The Uninvention of the Dream

The uninvention of the dream began with a song. The lyric was heard echoing in the most unexpected places. Here, there, somewhere.

And then another

and then another.

The uninvention of the dream neither happened where they wanted it to happen, nor where they thought it might happen. The uninvention of the dream, thus, was expected – and unexpected.

The uninvention of the dream was a story that they told again and again. In bars, on the street, in their houses, to theirselves, their family, their friends, their enemies.

The uninvention of the dream was a whisper.

The uninvention of the dream was passed from generation to generation – like a broken telephone, it was received in all the wrong ways.

But the uninvention of the dream refused to die.

The uninvention of the dream  lasted, and will continue to last, as long as there are dreams to be uninvented.

The uninvention of the dream was a dream uninvented – and so the uninvention of the dream lay unseen.

Still the uninvention of the dream has been sighted by the lost ones, the confused ones, the wanderers, those who hope, those who pray, those who (mis)understand, the lovers, the dreamers, the dreamers.

The uninvention of the dream has always been in the hands of the dreamers.


The uninvention of the dream has always been in the hands of dreamers.


And dreamers have been heard singing from the most unexpected places. Here, there, somewhere.

And then another.

And then another.

The uninvention of the dream began with a dream.

The Cloths of Earth

I have spread my dreams under your feet;

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

  • W. B. Yeats


Now that I have your dreams, what would you I do with them? Should I put them in a bag where I store the dreams of past lovers, and give them away to weary passersby? Would they take them? Would that offend you? Or maybe I should lock them up, watch over them. Make sure that, should you ever need a dream – I can give them back to you one by one.

Love, like memory, can be lost.

Sometimes, it begins with a whisper.

This is how we dead men talk to each other.

-Jack Spicer


Love, like memory, is a long term project

Sometimes, it begins with an idea.


Must I disappear for you to see me?

-A one line review of Lemonade

Love, like memory, is a habit

Sometimes, again.


I am not standing still

I am lying in wait.



Now that I have your dreams, I stand here and wait – again.



Look up. Step up. Meet the challenge. Get hit. Fall down. Look up. Step up. Get hit again. Doubt. Spiral. Try to start again. Falter. Reject. Fail. Wander. Dance. Get hit again. Look up. Walk. Stagger. Take a step. Fall. Get up. Fall. Get up. Fall. Wallow. Roll around in the mud. Get your clothes dirty. Learn to clean your clothes. Try not to look up. Tell yourself that up doesn’t exist. Resist the temptation. Look up anyway. Get up. Step up. Meet the challenge. Get knocked hard. Harder than you ever thought you could. Survive. Look around. Get up. Develop a god complex. Ride the wave. Grow expand. Take the hits. Get knocked down. Lose your god complex. Keep going. Keep getting hit. Fall down. Stumble. Develop impostor syndrome. Doubt yourself. Stay down. Watch others keep going. Wallow. Breath, Recuperate. Recover. Look up. Step up. Step down. Doubt. Step up; tentatively. Feel around. Look for solid ground. Falter. Doubt. Falter. Look up. Get up. Get hit. Fall. Get up. Get hit. Fall Get up. Get it. Stay up. Grimace. Smile. Get hit again. Stay up. Get hit. Take a step. Get hit. Step up. Meet the challenge. Make a breakthrough. Coast. Cruise. Get hit. Get hit. Get hit. Get hit. Get hit. Get hit. Get hit. Get hit. Fall. Grimace. Smile. Look up. Step up. You’ve been through this before.

I don’t feel like naming this poem

We, who have decided to go on with living life or dying along the path.

We, who once walked on all fours to find nothing more than a sandwich and two pieces of ham.

We, who saw the wounded and had no way to ease the suffering other than platitudes, and love letters.

We, who have told and retold stories against the recurring stupidity of war heroes.

We, who gather in silence, by the sound of the evening, listening to echoes.

We, who hear.

We, hark, beckon, call.

We, learn, stumble, fall.

We, speak, are spoken to.

We, start again.

We, start again.

We start again.


We, who have decided to go on with living life or dying along the path.

We get up.

Musical Chairs

Somewhere a lost people send echoes of faded memory across the sea.

And they dance to the rhythm of the pain of time, fractured.

1 and 2 and 3 and 4 and

Step and

1 and 2 and 3 and 4 and




The rain, you said, reminds you of a time when you were young. When the entire world conspired to keep you shielded from itself and things seemed simpler. The rain, then, was not the sound of the impending power cut or a possible leak in the roof. Instead, it was the sound of the earth quenching a great thirst. And nothing feels better than relief.

It is in this way that you empathise with the earth when it rains. Parched grounds often look starve of the world’s selfcare. As if somehow rain is the world congratulating itself for a job well done.



These words that refuse to be written, or even thought of, were meant to be about something. However, this thing too, refuses to be written or thought of.

You wonder if this thing, like the parched ground, is in need of the attention of your selfcare.

(it’s still raining)



If music is capsuled memory, is it possible to overdose? If I popped six pills of music less than 24 hours would I need to have my ears pumped by a specialist? Would they send me for months of therapy asking where everything went wrong? Wondering how, after all the things that were given to me, I would still want to touch that which is just outside reach?



The rain, like music, only exists in cycles. The rain, like music, is nothing more but nature and history repeating itself. The rain, like music, has rhythm. The rain, like music, reminds you of a less complicated time. The rain, like music does not ask for permission.



This poem is not about rain.

Nor is it about music.

to Appease the Humans

Bring your gods,

Bring them so that we may

feast on the blood of immortality.

Bring them so we may devour them

and bury them in a sea

of error and chaos

that was created by their dreams.

Bring your gods

leave none behind.

Lay them at our feet that we may,

one by one,

examine them.

Hold them up to the light.

Poke and prod.

Bring them so we see whether they crumble

under pressure.

You called them gods didn’t you?

Are they not the ones that you have

decided are beyond reproach.

The mighty shoulders upon which you built

your vast empire?

The kings and explorers who raped and pillaged

for you to live in abundance. Those who

smiled on you with a simple condescension.

You don’t know the world

You don’t know the world.

Those who you refused to challenge because

what they gave to you made it easier

to turn a blind eye.

You didn’t want to know the world.

You didn’t want to know the world.

Where are they? Where are they hiding?

Where have you hidden them?

Where are the statues you have erected in their honour?

The wings in hospitals that you have written their names


As if somehow you could cleanse them of the blood

that their hands travelled around the world

on cargo ships.

Where are your heroes?

Those who came to save us from civilization

bound in books with words that we

could barely understand

from a culture

that we never knew existed?

Reach out to them,

find them,

tell them we have received this


And we would like to thank them.

Briefing on Going Back

 Going back is always hardest when you forgot to leave breadcrumbs to begin with.

  1. Going back, like going forward, involves groping in the dark. Many times it also involves failing to arrive at a point that is any better illuminated than the initial confusion.

  1. When you go back it takes three times as much energy and two times as much will. This is substantiated by Magere’s theorem, which states that the act of pulling a sword from a shadow depends on consent from both the sword and the shadow.

  1. Getting consent from shadows is as easy as untangling oneself from the web of history and equally as dangerous.

  1. When going back feels like failure one must examine what it is to fail and why it may have happened.

  1. The path to the reset button involves going back on the path away from it. The people along the path have not forgotten how you passed through the first time.

  1. Even if they have forgotten moving backwards through time is generally frowned upon by both fate and circumstance. Only luck and her ilk are known to interfere with matters of time and energy.

  1. It doesn’t matter except as far and as often as it will. No one will care until they do and nothing counts for anything, till it counts for everything. There are only so many ways to state the obvious.

  1. Why does it have to be stated if it is obvious?

  1. Those with the foresight to carry breadcrumbs rarely have the mind to make sandwiches.

  1. Going back is only useful if going forward demands it.

  1. Anyidoho: and the union of time sound and silence gave birth to rhythm

  1. Does meter move forward? Or does it go back to look for skipped beats?

Conclusion: Pack bread crumbs. It’s going to be a long trip.


Her tongue has spoken in languages that they know from a previous life. It’s not that they don’t understand her but rather they realise that, in understanding, they will have knowledge of themselves. And, in having knowledge of themselves, they will be able to see themselves in the mirror.


on the wall

who is the

fairest of

a small section

arbitrarily chosen

and given power to disseminate



Then there’s Sam. That bright toothed, brown eyed, shaggy haired, adjective nouned, individual. Sam wanted to learn the language. For the longest time it was not only the adventure that Sam needed to go on, it was the only path that Sam could tread. And she saw Sam. She watched as feet and fingers tried to become a mesh of understanding and meaning. As Sam looked into windows with increasing fascination. This was immediately chalked up to bad vision.

The glare from the sun has been known to shield the known in plain sight.

So it made sense that Sam’s fascination with windows did not scare them. Sure, it came up when the kids in Sam’s class started teasing, but that was a simple matter. The teasing was necessary, as if something that needed to be felt so that Sam stopped looking into windows.

Even later when Sam coloured the window purple they didn’t mind. Purple after all, is the colour of royals. At least that’s what they told themselves.


Late at night

the whispers run through

the corridor.

Looking for an ear

to make home.


Can you hear


Or am I

an echo

of a place

you used to



The simple truth is that no truth is simple. Every piece of matter exists in a 4 dimensional space. How can we know the future if the past keeps kicking us in the ass? No one knew how to answer. It seemed like a simple question to Sam. So much so that the real question was, how has no one not asked this? Which should have been the first sign of how mirrors only show reflections of reality. And Sam had already been reflected back.


There are few things

that fill space

like unanswered questions.

There are fewer ways

to die

than to be born.


And that which has been seen can’t be unseen, which has been heard can’t be unheard, which has been spoken unspoken and which has lived unlived. So they cover their ears and whistle every time she speaks.


Questions on Love

  1. How is love measured? Can I send for a gunia of love from marikiti? Or do the middle merchants swindle those who grow it?
  2. Is love transferrable?
  3. If, say, a person had several ounces of love, the purest kind, would they be a target?
  4. What if everyone had a secret stash of love hidden away? Who would be the target?
  5. Who would do the targeting?
  6. Is love transferrable?
  7. For the sake of argument let us assume that there was once a rope and a pencil. Let’s say the rope was tied to the pencil and then taken by an angry toddler and flung far out into the distance. Who is to blame for how far the throw went? The rope, the pencil or the child?
  8. (note: the weight of the pencil added to the efficiency of the throw)
  9. (note: the rope made sure that there was enough between the child and the pencil for a throw)
  10. (note: The child was very angry)
  11. Was that question about love?
  12. Is love a rope, a pencil or a child?
  13. I once saw two men kissing, their bodies oblivious to the world around them. Does love take notice?
  14. Does the meteorological report predict that there will be love next season? Or has wave pollution distorted the frequencies of love?
  15. Do the hunters of emotions still look for love to capture and release? Or was it declared a protected species by the people who preferred fear?
  16. Is love transferrable?
  17. If a pencil and a rope co-opened a shop with a for sale sign outside the window, would you buy love? Would you tweet about it?
  18. Or would it be an exchange? Where people trade different types of love and find a love that suits them.
  19. Does any love suit anyone? The rope has been at the shop for 38 years, they are yet to see a happy customer.


For the wandering planet with a lost heart.

For the wandering planet with a lost heart.

For a wandering heart lost within the planet

For the wandering lost planet’s heart

For the planet wondering about its lost heart

For the hurting wondering what happened to the planet.

For a planet, hurt and in wonder.

For wanderlust in a heart – and roaming chunks of rock.

Here’s a toast to all those on the margins, trying to prove that they still have a heart.


Nasa release new images of Pluto