Another one for Nubia, painter of my Heart

I sat with the horn blowing my heartfelt manifesto of the heart

Alone, ostracizing the self for loving and not telling

How do I paint a picture that scripts my closeness to her aptly?

Pulpitised by my desires the scriptures knows of my sins

The trumpet is a puppet of her voice as she paints verbs

I duck and swerve, keep quiet so that silence conceals admiration

Can I talk to you painter of volatile gestures, understand my madness

Let me shun King James’ version, yours and mine could be neo-renaissance

The cymbals, flugals and the trombone blast the songs of Solomon anew

So we shall dance wherever we are welted to the ventricles that maketh Venus

In your tranquility princess I shall watch you make art no matter how hard,

I seek your heart; please let me find it where I think it is hiding, in secret.

She is from a country called Nubia :-)

Nayabinghi, spinning elements on period steroids

Shards hitting ear drums with beat hemorrhoids

Splish splash dashed from Malawi to poisonous Durban

Urban graffiti torched on Tosh’s Olympic torch

Reggaemalytis premonition, mission statements

Missionary kamasutrian Nubian melodies

Black skin sin brown sugar bubbly princessness

Jah Bless!!!

Ginger

The ginger bread man, do you understand?

Clouds are falling, clowns

The rise of the garrison of the, the sun’s son is eminent, sure

The firmament needs reinforcement and a gun on Harrison and DeKorte

Outbuildings are burning, Othello and the black ram turning short

Why are you standing over there?

With three little birds licking lollipops with Iago

One two…

One two three they burp cargo, their farting words worse than it is art

Parting the partition of the ones and twos

Now do you understand, the ginger-bread-man, man?

Nedine Lorelle Moonsamy

How she bangs against the door
how she feels threatened to the core!
Now that her letter has gone unread
Clarissa enforces dialogue instead
"Oh, God-dammit! I love you, you Bull!
It's a condition of the eye -- fuzzy as wool"
"You love me" he mutters
he tries to speak through startled-buck stutters
there are silent minutes like hours
and soon Clarissa's spirit cowers
a wall breaks and crashes into the sea
in rushes a flood of epiphany
of what, she NOW knows, was not meant to be

Kgaogelo Kwes Shaft Lekota

The Bull knows this is real, the dreams he dreams are recurrent.
They glean the clean depths of his soul with fear.
They come to him like intermittent déjà vu in invisible tears.
He likes it though,
the life that springs every time
... he steps out of his house
with the hope of seeing her.

It doesn't end,
like the embroidered memory
of the taste of strawberry
he knows it like
the fluid flow of Nesquick milk
with hopes that this is not one of those
moments that mimic a passing fling
in a tall glass.

Because her tricks humour his real days
in midspring winter mornings he plays hazy tunes
to prune his delight when he takes a blunt break
with a song of her melody for spring
she conducts his beat
the beat that Goliath didn’t hear
in his battle with the diminutive David.

The Samson in her is a biblical bohemian rhapsody
embroiled in the hubble-bubble toil and trouble scriptures
that he reads in his own private brooding spaces, so
The Bull hides behind ganja smoke and sends up a warning flare,
colourful and bare,
baring secrets that dwell like trolls waiting to emerge
with his deep defibrillated desires

He wants to whisper but, he mutters 'You love me,"
And 'tries to speak through startled-buck stutters.'
but he worries not
he is Samson singing the song of the black swan riding crimson tides
in her presence,
He smiles in his solitude and murmurs, "one day is one day, skeem."

CatWoman

Cat dance, cut; autopilot tongue whiplash, cue…

I throw up water lilies with a blow of your sweet smiling kiss

Puff that last pass I made when I was shopping rite

On free flow when your legs addressed that dress

Blessed, I see Jah rise in you; brown iced eyes

CheeseCake, your beat and drum kit splice valentines skits

with eight-steaks, two-buns and chilled winter whispers

you bake me inside out and,

warm my chips up round and round.

brighter pages

The writer and the freedom fighter

Writing the you in the I brighter

Lighting the fire lightning of contemplation

Lightening complexions in a loxion’s solidity

Composing under the duvet movements solidly

All star Moments inspired by imposing,

The tick tock in time.

Popping nuts in a rhyme bar

At night time pens and AKs

Make love between the thighs of revolution.

That’s the evolution of the far side,

The pen and the sword.

“There have been accusations of racism, that my client attacked the man because he was black. That is not true,” said Montano. May 28 2012 at 01:11pm by SAPA

For Louis Mabokela

Frantic Phantom of the Phallus

Curtains go down opera puncture boulevard

Brixton pistons pissed off

Exhaust fumes and burnt tire anthems all washed off,

Yes, curious House of Nsako rhythms in daggers

Dying dead in memories with blue rhymes

High, lying flies pouncing

With no fear for dying

Yes, they are muggers and they mug us

Meanwhile,

In the sired city hall

Hired tired,

And then fired for sleeping on the job, Mantjingilane

Marching in and within the line,

Singing Marvin Gaye’s sexual healing on the barrier line

After a while,

They, who could

Called it madness

Those who couldn’t

Were apparent crazy states of emergencies

All cleansed in intense decadence with T’s and C’s

After a while later, Goodman Gallery hired again

Good  man!

Nice one!

You will make it commander don’t worry generally

Here is a black uniform in training specifically

Determined slam dunk specialist

Head-butt practitioner

Mageza-Taxi-Driver- Limpopo- victimizer-pacifist

Smackdown, next raw medium to rare downpresser

Well done!

White with red paint respect

Light that spliff man,

Maybe after that then,

The future will still be bright.