Woman of Colour (The Bar 1.5)

In a washed out world of black and white where
People are one thing and that thing only,
Comes a woman with a million hues. A
Rainbow of rainbows. The unicorn who
Runs with horses. Never to be ridden.
Never to be fully revealed if seen
Only through a filter of your own thoughts
And emotions. She is the Blindfold of
Justice. The Arbiter between Good and
Evil. The Voice of Reason. Divider
Of Right and Wrong. Moral Compass. She holds
Your thoughts in her womb, where they hold court and
When roused she tumbles them against the walls
Of her belly, echoing to you their
Intirinsic value before her salient
Parturition. The Mother of Society.
She is Black, She is Brown and She is White.



Written by Seashell and I.
* * *
Starry night, balmy breeze,
The wind caresses your skin
And its susurration whispers of pleasures unknown.

Let the down feathers kiss your face
As they flutter everywhere.

The bed holds your body in an embrace
And your soul finally settles in your skin.

It has been a long day .

Love Is Hardcore

I say love is something that he cannot
Afford. He said riches and gems he has
Aplenty, Diamonds to build an empty
Heart, Rubies as corpuscles and Silk to
Contain this flow of material wealth. He
Claimed this the greatest seducer of men
And women; see how readily they shed
Their clothes like onion skin. I said although
He buys their bodies, their flesh, he never
Would be rich enough to own their love with
His heart of Precious gems and Silken skin.

I say love is sweet and hardcore like the
Fruits of the date palm dipped in honey.
He said to love a woman is soft and
Hustled for by the weak and the needy
But he is none of those. He named himself
The man who kills lions barehanded and
Proceeds to lay with lionesses. His
Strength a thing of legend and his name a
Metaphor for bravery. What is love to
A man like him but a burden unneeded?
I name him a coward. He who’d rather
Desecrate, plunder, but is too weak for
Surrender and love is nothing but that.
The Greatest form of sacrifice there is.

The Last Straw

No man is an island of himself
Because no man
Admits that everybody else is the sea.
Because we can’t all be islands
Somebody must be the sea
Somebody must
Be able to hold us in her depth
And no one person is that deep.
I have unwittingly burned bridges
Thinking the fire looked inviting
Yet there was no one to share with.
Today I decided
To drown the sea in a haystack
This epitaph of my social graces
Is the last straw.


Sleep was stolen from me.
Finances discussed.
And agreed upon.
Lose yourself.
In my incoherence.

Peaches begun this.
Glitches in life.
A walk on water.
Surface tension.
Spontaneous beliefs.
Methinks a rethink.
Suicidal ideologies.
Blunt knife edges.
Onion-induced tears.
Heartbreak next door.
I love you still.
Peter pan’s delusion.
Pituitary glands.
Puberty and armpits.
Hollowed out minds.
Mosquitoes love ears.
Iron-binding proteins.
Graduated cylinders.
Overflowing joy.
Bittersweet closure.


The sun rises to greet a world
Hidden beneath the veil of fog
And protected from her fiery eye
By infinite motes of dust
Dancing on the northern wind.
Droplets of water coat the grass
But the air chafes my trachea
And my lips are raw and cracked
Like a breaking heart…

By noon, the sun sits atop the sky
Blazing with her yellow radiance
And the clouds glow in her presence.
She passes on to all life her blessing
Of unconditional presence and the
Burden of a love burning too hot.
Sometimes the clouds coalesce and
Drift towards her trying to involve
Her in a great atmospheric orgy
Of gases, particles and energy.
She might be regal and unwavering,
Ignoring her consorts completely.
Other times, she gets distracted,
Giving in to their demands while
We beneath clamour for cuddles
Like the weather’s for two…

Dusk is indescribably beautiful
Like your first true love…
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
My uncle told me once,
Not in these little words
That i shall tell you now,
About the death of the stars.
He told me about nights
That had a million pinpricks
Of light showering down
On the earth beneath and the
Moon felt like a stone throw away.
He felt that these days
Someone was sewing up
The heavenly fabric and shutting off
Those little holes in the sky…

The Bar

I sit at the bar but I am also
the sole barman in this tavern I own.
The scenery is in a black and white
Monochrome like it’s a vintage movie.
The walls are constructed from my little
Intellectual knowledge. A proper
Study of the walls will reveal fine grains
Of scribbled words and numbers arranged in
An incoherent manner. Whoever
Has time enough to decrypt the unknown
Code will see it pan out as my very
Own autobiography, a code I
Cannot fully remember by myself.

Although, some areas have words that have
Been weathered down to smears and there are some
Patches of nothing. Blank and forgotten.
Here and there are memories painted out
As living murals. A few picture frames
Hang on the walls. If you walk close enough,
You’ll feel waves of emotions wash over
You. My tavern is beastifully made.
here my angels and demons come to drink
amongst other social indulgences.

Business is good with some regulars and
Karaoke. Today, Lust waltzes with
Pornography, dancing a masterful
Pirouette as Vanity and Envy
Sing A lovely duet. Shame decides to
Grace us with his dour presence. He’s always
Interested whenever those two dance while
I walk around polishing tables and
Cleaning mugs, preparing for a busy
Day. The bell rings as the door opens and
In comes a glowing version of myself.

He’s white; not Caucasian white nor the white
Of chalk but that of purity. Unspoiled.
Vanity and Envy falter but I
Spur them on, what’s a good pub without good
Music? I know, today, my angels will
Come knocking. Literally. Everyone
Else just walks in. Mr White grabs a seat
At a table right in the centre of
The room and orders a mug of distilled
Water and tells me to keep it coming.
He hints that he’ll be hosting a friend here.

Soon, other customers walk in and my
Business is now running in full flow and
I am making my rounds, serving drinks and
Receiving orders. There’s surprisingly
Much to drink considering that there’s no
Bottle of alcohol on the shelves, just
Elixirs and potions, Water from the
Fountain of youth, Liquid adrenaline.

Valour arm-wrestles with Malice and I
Cannot tell who the winner will be. I
Deliver another plate of food to
Gluttony as Anorexia cheers him
On, himself not ordering anything,
Ironic. Melancholy stares into
His empty glass cup. I ask if he wants
A refill. He looks up and I see the
Pain in his eyes, his tears unshed. There is
A brief moment of intimacy and
We connect as he starts to reply me.

He’s suddenly crowded by a pair of
Twins, Suffering and Smiling, who start an
Incessant chatter, Melancholy laughs
At something said. I fill his glass, saying
That one’s on the house. Misery does love
Company. As I walk back to the bar,
I wonder why those two are twins. I mean,
We all share the same negro complexion
And have the same foundation of self, yet
Everyone in the room is different.

Piety over there is a shrivelled
Old man but he’s the same age as every
One else. I think he is just atrophied.
Lust has a habit of licking his lips
And there’s always something sly in his eyes.
Mr White is an enigma, unknown.
Pornography walks around with a bulge.
Shame is bald-headed and never looks you
In the eye. Gluttony’s too fat to move.
I wonder how he gets in. Malice has
A voice like gravel and scars everywhere.

Individual perks might be subtler still
Like Melancholy using mascara.
Suffering is always with a smile while
Smiling never smiles but if you look in
Their brown eyes you can tell their true natures.
Envy and Vanity are the best of
Friends who will do almost anything for
Attention. Valour’s only equal in
Strength is Malice but Piety still keeps
Him in check. It is worth mentioning that
He is the only one with a grown beard.

Knowing who’s who is no big deal for me,
Being so familiar with everyone
But it could be taxing for someone new.
However, they all have their names on their
Persons: tattoos, name tags or shirt designs.
All you have to do is look, that is if
You can read and understand my language.

Shame later comes to clear his tab and says
There’s little room for him anymore with
The increased patronage but he’s sorry
He has to leave. He says his goodbyes and
Hurries to the door. As he opens the
Door, a female figure is lurking at
The doorway. Mr White is up from his seat,
proper and gentlemanly, he welcomes
Her in. She shouts “What’s up, Bitches?” while we
all stop and stare, startled and stupefied.