, because in the girls shaping of the mind days, she would see a difference, and something’s are not perfect, thus it would be normal to see difference and parodies to beauty.

One of the riches brands in the world, a perfect woman made out of plastic. Older woman even shape themselves on the plastic notions of a toy. Barbie has small facial features, tight skin, and huge breasts, therefore I want that, so I can be noticed. Barbie makes everyone want attention, and to get it you must have the best weapon, to make someone stare. Paparazzi love celebs because they love attention, they stride for perfection and when not found the world see’s their true forms and flaws, and disregards them because media considers them to not be ‘it’ anymore.

The questions is, will the big lie of beauty ever be stopped, or will the brain washing continue, all told without words, without a voice. Just a smile through a pink plastic box. Mommy, can I have a Barbie, pretty please!

Beating an Angel.

A casual greeting at the entrance to an elegant home, an invite to grace the couches presence, the ambience is relaxed. The nanny nestles the toddler on her lap, braiding her long blonde angelic hair, she watches the brightly coloured animals dancing across the television screen. The care giver chatting to her ‘friend’, and then without warning chaos erupts like the Icelandic volcano. The home invader whose smile and friendliness was only a mask to gain access into the house forces himself forward off the couch, lunging at the unsuspecting nanny and child. He brutally attacks the nanny, punching her in the face, with the jolt the baby hits the floor. The caregiver flops back into the sofa, blood rushing from her bloating nose and eye, she is dazed and confused. She tries to focus and all she can see is a figure moving, dancing on the defenseless toddler. The cries and shrieks of the baby raining through the house, cries for help, the intruder beats on the child, kicking , hitting and damaging the powerless angel. Satisfied, he walks back to the nanny, wails on her for abit. Ties her up, has a last kick at the now unconscious baby. And begins to rummage through the house.

Hearing a knock at the door, he invites his friends for a quick free sale of stealing. They walk past the nanny who is crying, and they politely step over the toddler, giggling. The home invaders who are alien to the house examine every inch of where the valuables could be stored or hidden. Pulling out draws, throwing the objects they don’t suffice as being worthy enough for them to take. Breaking glasses like the bones of the child who is battling to breathe on the soft green carpet. Laptops, money in the draws and the television they were all watching earlier is unplugged and carried out by the intruder’s friends. They have completed their mission of hatred and crime. They bid farewell to their ‘friend’ who remains shocked and disfigured on the one seater couch. They aren’t without manners you know.

Now alone in the house, she tries to untie herself but is unsuccessful. She watches the lifeless body at her feet drift in and out of consciousness, she sheds more tears, this is her fault, she invited in the assault. Trust is earned not based on a casual hello. A little while later she hears the door unlock, fearing it is the criminals coming to do further damage she lets out a boisterous scream for help. It’s the little girls mother, she runs into the lounge to find destruction, blood and a dwindling soul. Frantic she phones the ambulance, the police and her husband. She is mortified and distraught at the situation, she helps the beaten caregiver, and holds her baby who is bleeding and blue, but thankfully still breathing and fighting for life. She is rushed to the hospital, the nanny accompanies.

In intensive care the life force of a courageous fighter continues to grasp at her yet unlived life that has been dented by criminals. A few days on, the nanny admits defeat and reveals the truth. They never broke in, they were invited in. A toddler is fighting for life due to someone else’s negligence. It is time for South Africa to stop these death dealers, bolt them into a dirty, cold cell and leave them to rot. That’s the easy way out, they should be beaten until they cry and bleed, they should be dealt what they give out, pain. This little fragile angel was defenseless and powerless, and they still wailed on with the full force of a thousand suns. Now she lies in a sterile bed instead of playing with toys and smiling. They have now influenced the whole course of her life, she will never be the same. And neither should these humans, and I use the term ‘humans’ loosely, as they are not worth the oxygen provided by the earth. Now suspects have been arrested, who turns out are foreigners from one of our neighbouring countries, did they only come to South Africa to commit horrendous acts of violence? The law must back hand them with a sentence worth the suffering of bloody battle of war. Let’s hope and pray this baby lives and gets better. It is time for us too take the land back, take the criminals by their dirty paws, and string them up like cattle, and impose sentences that are worth their devious and demented crimes. They must suffer the full force of the law, and then some. No mercy, no easy way out. The only place they are going is best described as the ‘hard house’, for many reasons…

 The question, do we need the death penalty? Or is that not humane, well neither is beating a toddler.

Night with Edward Cullen the Rapist

The smell of antique pine and the soothe smell of aged leather filled the nostrils of the flustered onlookers. The heat in the room soared to the catacombs of the suns fiery pits, the sweat dripped from the faces; they politely wiped the intrusion of the unplanned lactation of the forehead, they then continued their irreverent conversation. The cautious prowl, the sound of footsteps, the soft breeze caresses your soft skin as someone passes by, the glance to see who it was that changed the air. A mysterious, dark person gazed into your eyes, stealing a moment. Your heart began to beat like a marching bands drum, the vibrations as the wooden floor boards shuddered at the presence walking across the Persian rugs, roaming through the crowded drawing room.

A boisterous voice bellowed from the stranger, they greeted your ambience. Anxious, you replied with an honest, warm gesture of appreciation. The conversation was guarded, mature and deep. Through the misty mumblings protruding from the mouths, subtle eyes wandered, examining the clothing, the hand movements, the masked smiles and laughs. The empty void that protected the strangers disappeared as the chat became fluffy, cheeky and humorous. The chemistry flowed like the words from a history book that nestled in the dust on the cherry oak wood bookcase that towered above the two caught up souls.

 The sound of the coming storm bustled in the distance, wise cracks of thunder and powerful bolts of lightning sexed the landscape. The two captured people continued their conversation, reluctant to stop talking, they wanted to explore the vast playground that imploded in the other’s mind. Eager to fish for truth, extract the past and pierce any hint of emotion. Yet the mysterious fellow did not express any sign of emotion, bordering on absent. Why was I so captured by this person’s aura?

 As the days pasted, the truth I longed for was juiced out onto a canvas, in all shades and demeanors, this mystery was art. This being was built like a sculpture, pure clayed perfection. Their mind rained from the eras, expressing a vast amount of knowledge and ideas, showing the history that passioned them, exploring the mind was as if he was reading the pages off that reflected off their soulful eyes. I was glamoured.

 Amidst the happiness, I found myself being drawn like a stick figure next to the Mona Lisa. My thoughts were not mine, they were shared, the way I dressed was styled by the lovers ensemble of servants in the decadent Victorian castle where a portrayed my life. I had fell victim to an entity that was like no other.

So I began to watch, they would never enter into a place without being asked in, they were very pale and in some instances glowed like diamonds, they never shared dinner time. Were they just private, or too chivalrous and courteous to enter ones home, did they have thick skin and did not burn and when did they eat to keep in such pristine condition.

I then felt a cold chill down my spine, and a warm body behind my back, I turned around only to be met by the face, the beautiful face of the mystery miracle.I wanted to express my heartfelt need for the truth, so I poured out my soul. Taken back they stepped back into the shadows, stood there, heavy breathing. And in an instant they were right next to me, breathing on my neck, their strength and power could be felt as they smelled my soft clean skin, I wanted to scream. But, I was strangely captivated. I glanced back into their eyes, they opened their mouth, and two fangs relaxed into their jaws. My heart sank, my body collapsed, my mind was left wandering.

I woke up the next day in my king sized bed, met with the greeting sun’s hello, I was dazed and confused, was it all a dream? Then a warm hand expelled itself from the sheets, caressing my lower back as the tiny hairs began to stand at attention, Goosebumps railed and brailed my skin. Our eyes caught, raw animalistic love was bound in the cris crossed stare, I felt one, I felt connected, I felt free and immortal. They grinned and those two little fangs made an appearance, yet I smiled and rubbed the healing bite marks in my hot laced neck, I truly was now bound to another, drawn as an equal and sexed like a demon, I could not wait to spend another night with a vampire…

Huma[phobia]

A phobia, an extreme irrational fear or an aversion to something. A dislike for a specific group or thing. Someone who has the fear is met with horror, terror and neurosis. They are scared of the different and the unwritten, they fear change and the out of the ordinary. Huma[phobia] – a misunderstanding of individuals lifestyles.

To the people who are not considered as ‘normal’ by society, the ‘trans-gendered’, the ‘gays’, the ‘transvestites’, the ‘nudists’, the ‘fetishist’s’. They suffer from a condition called Humaphobia, the fear of the people who are different to themselves, the majority of society. The people, who judge them, point and stare, the bullies of the minorities. Not all people hate the ‘expressionists’ of society, they try and understand it without being judgmental. Life through the magnifying glass is not an easy cross to bare, but these ‘colourful’ people can’t be anything else except for themselves, so why ridicule and crush their spirits? It all stems back to those seven ‘deadly’ sins, although we all have them, people who suffer from insecurities are more prone to them.

Pride, the addiction and desire to be more important and superior to another, they achieve this by either physical or verbal abuse, this transpires into the eventual emotional abuse, as the ‘colourful’ person will be left in the shadows, bludgeoned, bleeding and crying. Envy, the resentment of another person who has something they perceive themselves as lacking. If a trans-gendered person drives the latest BMW, and has the best house and perfect lawn, an envious person will look on in jealousy and may often act out. Wrath, the destructiveness, violence and hate that explodes. Looking at the current, take a club that has been cut in half, half straight, half gay, when someone who is consumed by wrath moves into the ‘gays’ designated area, he may explode in a fit of anger and rage and hurt someone because of his lack of understanding and hatred for a group.

Greed, the pursuit of wealth, status and power. The person will stand on anyone to get to the top, and stay there. Whether it is by spreading rumours, exposing secrets and threatening blackmail. For example, knowing someone as the hardcore businessman by day and the floating Bella Bella Dona by night, laced in pearls and dowsed in glitter and makeup. The person, who lusts for greed, will use this information to get a foot up. Pouncing on someone’s alternative lifestyle is a huge flaw in the human character. Sloth,

The failure to use ones gifts and talents, if a person is lazy and has no ambition, they will sponge off others to feel part of something. They go through life like a tortoise, expecting people to just give. They use minorities to do their work, they are good at manipulating and will work someone over because they make them feel inferior because of a particular orientation. Lust, excessive love of others. If a straight guy sleeps with a few girls over weekend he is the ‘man’, if a girl does it she is a slut. If a gay does it, it’s like the ‘oh well’ effect, because through stereotypical views it is considered part of the lifestyle, to sleep with every tom dick and dick. This perception of the alterative lifestyle is frowned upon by main stream society and therefore an intense dislike for that minority manifests, yet in ‘straight’ life, it still ok. Just because its two men, or two woman makes the majority uncomfortable. But, after the thought of hate for the alternatives, they get on the phone and call their swing buddies for a F***fest.

Unfortunately, this is how the world works, the world is not balanced between the ‘normal’ and the ‘alternative’ lifestyles. It is either right or wrong. So there is a sense of Homophobia and a new kind of phobia, Humaphobia, the fear of mainstream society hurling bricks into their faces. To make it clear, everyone has phobias, but people who take certain phobias to the extreme where they act out verbally, physically or emotionally, they are what is wrong with society, not people who are ‘different’. If you don’t understand something and are not willing to try find out, shut your pie hole and just look on. There is no point in someone getting angry at someone because they like being naked in public, or they like the same sex, just let it be. If this mindset of just letting people be was in all members of society brains, the world would be a better place. So whether you are gay, straight, bisexual, transgendered, just live your life to the full and let others do the same. Free yourself, free your mind and free your heart. 

 Like I said, it is just a fear, not a reality in all.

Lonely Crystal

Inside, within and enveloped, your mind knows best, yet your heart lingers on banter and crumbs of obsession. Hanging on the words of a dream, a twisted reality, you beg and pine for them to end your crush, yet they spin webs. Webs spun from silk and happiness, your body sewn, entombed. Warm and cozy your soul lays and dwindles, feeding off tossed hope and pieces of you. Your darkness talk comes from a place that you keep at bay and to yourself, you store yourself within yourself, to hide from your own insecurities. Like a crystal you are born from the depths, the bowls of a foreign existence.

The heart of a crystal is jaded, edgy and hard, and like its heart, yours mirrors a crystal only it’s encased in cages, sealed with muscles, lined with tissue and opening valves only at the right instances, filtering what you deem inappropriate to help you live. You filtered me out, made me part of the monotone colours that cover your canvas that you call the life. Born from earth, yet like a rock from distant galaxies, your mystery, your uniqueness captivates us. You crash into our soil with no respect for where you land or for who you land on, your crash took us by surprise and blinded me with your illusion and intrigue.

Sparks deter our vision and thoughts, your crystal blinds the mere mortal rocks, we lie around your crash sight, charred and burnt, yet not broken or faded. We heal ourselves by having happiness and support in our mortal mass, you stand alone, defiant and beautiful. As the tears of rain fall, water moves the crystal and stones together, like a blender we wash, rub and cut the crystal, deep, long and often painful cuts along the circumference of your body, yet, we still can’t penetrate the cages that guard your icy core. Unable to cut to change you, we cut to shape your fragile existence.

Through it all our journey was good, only deceit and strings pulled me away and got the better of me. The new carver is amazing, may they clean up your sharpness, abrasiveness and roughness, you need a strong steady hand to move your marble covered emotion. Play hard little crystal, you will end up wrapped around some body’s finger, an aesthetic, an object, a thing.


Sparkle, shine and gleam, self love, self hate, you are the perfect stone. Cold!