cherry-pickers

often

i get this ill feeling, 

that all

that had become of us

was under-handed

cherry-pickers.

unceremoniously

laying blame,

claiming some underserved victory.

and disconcerting 

when the only

proof of it’s existence

becomes  it’s very non-existence.

but enough talk,

she said

let’s eat!






-mrnoodles.poetry

love beyond the theatrics

hope was a small square-

window of time

with two candles of thought

gazing idly at the good night’s

downstairs microwave

meals for two

that returned the chill

to unfinished

dinner dishes

and confessions

like unassuming sentences.


she spoke a smile in my ear.

and brought a bouquet to battle.


and she is immortalized

in practiced prayer

bent backward

towards a waterline

where her golden aura shines.




-mrnoodles.poetry

(Hope you enjoy. Stay safe & Stay awesome đź’™)

From a hook

Pain without reason.

Everything vanished

Between the first 

And last of many

Self-inflicted 

Beatings.

(roses don’t grow 

beneath slanted 

rear windows). 




-mrnoodles.poetry

inner forest

your hearts in thought, 

born together from space apart. 

the winds of bondage that 

sent to sea the love of another;

a togetherness between shores. 

a song or joyous loaf? 

for breath, and the sake of life, 

console and conceal not

your beauty for there are hearts

and ears that thirst for 

your silence.

a well hidden

well-spring, 

fouling yet not forgetting the

earth’s bare feet and naked hair, 

but for shame 

in autumn 

we forsake our eternal vessels. 

sometimes I ask to pray words

that mountains

may hear 

and dance

to the chorus

of my inner forest. 









-mrnoodles.poetry
(this piece was published in Free-Verse Revolution last year some time, i hope you enjoy 💚 )

on repeat

morning dew on the outside of the

stained-glass windows

played tricks with the sunrise as it

trickled into the kitchen.

breakfast table full with fresh fruits, eggs, bacon

toast,and orange juice

my daughter’s innocent laughter, my beautiful wife

smiling trying to get rebecca to eat.

love is passion, it’s obsession,

and it was perfect, us all together.

don’t ever fuck this up!

on repeat.








-mrnoodles.poetry

i need to see you

common as the garden in which it’s found, 

between two baobabs.

swift swordsmanship 

served not only as a dazzling 

display of showmanship, 

but as a confident dance

of predictable patterns

and a definite deterrent 

against the late-night’s

swirling garments. 






-mrnoodles.poetry

season madness

It was summer, thirty-

five degrees and hellishly hot.

I had the kind of sweats a

man on a “come-down”

should not be having. Midday

in the height of service (I worked at

The Blue Peter Hotel) I could feel

the rumbling and growling

of a nasty drug shit coming on

heavy and fast. Running

to the bathroom, I made it

just in time, as soon I had my pants

down and cheeks to the seat there

was no stopping

the glorious hot soup. At least

twenty minutes had past, I cleaned up

but the smell that remained was not

as easy to shake. I was worried.

How would my tables be taking

it that I was gone so long?

What if they had called a manager?

What if I smell like shit?

What if my manager is on his way here

and he finds me looking and smelling like shit?

I splashed my face and ran back to the floor, 

I missed nothing. 

and I didn’t stink. 

Managing to make it to ten-thirty

with frequent

unauthorized

cigarette breaks, I survived.

Come to think of it in those days I probably smoked

two and half boxes of cigarettes a day. The customers 

in my section who were still there

were having a great time, drinking, smoking, laughing

the group of young guys trying to impress the beautiful ladies on their table

with stories, smiles, jokes and muscles, or 

the German family on holiday enjoying beers and pizzas

on the African beachfront, making memories they hoped

would never fade, whether family or getting laid, it was all love.

Counting my tips on the way out, up the stairs through the scullery

and on through the kitchen down to security, after being felt up

by a fat 

sweaty security guard in his

late forties 

early fifties

trying to make sure that no one escaped with

a bottle of tomato sauce in their

tits or balls

I scanned the car park until I found

Tomas sitting in his car waiting for me, 

it was a

beat up old VW and we were not really friends

not for the lack of trying, I just don’t think either of 

us knew what friendship was 

but we both loved drugs

and that’s all that mattered at that time. 

We rolled joints and smoked cigarettes as we drove to 

The Dolphin Beach hotel, there was a long empty parking strip

along  the outside of the hotel that was perfect for 

making a pick up, the longer we waited

the more nervous we got, it didn’t matter how many times

we did it the experience was usually always the same, the dealers name

was Kay (well that’s what  he told us when we met him in a club one night, but that’s 

a story for another time

and besides, what dealer 

is going to give you his real name?) 

he was a Nigerian man who was late as usual, 

when he arrived parking behind us, I jumped out the passenger seat 

walked over to his car and climbed in, handed him the money, he reached inside

his pocket pulling out four small bags of cocaine and 

a packet with two MDMA tablets in and handed it over, just like that

the night had begun, Tomas was pumping music out the car and reaching around 

in his cubby hole, swerving slightly left and right, finally coming to a stop

at a red traffic light he handed me a scratched CD

I took out my bus card and began cutting us up some lines on the CD

nice ones too, rolling up a hundred rand 

I sniffed my lines and passed him

his lines, I was rushing but

I had to light up a cigarette for the back-drop, 

god it tasted shit 

it never gets better either, 

Tomas has this cocaine filled CD in 

his hands and the steering wheel between his knees

driving and snorting, 

watching for cops

and some more sniffing, 

this continued until we got to this dodgy  hole called 

Banned Rock Lounge, it was packed 

rough guys everywhere 

and dirty women, 

beautiful dirty women lined the pool tables and bars, 

I would get to them soon enough, 

We managed to force our way through the crowd toward the bar, 

“Yo Irish! 

Irish!”

I motioned to the small curtained room that separated the bar and the floor, 

We met Irish

the barman

inside the small kitchen that they used to wash glasses, I pulled out the cocaine

and chopped us some more lines on the cold sink, 

this continued all night

and for many years.








-mrnoodles.poetry

i ran

feverish. half-alive. semi-conscious.

stumbling my way

through thorny shrubbery

and brittle flame ready brush,

atop a fiery sea of undulating red sand.

(red from a promise of hell?

or red from the emptiness of bloodshed?)

there was no wine

or water waiting

patiently, faithfully,

as a dog,

as a friend. hopeful

of a speedy return 

filled with zest, and laden

with romanticized tales

of far off lands

espresso based coffee,

city lights and the one

that got away.

there was no blanket

or fire, but i had the stars for company

whilst you read fortune from

stone, and bone.

(it was not as compelling 

as they had made it out to be.)

i left everything

in the bitter whispers 

of that night;

i ran.

the great procession

often times a procession 

knows of no crime

or punishment, but

for a leaf, 

the lowest,

a stranger

a wrong-doer. 

behind cautionary tales

and beyond the highest trees, 

your delight in lawns, and those

sandcastles of laughter, 

being man made by vagrant 

dreams unbidden in the fullness

of the light. there is great

shame in your feasts, with 

their backs

their shadows, 

and the goods of others begged for

by paupers before the temple mount. 

who is that old serpent? 

indeed he is your field

with fruitless spirit 

and distances that bind you

to his fragrance. 





-mrnoodles.poetry