letter 2 love : december winter


to my dearest whom my soul yearns to die for,
psychotic and toxic my soul lay naked to vulnerable thorns of days we died,
shaken by external lavar,

i know we burn as one,
like paint games in extreme chills,
hell and heaven our dual friends,
they stay at opposite sides,
as now seems as end,

when only sunday we began….
intoxicated by after life on shamballa shores,

these nights are strange… as December,
a hollow celebration…
the blame game…our less smiles gag,

i hate you, i love you,
i am confused by poles of ends cornered;
magnetic pulls to the deep side of misery…
we are our misery..

like the spills of moments lost,
its all bad…is this it?
the day before Monday,
the day i slit your soul and hope you die with me,
tragic i see the cliff…
and hope we float,

like odd days before shapes,
before age and hasty nows and never,
obliged by floating fever,
we are sick together,
such a dark virus called love promised us worst days,
we are our worst,
pulling at ends hoping to die in the winter….
but here we are on the floor dying….


conditioned to survive


i know its too late…
but im proud of you…
for rubbing these rocks to make fire…..
carefully choosing which seeds to ingest,
which to heal a wound..
and which fur to wear this winter,
which contellation to converse with,

taking and giving routes to the far deep,
i know the rock climb almost killed you,
like the God flood…..
and swayed genocide,
odds against the soul of the sun,
i know…

i’m proud of you…
for wearing this melanin outfit with style,
carrying the grief of last week,
single parent and undone,
shannanigans of modern ex communions,

i know the insult is heavy,
as vicious abuse from everyday,
over in-secure fitters…
craving blood drip in innocence,
i know they laugh when you trip snooping for love,

shallow they are,
caught in the web of division in class,
slave mullato mind trick,
i feel you…..its crazie to take another deep breathe,

every day is a lost cause;
damaging your mind for nickle bags,
but im proud of you,
for pulling your pants and stepping up,
when stereo types are today’s surround sounds,
negative vibrations of men that live for skirts,
dozing off in deppression and slave head collisions,4
i know its hard being black and sober,
when reality is an incidental sphere;
like prejudice defeats pride;
and we have in bulk,
its insane how we come up and regenerate;
against all odds,
and they still confused how we keep on.

memory box


Don’t open it…
it has all of yesterday….
filled with fractured pictures…
of once upon smile,
when sweet nothings meant more,

like twinkle Orion and dark matter,
breezed in
common communion,
and difference…
like those pants and that T-shirt,
i liked them,
now i like you more,

out with the old,
like fresh kisses that blow the blues,
stimulated in hardships,
tap dancing through the variance,
like that Indian dress no longer constant,
like poetry online last line,
life lines, on the floor backs breaking,
stolen glances of new love sparkling,
we took deep breathes,
worst nights turned memories kept,

the psuedo image


like all common normalities…
we shall look as we are made out,
in the image of tidy and class,
clean and trimmed minus the funky dirty,
as the closing of the eye;,

normal will be common,
as dress codes of have and have not,
like the comformoty of outlook slaved…
looking good in submission of the false spirit,
under the construct of fashion trends,

such a bundle of the disconnect,
modern to the tools of unrecognized self,
as bleaching or form grooming in pineal distray,
as the lie of clothed…

the false nippy image..
cut to the circles of illusion,
the image is a lie,
a simulation of group slavery.

Self inflicted


Get off the struggle theme,
Tip toeing on broken feet,
Blood dripping in ancient assassinations,
Biko, hani and them..

Stop that struggle song,
Slave trade. …
Grave yard dreams,
Freedom died in 1980

We buried her,
Without her heart, soul and tongue,
Only her ripped dress,
Razor fence caught up….
Dodging special forces,
Living to die for the liberation of grands,

Singing Azania the tourist’s land,
Exotic destinations,
Hidden treasures of divine knowledge,

There she is with her ancestral hand,
Broken hugs and kisses,
Families scarred…
Siblings in unrest,
Beating the drum of the tomb,

No more all night dementia,
Insomnia, teeth grinding,
Worried about death….
Before the land breaths its revolution,

Sailing in the just of the unjust,
Unapologetic they sling the wounds,
The lost years of freedom,
Compromised on an amount…..
The fat feed the hungry,
Everything has its price….
Some paid with their lives.


Let us not dismiss change,

As a vehicle from those that laid the tracks of
Good measure of complex tradition…
It is our duty to decipher the rit…
In cycles within our rituals,

As we move unshaken by western knowledge…
Stolen on the front yard of the indigenous,
We are but copies of our own,
Without credit and strong arm to defend these lectures,

Our children are but scattered pictures of lost prisms of light,
Fighting growth in the unjust,
Due to lost testaments of how to be black..
Without violence and anger,
Without the historical shapes of inferiority.

Without the kicks of nicotine or alcohol,
Without the evolving readiness of sex…
Initiating a simulation of puberty,
While parents evolve in busy states of …
“I don’t know my kids”
My schedule of constant programming doesn’t allow me to parent.

In the prejudice of sexual complexity,
Or pre-dating the hormonal urge to be,
Society is seen on a satellite…
Than through the hands of its people…
In the competitive nature of better…
It is without shame to slam the separate core values,
But we must not complain…
Only to evolve remembering.
Creating spiritual vehicles to the land of our pride.

The Promise, the deception and the president


Any leader who stands for the liberation of the black will be killed,
Its not a mist or mystery,
There is no need for investigations and inquiries,
Taking blood samples and asking who saw what and when,

Was it an assassination?
A colonial dose of power?
The answer is no black man will lead as a black man,
Not in the interest of the liberation of the people,
Only a compromised man shall lead,
Never to speak of the revolution unless to blind keep the sheep following,

Never to speak of black lives slaughtered in day light…
But all lives matter when only young black men and women are slayed.

Black population reduction in multiple genocides,
By disease or unrest,
Civil war of bought rebels to defeat the struggle of independence….

The same independence is prompted as righteous and true as Leopold the murderer,
Or French monarchy for the growth of Afrika,
Leaving nothing but colonial tax as thanks giving gifts for slavery,
Learning French, Portuguese and English as a state of intelligence,

Freedom has a measure,
There are parameters which a black man can speak of,
Nothing for Lumumba,
Nothing for Biko…
Nothing for Sankara …
Or any man that defied bloody hands of European interventions,
Who never allow a black man to be black,

We know The fate of a strong black man is death….
As soon as he educates his people of the strong arm that chokes their land,
He will be shot,
Poisoned or die of an overwhelming disease,
It will be a natural death…
As sobukwe…for the masses to believe,

And I mean not the elect,
The well campaigned,
Billboards and political fair….
As smooth as Obama in a confused black mind,
A Messiah as cloned as Mandela,
The faces are illusions to construct hope,
To gather the sheep in false celebrations,

The black man has not fought a regime against his oppressor…and kept his life,
But the oppressor has forwarded solutions for the unjust for his people,
There is nothing a white supremist has given to his enemy for his own good,
Why would he free the slaves that fatten his wealth?
Every system he has given is crooked,
Political or educational,
Slavery is the end product.