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I heard a tapping last night,
when the house was quiet,
was it,
a dripping faucet?
footsteps in the garden?
windblown branches upon my window?
it was just the clock,
counting the hours,
that I have wasted.

The city
is a drenching of honey
that seeps into nooks,
like melting bricks of butter.
Pungency twirls,
oversalted like it’s the spice of life,
zesting in galactic purples.
Between the buildings
You hear waves
Crashing of culture
tongues click
eleven ways
and skin swatches range from
blue-black to
The port to history
lies nestled here,
nudged in between the mountain
and metropolis.

he slurps
from the fountain of youth
and spills
as if it is ever-flowing
a hasty devouring
an inhuman consumption
of a water too heavy for the stomach to bear
which ultimately pours from his body in excruciation
the zenith of wastefulness
pinnacling gluttony
only a man
and his humanity

A courtship of stimulation
Garnishes the body
Healing in scrapes of terminal pleasure
Smothered skin washes in red
Convulsing from the sugar rush
A fever
Pools at the dip like a gutter
Sweating fixation

Gaze onto the cold deceitful morning
The blue garden
Dusters its skin
In a cushion of winter sheeting
And the terrarium – brewing syrup,
Sits bathed in sleepy morning light
The terrace doors
Droop from the early hour
Inviting mendacious whispers inside
Of sunrise soaks
Under the maple tree.

He speaks
Of hurting skin,
And his head pounds
From realisation
The hot wind,
That twirls in from the window,
Sweats an obligation from his cold body
Like the lump they can’t cut
And as he walks ahead
The fluorescent reflects off his bald head,
That drifts down the hallway like a tiny moon.

The straying cat
The straying cat
Only calls for a home
When it rains

Daryll Williams is a 21-year-old born and raised in Cape Town, South Africa. He hopes his writing does not persist in distracting him as he enters the last leg of completing his communications degree.
You can find his tweets @Finitelyblogged (https://twitter.com/Finitelyblogged)


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