Back to the Genesis : A dread return. Soweto: the yuck factor on the South African mindscape,
cosmetic-rendered as the tour guide may make it…
‘World environment day…Trees for Soweto’ runs the headline.
To counter carbon monoxide emissions. Bandage for perforated lungs.
Whitewash, but the walls are rotten.
Vain proposition, pollution pumps in its veins. System born damaged.
poison gas forever in the breeze blowing thru the ghetto,
it pumps out of the goldmine…settles in the water reservoir…
dysentery pulses. burst drain-pipes. The stench hits where Soweto sits.
Wriggle the nose & it plunges inward.
Compare the blocked toilet of South African politics.
And prepare to appreciate my sewer-bound poetics.
they say the Orlando Power Station doubles as a crematorium.
Differently put, it burns bodies under the energy guise.
the community gets high on the stench…gets air-lifted out to less crowded space.
by the time it reaches the northern suburbs the burning flesh-fumes are an aphrodisiac…
(no Little Bo-Peeping snitch but i came in
blowing horns for hondo against these jericho-walls of ghettoisation)
cos In the Beginning was the Acoustics
A word-hoard hiding in the keyboards
thus it is earth-belly-bound bass
& rim-shots sprung from electric drumclouds
guitar-line that’s a reed riding black lightning
organic sound what i’m stringing
it bounce-back on inter-planetary sonic-springs
grandpapa khoisan cave the echo-chamber
(who cares what my voice’s timbre?)
i’m the RA that came before the SUN
the fire-soul of fanon’s children
the purulent sore that got the reverend chicken scratch-&-run
There where we End Beginnings
The 2nd chapter of the Book In Ashes
(the Bavino Sermon...on the monster mount
a Blackheart bantu ghost Talking Rain to whiteheart
my verbs the vaal river reverb
flow like the main artery burst
nouns bounce off the karoo moon
body canoe mind rides highveld to platteland
multi-polar & poly-riddimatic aligned solar-systematic
beam poet-rays with the desert sun
---public address cable melt from hissing volcanic tones
Of) skeleton-coasted gold-dusted diamond-busted blood,brain, flesh & bones
as i rest my veins upon the Kgalagadi sands
(my scriptures picture-sutures for my sounds/wounds psyche-bound...it begins with SOUND)
(warts news comes a locust-plague in shiny shoes
while i hum grimy blues of abandoned farmsteads
& abandonment in bum-spreads
follow the poem’s riverine treads they are seminal threads
leading from here back to Ratsie Sethako...
for, as Bosman wrote :‘africa is the genius among the continents‘
i embrace this, drink inspiration from the Number One chalice.
Her blood provides my ink. Her wretched bodies the debauched
rendered inanimate my canvas
salvaged after the colonial/cannibal feast..
not expediency-politics or the dependency-economics
glamour-sellers romanticise )
(‚Ramasela wee...ngoana o a lela.../ motshelele tee‘...-sankomota
Orlando West Hermes Trismegistus working the alchemic
out of Waters of Slaughter
(dynamic futuristic not stuck in romantic pasts steel-toed butt-kick against stagnant presents)
got the microphone-wire-mesh soaking
from centuries of bleeding i’m bringing
vocal cords magma-bubbling WORD---
(some use it for hate...me,it is to self-dedicate)
mental-construction-working emotional hydraulics
flip it sybaritic & arid stormy & temperate
fluid in flight both outward-bound & meteorite
the verdure in a 16-bar measure a cranial-hidden treasure
rhymes verdant as the climactic-lay of my prostituted poet’s republic
blessed & cursed in turn to the page i come amniotic---
mutant fallen off the literary conveyor-belt
they milk the system i’ve gone trans-lactation
need nothing corporate no trance-action to feed optimal consciousness
no freestylin in golden chains...i go specialising in moulding brains
bare-back-riding-senses sipping deluded pretences out of denuded veins
(young age aluminium screams woke me out of my platinum dreams
& i saw my Dread Word-African hopes come apart at the seams
under the weight of academic reams...Cos the streets i knew had no names
mentioned in Intellectual Dung-Pages---
(i started with the AK-spray and graduated to sniper-status
& that’s the difference. call it retro/progression.
but it is hitting worthier targets with maximum impact.
I’ve been itching for a Wits Slam since
i sucked madness from gutter-breasts
swollen with the pollution of sanity’s ooze
where toxic skies pumped right-mindedness
like brain-lines drawn towards certification
i want lines primed & live. explosion ready...seek the ‘magic after the detonation’ ...POETRY! I came into writing riding a utilitarian horse.
that is, art set on a total liberation-course
(emancipation of the self in its totality...either that or mortality.
Lines deformed like human genetic engineering failures
Reflection of my world’s monstrosity
No Benny-&-Betty literary fences in between...
Nor Jack & Jill compartmentalisation
as Nicolas Guillen pissed on the Purity that is just Filth
i write only in life-force and no sterility in every birth-line
& each word powered to Movement in Black...
no sweat-shop poetry/creativity-bleed-mediocrity celebrant)
spare me the mammy-jammy awards of stagnation
(u a cabbage-head....expect beef to get you)
neither fake plaudits, synthetic monuments nor rehearsed applause
my verbal experiments self-mutilate belong to no school or movement
compete in no contest & still one with creation-transients art-miscreants
poetry-hoboes & literary-tramps
not with fart-critics, gossip-colonists or glory-whores in power’s corridors
nor detractor-farmers with their tractors in my mind-field
i’m more the Jesus with a crown of thoughts
No mirror....fragmented or not
(unless imbued with imagination,
fantasy, dreamscapes & nightmare-visions
Knowing there’s no such thing as ‚Post-War‘
The Evil’s inside forget the door nothing‘s Civil about Gore
(poetry is exsanguination...I come to writing prepared to bleed in search of a Life-force
has me wondering what poets need ghost-writers for as i rip the lyrical from the gore)
Cos no Burroughs cut-n’-paste but this land wrote in slash-&-suture across
my life, body, mind & spirit & dug deepest into my work’s corpus...
veins on the outside (verbal haemorrhage) my bleeding aesthetics...
like Poor Righteous Teachers i’m ‘funky new radical hip as i get to the point’
disjointed...as all life by no Maria Magdalene anointed
but with life-juices drawn by those (deemed) race-divine appointed...
(rather a gutter-poet than a literary pet)
& so...worshippers of that Art for fart’s sake that props up body-parts
on burning stakes can deal with the putrescence...
My Art blacker than Walpurgisnacht both gutter-based & intergalactic-bound.
& all of it on the rant-&-rail-road wrapped in thunder-sound.
Lined up in Great British tradition-violation.
Linguisticide my intention (& stated) purpose;.
The philosophy/politics/ideology behind the writing.
(first the paper-scratch then the tongue-flex, soul-injected,
cerebral powered & emotion-charged...total-concentration & focus-extreme.
In the Quest for VOICE (miles davis called it a ‘style’.
Conscious of the world yet DEEP within myself i’m running wild
seeking that IN me that only i can tap (all my space & time distilled & packed in pen-tip)
Individuality, not individualism. No clone-farm crap (neither hobby nor job me resigning would be a head-lob) Seen people imitate others so completely they hardly ever get to miss themselves (literary dependents give the concept ‘substance abuse’ quite a doo-doo-twist
Cos they hard-core so Nestum theirs is not even an abortion...
it’s just cum in a condom
squirrel to a nut the plagiarist is attracted to a scrotum
i like mine intact
‘i am a poem’---a ‘vuma dlozi lami’ sangoma chant---
i don’t rhyme for the sake of riddling’ said chuck d
they mime for the sake of diddling, arse-deep
born with bills of soul-sales written into their genes
nuke-box slots for loins they need no judas-coins
like a Witwatersrand bowel-evacuation/excavation threw up high-rises
they teach kids to plagiarise/cannibalise & pledge alliance/allegiance to lies
i stand against stanzaed hazards toxic sentences narcotic verses plastic prose
& the literarily incestuous foetus creaming in its mother’s uterus
my conscience calls? i answer in intestinal scrolls
a textual maze feeding in & out of itself like underground Johannesburg
where i was cradled, ladled & shall be body-bagged.
((( Interlude : off NOTES FOR THE CLOSET TICKS & SLICK FLEAS
(i am a potentiality for nothing says fanon i am fully that which i am
i am that i am echostrummed tosh the kalashnikov guitar-mystic-man )
still, tush is how it end & begin for them who question
no whore lullabies…that’s Mista Gwala in brokenbackflipped declaration
before poet-tricks&tics became flesh-merchant fashion
(salon-bred snouts gaped for the power-puke
dreadlocked puppies in the chamberpot of commerce
pedicured kitties’ withdrawals at the spermbank
faces of the anal-lick-tick)
the sounds of my world /// my world of sounds
never doing the rent-a-cunt rounds
derogates) this ill-literary era erases
/goes abrogate on ) what won’t sing its praises
they poetry-court martial me for my lines being too free
does ‘governmental/national orders’ mean
tongue passing thru the presidential anus’ border/bed-posts?*
i write & read poems not dictate/deliver telegrams
exist in a world that know no difference
hate sex-tablished geriatrics
fingers gouted out of decent creation
going as ‘prostitute god pimp poetic’
wrapped IN smells of cobwebbed punkarses
caught in skunks’ squirts
seeing mediocrity-swamp crisis
yet telling fresh brain-death it’s possessed of genius.)))
Yes, we are hip hop’s lost civilization‘ said Clipse
‚i am of the ungovernable generation‘ says me,Ramps...
(mindful of how brother ali warned:
i don’t disrespect the people who laid the tracks i travel on
but...i write with the marrow in the centre of my own creation-bone)
& thus...if that other writing was an office to go to..i would resign
thankfully though...i just have a world to re-design & define
recreate in my own image got a universe to transmute to my own truth
then transmit away from the toilet-apologists locked in literature’s blocked sewerage
Beyond the oppressive nature of the papered canon & the oral forms given
past the syrupiness of the appropriated new Spoken-Word....assimilation-driven
when ‚bombs bricks & bullets...not bullshit‘ is Hate’s manure
in the Ku Klux Klan‘s Killing Fields
It is also the Afrikaner Weerstand’s Beweging body-farm‘s bleeding-yield
A harvest in New-Human heads ripped thus reaped...
as Tombs speak thru tattered gullets...& none of them are Hullets‘...shit aint sweet
so what good is received knowledge in a deceived age
of retrogressive court-jester activists wading backward in muddy waters
& black-brain falls where the flood of selective memory slaughters the rabidly subservient
& buries them in the mud of affluence?
yes, celebration of mediocrity is intellectual genocide perpetuation.
(thus i’ve been been asking myself from day one, persisting in resisting the satan caper
how long before it is : ‚just-give-me-the-paper, u can keep the pen‘ season
i’m still standing at question-station, the answer won’t come...
anti-army yet military-tactical-vox with the syntactical
so i bring a blood-storm to the anaemic of intellect)
Every aspect of my existence carries my scent to all that i write...
Nothing luminous...i bring my blackness to everything i create.
No, i am swimming in no rap-streams: those arse-blowing, gut-clogging, shallow-theme
hot-air-currents found in the upper fart-most-fear
& to the critical delivery-boy-&-gal-oink-masters...
those sitting on crapper-thrones of delusion,
we can only sound caution like prophylactics:
in this acid-wasted trough-town, piggies should really watch the toxins
that spurt out of their snouts
(signed sealed & salivaed against self-righteous hate:
The Whore of Babylon’s proud bridegroom...abashwe
* lesego rampolokeng