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)
My
destination?
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
media-mated
lotto-genic
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
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