Red scratching in the coffin dust

my thorn

pierced foot

red scratching 

in the coffin dust

like crows feet

at the corner of my eyes

I will be me. I will be who I am stretched out on a frame up this lucifer’s gradient naked feet on naked earth my mind adrift floating free away from my decaying body looking down where I could have died killing myself migrant dancing in crevices cool shadows cracks in the grainy ground a sad white man soul folded refolded creased bald head smooth shining rivuleting and shifting shape my heart lost alone lonely in the sharp white Acacia thorns and silky red dust on a continent so far away still up lucifer’s gradient I go ribbons of path ribbons of light ribbons of blood and breath ribbons of lines on my face ribbons of scars my silver and salt skin sweet shining hot under layers of gold red and yellow on the sharp edge of this smooth obsidian cliff where we alone must go scuff footing steep to the riverbank edge of nothing and everything kneeling to sip hard dank the Styx black boiling border between here and there this path rocky elevated snake twisting mostly stumbling sometimes falling pulled forward always forward upward by Falcons Hawks Kestrels Kwela whistling joy jive jubilant bright piercing the rippling sky hovering high upon hot ribbons of vertical air wingtip feathers vibrating tight like sails like veils virgins naked dance behind Falcons Hawks Kestrels sharp curving beaks pluck my eyes blind my heart hard fierce inside my beating chest knobkerries and Assegais against my ribs hammer stab rage and violent love both hot with passion released from this clay broken jar raspy breath in raspy lungs pluming pink Flamingos from twisted lips multitude migrating to heaven and hell and four corners of the earth falling disappearing lost invisible pain the angel exquisite and beautiful life exploding colour and chaos rocks upon rocks upon rocks rough textured crocodiles scribbled yellow painted stories streaked before time before language before the ghosts back I come scorning Ferryman's empty pockets slumbering on the shore and still joy scrambling up God’s gradient broken hands claw curled into the soil Falcons Hawks Kestrels haunt fresh mounting the sky grace lifting in the silent spaces stars solitary dying as we must toward the empty coming dawn I will die on my feet flags of love fluttering in my fingers.