Flood

A flood fumbles through the 
fragile semi-streets of Thembisa

Pens take to paper

Let us always remember

It is disaster that leads to poetry

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KRS-One on Hidden Colours

“The ones who enslaved you are protecting your interests? That’s like a rapist keeping you in prison for ten years, raping you everyday for ten years. You insane wit’ it. Then the eleventh year he says, “I’ve reached an epiphany. I was wrong. I shouldn’t have did that. You’re free to go.” Now you free to go… Go where? Free? Your whole head is screwed up! Where you goin? That same person says, “Ok you can stay in one of my rooms… called Chicago… you can stay in one of my rooms called New York… one of my rooms called Philly. Just follow the rules there in Philly and you’ll be fine. I’m sorry for what I did. Here’s reparat… nah not even reparations. Here’s affirmative action. Here’s some justice in the court’s. Here’s a little money. Here’s a little economics. Here’s a little access to something. I’ll let you fight in our wars, and here’s a lil’ sum’n. But for the most part you on your own now. Do you.”Now here we are: crazy; deraaaanged; walkin’ around being raped for 300 years. Now you free and your head is going WOOOH! But here’s the point: you were God to begin with. This is what we forgot. This is what forgot. You were God to begin with! So you did get beat, raped, punched, lynched, burned, but what happened? You’re still here. And what is still here? Not the bodies that were burned. Not the hangings, the innocent victims, but the spirit that created those people. The force that animates us never died.”

Digging…

My body has become a site of violence/A mine field with deep shafts that go deeper than the depths of my soul/Pathways have been carved out into the pores of my skin and where hair would grow and water would spring, men descend to find diamond rings/They do it in my name and claim to adorn me with the riches they find/ but it’s all a vainglorious game to see who can dig the quickest and emerge the richest./The more they take from me, they believe, the wealthier they become./They could not care less to ask why such precious material is buried so deep underneath my skin./Is it even meant to be extracted?

These are not questions that plague them/Theirs is to wonder who will excavate the biggest morsel of my being to crown the trophy that roosts in the garden awaiting their overdue return/Caring for the next generation that will dig for precious minerals/Breeding the next generation that will use her precious body as a site for incredulous violence/Dig some more and you might strike the one nerve you were not meant to hit/And the earth will gush out a poison so severe that it will consume you/And all those who used their hands to seek out her hidden treasures/They were not made for you to keep/They will no longer allow you to sleep//

Catch me…

I don’t know what to do with myself but I don’t want to write anything. I want to conceal these thoughts even from my self. Future, past or present. Absent minded in the myre of soggy attempts at playing games with words. It’s starting to make sense why the word academic sorta rhymes with alcoholic. The two are definitely not mutually exclusive. In fact, one of these terms is the most legal means for the former to find some sort of solace in knowing that anything could happen despite all you’ve learned and claim you know. Knock yourself a little off balance, hover next to the tight rope for a second, while freefalling to the next floor. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe…