Monday, February 15, 2010

Blak poet-blak poetry/iam a revolution

DAWN RISING



i see many voices rising with the sun

sharp spears of the sun ,undulating with coming freedom

mother was there during liberation

i will be there for the other liberation

a revolution of million voices

voices of children of song

children of the soil

children unborn ,children born


voices of hunger in the gutters

voices in memory of those gone by the wind of madness

voices of vendors whose tomatoes squashed in days raids

voices whose taxes perished on talk tables

voices riddled by sanctions

voices roasted by imperialism


one million voices

from a country whose spirit is chimurenga

whose breath is nehanda

whose scent is the mist of matopos

voices of freedom coming

voices tired of honey coated promises


iam one of voices freed by my poetic words

drinking from poetic grape fruit

born with sugar and salt words on my tongue

iam mother africa raving metaphors

iam a slave of my verbal bravado


iam singer of africa untold

iam the blak poet

the bread of revolution

the rose blooming liberation

million voices sing me a song

i dedicate this satire to you






Iam a revolution




tongues of their guns kissed the bottoms of our country walls

sand of corruption sedimented our banking malls

bishops munching rainbow chicken bones

,singing political verses


violence is a black disease

racism is a white disease

xenophobia is epidemic

blood spilling is endemic


dissidents studying theology

eunuchs graduating criminology

afghanistan ,earthquake of religions

pakistan,volcano of political legions


corruption natural lotion applied in armpits heavy weights

extortion vaseline shining on thighs on high offices

iam not revenging freedom of expression

iam bubbling with freedom of expression

iam constitution of word identity

iam poetry butter and bread

i see children blinded by propaganda peri peri

i see blinded nations


they ate the last supper joburg

their departure never came ,

even when the rainbow sun rose

iam in the drama of the state

my temper of dignity rise and sink

my children drank the apatheird poison

iam diagnosing them with freedom passion


iam tired of academics who loot

and intellectuals who shoot

luther is my tight comrade

iam a cheer leader

iam an african phonologist

i was born fron african sound

iam renaissance home bound


propaganda is the jingle of peasants

verdict is the slogan of exiled

iam a brand of poetic tomatoes

iam diving in trees of political apples


doubtful metaphors still dance out night in the glory of african sun

barometer of poverty boxed by Khoisan

rainbow streets bling with ghettoes

so what the fuss,motorcades

no longer drive ,village dust highways


rhythm of rainbow eaten by dogs

blood rhymes of freedom born frees sucked

by bed bugs

daughters depleted by social anorexia

babies whipped by cultural diarrhoea

we are suffering from freedom malnutrition.



INSIDE MY POETIC BROTHEL



inside my poetic brothel

condoms are holy bibles of time

verses of the holy book flushed down garbage sewers

slogan nicotine d,politicians ,

sugar tongued camaradas

vaticanized nuns,priests,

americanized sex lords and sex tenants

english bitched poetic toddlers sip

from cinamoned,chilled

,sugared ,fizzling mugs frothing poetic wisdom


in unison , english mandraxed ,

utopian toddlers chant like koranic congregants

,enchanting , chanting,mind tilting verses

of paradise lost

blood rending Canterbury tales

macbeth pulsating monologues

mind blasting militant sattires

of black ink sanguaged with oxfordized instincts and michiganized impressions


yes drunks and prostitutes

with vowels and verbs condomized

in conscience sustaining imagery,

sodomized in apartments of revolutionary

doped symbolism

and castrated in bedrooms of

missionarism cocained irony,


anthrax free blades of sarcasm ,

circumsize baratone voiced toddlers,

soprano gifted babies ritualized in roasting furnaces of syntactic invasion and choking glycerene

glistening assonance


metaphor inflicted alcoholics and bitches skeleton-ed by alliteration transmitted blisters

blisters stink and rot like festering roses


sometimes ghostly blisters bloom

into poetic grapes and

wisdom wine is sieved into refrigerators of time

brothel convicts punished in rhymed nudity

stripped of their viagra hawking licenses,

rehabilitated into silent wards of poetic justice

AHOY.




DREAM OF RAIN/


this is the land that fed our dreams

wind suffocated by yellow smoke of wheat husk

our fields crimson red and gray with millet sheaves


pans hissing with oil baking bread

gleaming thighs of our days

sweating under the rain season sun

,that bloomed the flamboyant flowers

weeds of hunger already been exiled.



POLITICAL CINEMA


somalia walking through doors of statism

refugee camps swelling from sting of scorpions

blog sites congested with obituaries and epitaph litteriti

politburos exfoliated by fissures after sprees of wines and malt whiskies


warlords seeing through lens of holocaust

bring ngugi and keita

to give biting lyrics and deep rooted sense of belonging

we belong here

parliaments choked with propaganda toxin-ed emails


i saw las vegas walking side by side with khayelitsha through the heart of tali ban

corruption smiling through half smoked cigarettes of cartoonists reading wilkpedia and encyclopedia

literists tasting the bitter taste of vietnam disidents,dissidents

dumping consciences in garbages of politrix


paparazzi dipping nostrils into broken pavements

where politics is pizza,celebrity is diet and royalty is nutrition


i see shikota and khoikhen gupling white wine

and gorgonzola sauce in surbubs of pont de- lama

i see magic slogans of ruffians welding pks,ak47s in mydan villages

heavy smell of diarhoea whipping our faces

the heartbeat of warizstan


literary doyens writing rude graffiti on eczema eroded walls

pundits shitting in ballot boxes

bandits urinating every where in the name vendetta.


TUTSIVILLE


kuwait of africa

you my disease!


senators feast blood in feilds of wealth

digging diamonds out of your intestines

rise and see your wounds


politics the hot dog of newspapers

gossip the the beverage of newsrooms

the toungue of money is rough , its grammar is vulgur


exotic bees drink the nectar of your sweat

maggots feasting the bitterness of your enduerene

you carry wombs for others to celebrate birthdays


rocks of poverty farting the smell of religious myth

you are groaning under the feet of your struggle


your reason sticthed together by the clatter of the gun and

thunder of burden


you are roasting in hissing pans of bullets

country of dust and hunger , ilove you


with your shrivelling hopes blooming.




DEMONS GRAZING


democracy doesnot heal the syphilis of apatrtheid

it never healed the herapatitis of racism

it is the ritual of the governed to govern

though they remain governed


democracy, a word of the coruppted learned

democarcy a , a fart of the bullet

signature of ballot

sting of the scorpion


blood boilng stomaches of darfur

darfur you smell nagasaki


blood frothing hard rocky buttocks of congo

congo you sting bagdad


hunger ponographing breasts in somalia


ministers dangling bellies

poetry scattered in slums and ghettos

word stitched betwen bullet and ballot

grammar punctuated between slogan and vulgur


democracy an oxymoron . of abacha' machete and madiba' bible

hyberbole of guatanamo bay and robin island


DEMONS GRAZING 11


democracy

freedom unearthed from apatheird intestines

a legacy that carried sorrows since the days of yelping babboons

and yapping dogs

monrovia blooming legumes of blood in superstions

of blood harvesting

crocodiles basking in the east of political comfort zones

afghan with the heart burn for freedom

babboons laughing other baboons in political forests

politicians crushing poverty under their feet

polishing streets with the glitz of robots and rainbow sweet talk.



ETHOPIA


see talking slums

silenced tongues

freedom silenced

hope killed

a bling of ghettos

collapsed humanity


mothers weeping ,

under the compression of religion

trees dripping trears

ethopia your festering open wounds

you are my anger!


children burn in smouldrering carnisters of hunger

time opened new wounds of memories of old scars

chained on rocks of ignorence

you need a compass of decence


my poetry is a catalyst fermenting your injustices

into beverages of justice

you are my sadness!


your hearbeat bleached in political fermentations

rhythm gavanized in furnances of cultural myth

laughter imbibed by the rude stomach of the gun

culture crushing under the weight of globalization


ethopia , you are my wound!



CHILDREN OF CHIMURENGA



trapped between digital civalization

and chimurenga revolution


iam a poet fromthe land stones

iam a writing from the bush of trees


justice is not the shape of our noses

freedom is not the size of our breasts


morning children of chimurenga

belly of the struggle carried you to war and back to your cananan of mixed flowers


your ears are not wounded by bullet , but by gun sound

your minds stitched together by marxist propaganda


you married liberation and divorced oppression

erasing the dust if centuries of peripherilization


born out of blood filled centuries ,

living in centuries refilled with blood


where the sun rise with blood on its thighs

trees weep at dawn


sorrow dangling in the mist of your wronged faces like drying biltong

good morning children of chimurenga


LETTER TO FLORIDA


florida!


iam drunk with the sting of your tongue

iam drenched with the bitterness of your lips

iam dopped with the smelling scent of my sweat


florida!


black smell is lingering in the botoms of your conveyor belts

spirits of my children dancing your coffee shops


sight trapped in your coca-cola barrels

scent floating in the rude rhythm of hip hop


florida!

my children

with civalization scarred faces

with their slavery wounded hearts


florida bring back my children

come out lets fight


florida.!


DIZZY POEM


my poetry is bitter break fast of propagandcrats

my poetry is grenade planted in the hearts of corruption crats

it is an enzyme of justce,fermenting potbellies of fat cats

it is hunger crushing tummies of ballot tired peasants

it is food feeding phds with theories of fanon and Malcolm x

it is reason of freedom sipped in coffee cafes


diz poem


is sanguaed between 1980 and 1966

it is the the medulla of voters drunk with their blood

metaphor of communities drunk with ambition

it is an oxymoron of osama and obama

it is haiku of gushungo , madiba and nkurumah

it is a sonnet of vietnam,bagdada, pentgon, afghan,tali ban,congo,Darfur

rwanda

soweto,shaperville , Georgia and televise


it is a hyperbole of bagdad scarlet and sharpeville crimson

it is a ballad of Nefertiti,Randi, nehanda

, nomzano and maphela,bronzing

and other prophetesses

it is a lament of sadam,slobadan ,

bokasa, dada,abacha, babangind a and kamuzu



it is an obituary of samora ,fanon, kuti , luther , sarowiwa

, kimathi , marechera , hani , mahlangu , tongogara

it is a juxtaposition of pagan and christian

parody of characters danc ing 1994 genocide theatre

it is a farce of stooges of slices and tea

bitter sacarsim of coup detats and juntas



IAM A POET


my tongue taste spices of jargon

my saliva taste cinnamon diction


my words are a service station of visions

against vagaries of wrong ambitions


my words do not die ,

they wilt with seasons

, they germinate and bloom with every generation


grinding greed hearts with crushing metaphor

iam roaring spring that move stagnant streams


memory is a weapon of mind

history is stenciled memory


iam a poet , the identity of memory,

the dignity of purpose



SQUANDAMANIA


i never saw hatred

iam taught hatred by memories of history and savages of centuries

blood of shapeville

death of elizabethville

colonialism is not stencilled by color or pencilled by race

it can be erased by reason and thought


squandamania

aluta continua

struggle continues

humanity lost in the graffiti of shebeen walls

strength of flags sold for eagles to loot


we laid beacons of freedom

now we drown in do ldrums of commotion

i see disciples hired to burn lives in election fields

,election skeletons

become souvenirs for mothers to cherish

we are no longer monkeys chattering your propaganda

we are no longer donkeys braying your slogan.


squandamania!


DIS FREEDOM


picking up crumbs of passion

like in cotton fields

passion thrown in dungeons of greed


pavements stinking bandages

robots yawning wounds


corruption bad breath suffocating lungs of our concrete jungles

extortion superglue of high executives


red lights of the dis freedom


our freedom calabashes frothing with bubbles of red missions and red ambitions

iam raised by breasts roasted by acids of plutocracy

iam raised by hearts tortured by pigmentocracy


iam raised by palms strangled by ropes of time

i have an appetite of laughter that is richer than grape fruit


iam a poem , the dignity of my pen.



FART OF TIME


souls squashed between cables of internet

and aids budget


children losing hands in jungles of google

children losing passions in forests of facebook


burning their tongues in dungeons of english

generation sanguaged between bluetooth and drumbeat


swallowed by cellphones and bullet

villages killed by commerce and bling


poetry cooked with borRowed language

its rhythm fermenting in calabash of borrowed culture


cultural oppression a tattered rag dangling on edges of pseudo civilized walls


dignity the balanced diet of freedom and pride



FART OF TIME 11


iam a descendant of placards and madness

home shabeenizing flags in exchange with gin and dope


daughters adopted by ford foundation and donor syndromes


hunger famous like Picasso

poverty known like Shaka


fear popular like dickens


sun rising toxic HIV/graffiti on its face


africa you are burning in the sun of internet

computers your fortune tellers

walkman your storytellers


bring back our ghosts

bring back our bones


for indians praise Nehru

moslems praise imam


zulu praise Shaka

english praise cecil rhodes


MY RHYTHM


Shaka zulu shaking the assegai spear

in england they sin shakespeare

i do not owe my dignity to the

bling street lights

to the bling of robots

to the gong of car horns


i owe my humanity to the

rhymes of valleys

to the scent of our flowers

to the rainbow colors of sahara sunset

to the rhythm of kalahari sands

to the sweet melodies from brown lips of zambezi


the misty thighs of inyanga

to the drum sound in the fontanelle of matopos

iam among patriots whose placentas descended from Shaka ,

dlamini,dombo,mutapa

,murenga and tavara,zimuto


iam a descendant of the roaring shangani

the grammar of my tongue , do not stammer my tongue

iam bantu.



DECADES BULLETS



Ouagadougou, Ouagadougou, Ouagadougou


See a procession of young mothers chattering their way

From water fountains in grenade torn sandals

And blood laced bras


Somalia, Somalia, Somalia


See the moon disappearing in a mass of gun smoke

Guns splitting the stars from the skin of night


Rwanda, Rwanda, Rwanda


This is a wound from which the pus of grief flows freely

Meandering through rock masses into the valley that lost its freedom


Timbuktu, Timbuktu, Timbuktu


I hear a rush of footsteps of sorrow

Rugged peasants carrying their compounds

to far away valleys of flowers.

















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