kagablog

a succulent universe
tasting of mirrors
like the steam on long windows in a season of rains
a traveller down
and jellied in time
put the mirror to the gland and this is him
fruit of spiders
paper bag bandaged
milk from asps in a skeleton cupped

we meet at the milk of the cup
pickling like reptiles
breaking like globes
and then the slow sink in

a universe in suspension
veiwed through dark glass
the thick breathing of a womb
up on the walls like paint
the river outside
children are falling

he picks the bones from the carcass night
bones too fine for ears
bobbets to build strange birds from words
things which fade when near

so space winks soft inside the cell
membrane mornings and memory wells
drench the anchor
douse the house in drowning dusk
all submerge in a gray light
breathing ancient reptiles
the organs fit like children in a cupboard
words are billboards on a headlit highway

this tea is for him
learning about birds
at night we will follow the river
and something large will come
open the head up like a night
a flicker of bone and then all is still
come eat the drowning man

when the west was won there were idiots like her rambling across the prairie preaching there said brand of nullification and representation. With anecdotes, and prescriptions. her book may reveal the silly despot she really is, running will nilly in an effort to guise her own personal hurt with her charlatan self. the said somali’s have all left holland for greener pastures .. and have hood winked the
system as she has with her sad sad self..(uncle tom crying like jesus betrayed)..

for she represents no more than a example of someone surviving grave odds, rather than surviving the hysterical horrors of islam and all its practices.

i believe the west is on the one hand practicing the act of brutal judgement while seeking to recruit crude poster girl fantasies of islamist speaking out. she seems giddy for voice and diction and direction, and she is running out of steam.. what better place to be than in america now, where others will see the folly of her holy war.

or better yet prop her up give her a voice.. it was not so long ago she was selling her own sister saying she was not believing that the holocaust happened.. now again selling her family to sell books and prove a point of survival among the so called right. I hope as time ambles on and the right die out that her voice will be hushed among the dark streets of boston and all them other eastern shore boards.. of intellectual reason..

as an immigrant from around the way, one knows that there are similar horror stories and horror stories of simple people.. what sets her apart is this dangerous use of the language of our time.. the roll of our propagandistic media to place blame and lay divide and conquer themes..

holland may not have a civil war, but we had a season of no government following her nightmarish trip into politics.. she had a country divided around her stupidity and they have not recovered..her film submission is a failed attempt at being shocking.. and brute.. and as it goes perhaps homeland security must watch her.. for she more than others has shown how infiltrating she can be..
frankly don’t give two cents for her pain and would not even pay for her book or even merit it with reading .. the infidel is her and her new found agnostics.. still..tell me who snitched on ann frank.

the stairs are in fours in the houses of stairs
but the number will multiply when no-one is there
the rooms are all quartered and their dreams come in pairs
and the sea from the windows is as bright as white paint
it can be traced in diagonals
through doors and in chairs
but diagonals decline from the perspective of stairs
figures for faces will mannequin there
where the air is a vacuum and the birches are near
the birds are all of paper
of oriental design
they can be traced in diagonals and folded in lines
I will come here one day for tea when its time
when its cold and I’m told that I’ve drawn my last line
and the figures will fill out the sea like white ink
and the dreams will descend in two’s and in halves
while the stairs ribbon down and the steam moves in scarves
nothing will shatter
someone will laugh
then we’ll all shake-rattle down
like bones from a cup

if i didn’t shed my skin
and i didn’t allow the other
to see
or taste
or hold -
only touch
and feel;
and if i felt absolutely nothing -
nothing on my flesh or skin or mouth,
and nothing more by way of feeling,
does that then mean it actually didn’t happen at all?
just an empty vessel passing through
an empty moment of time.
no ripple effect or consequence.
just affirmation of knowing that
whilst i can go through the motion
i am not the motion itself.

where is she
that she moves
in light
darkness arising
when she feels
alone
or jealous.

drunkenly
she cries
about her
feelings
dull fires
throbbing,
the menace
of greyness
shooting darkly
for the moon..
they talked tenderness
to have seen it pass.

listen, in myself
nature is sad
small prints of the day
smeared on the dark.

still we wait,
make love
and laugh
breathless
shadow counting
again,
change.

a baboon I saw in the san francisco zoo
reminded me of a poet
who looked unhappy and unfriendly
because he didn’t have enough money
for a glass of whiskey
so had to settle for eating peanuts
in a new york bar
one cold winter night

drift into my room
smile sugaring a day of slavery
eyeballs so we could sink
across the ocean to devour
triangular face fallen
harpies stared hollow
they had tiny red numbers on them
milk explodes in dark rooms
there is a moment of noise bulging blue through
across the night thinned streets
a black curl on a red couch
riddled with secret passages
dissolved down narrow black spirals
salvation in a numb hand
little tentacles of red elongate
she does not move them away
my chemical angel turned
scampered up a wall
a light behind her soft hair
fur ghosting like an insect
the room was high and tight
shake fleuro in a dirty cage
the rythmic scrape of claws
the far end of the neon
a labyrinth of white corridors
crouched behind the city
under my dark nailhead
tourniquet tight
slaves crawl away
time sliced slowly down the sun interior
circling in the corners
flicking from side to side
years from everything with a red bed
troubled by parasites
eight legged into my head
she blended so perfectly
patrolled neurotically
the walls are soft and black
emitted a low hum
fabric like a brewing storm
pointless information
a dark and cobwebbed ante room somewhere
where monsters lived
and vanished into the night

your wishbone around my neck
strangles me.
short enough to just keep me holding on
but not long enough to hang me.
like the ligature was applied incorrectly
leaving me to die an excruciatingly
painful death.
what pains me more, though,
is that this is how you demonstrate your love for me,
and i hate myself for believing you.

I’m dancing wildly to the music, along with a bunch of equally crazy, smiling folk, under a half-moon and clouds lit by the city’s lights. I feel my belly expand and my breath goes right down. The band’s singer, Algerian-born Fethi Tabet, seems to feel it too; he’s making motions across his stomach and saying something about ‘spirit, spirit’, in French.

It occurs to me that music is a true vehicle to gain freedom, even if only temporarily. During the two hour concert there is only positive vibration. For those two hours we defeated all the shit outside, all the price increases, the rampant crime, the pollution, the chaos.

We are held by the music … in our elation, our celebration of life. We show off to each other, we play with our beauty and revel in the talents of our bodies as we waltz, polka and tango together.

The music holds us. We swim in it, we bathe in it. We are part of the river of music that has always been there, since our hearts began beating as a species and we started knocking things together to mimic the heartbeat rhythm. I look down at my footprints in the dirt dance-floor and I wonder how many of my footprints have been made to music and dance.

Shortly before the concert I watched the movie Favela Rising. Set in the extremely violent Vigario Geral slum in Rio de Janiero, early 1990s, it’s about the AfroReggae movement, led by Anderson Sa. The movement provides music and dance as positive alternatives to the slum’s kids, who until then could only work for gangs to acquire status and respect.

It’s an epic battle of good and evil, or as I prefer to see it, harmony versus discord. Roots culture - music, dance, art, story-telling and group participation in these activities - in these are harmony.

Western culture and globalization has divorced people from these structures, offering in their place discord: materialism, corruption, addiction to sex and drugs, gangsterism, the macho ethic, the myth of the individual.

Favela Rising talks about the Shiva effect: how transformation follows chaos, or how chaos is created in order for light to shine from the darkness. How the stronger the darkness/chaos/discord, the purer the light and harmony that arise from it. Anderson and AfroReggae are fantastically clear in their thinking, in their message, in their fearlessness, in their example.

There is more music in the world today than there has ever been. We can all tap into this harmony. The present discord is massive and global, but this can only create stronger light. There is no need for fear. The Shiva effect is here.

GRANDMASTER

IT’S BEEN A LONG TIME SINCE I RECEIVED YOUR SERMONS . I ALMOST THINK THAT THE ANGELS OF SWEDEN ARE PERHAPS TRYING TO DEVOUR YOU THERE. PROMPTED BY THE LATEST INCIDENT IN THE COUNTRY OF MY UMBILICUS , IN PARTICULAR THE FREE STATE UNIVERSITY SAGA WHICH IN MY VIEW WAS HEAVILY POLARISED BY THE POLITICAL INTERFERENCE HAD MADE ME TO REALISE THE LEVEL & EXTENT OF HYPOCRISY PLAYED BY OUR POLITICIANS.

JUST ON THAT DAY I WAS AT ADULT WORLD & I HIRED ONE OF THOSE BIZZARE HARD CORE PORN VIDEOs WHICH THOUGH I MUST CONFESS WAS DIFFICULT TO STOMACH WAS QUITE MIND OPENING . MY POINT IS, HERE ARE BUNCH OF WOMEN BEGGING MEN TO SPIT & EJACULATE IN THEIR GAPED MOUTHS . BUT NOT ONLY THAT THESE MEN ALSO GOING TO AS FAR AS LICKING THESE WOMEN’S ANAL CAVITIES (SHITHOLES) & IN FACT ENJOYING IT.

I GUESS BY NOW YOU WILL ASSUME THAT I’M AN EROTOMANIAC PErVERT BECAUSE YOU DON’T KNOW WHERE I’M GOING WITH THIS .

MY POINT IS HERE IS A COUNTRY THAT BOASTS THE MOST LIBERATED DEMOCRACY & EXCELLENT HUMAN RIGHTS i.e FREEDOM OF SPEECH, FREEDOM OF EXPRESSION & FREEDOM OF PRIVACY. BUT NOW INSTEAD IT SEEMS AS IF SOMEONE HAS TRAMPLED ON SOMEONE’S RIGHT OF CHOICE OF EXPRESSION .

FOR OLD WOMEN WHO WANTED TO EXPLORE BIZZARE SIDE OF LIFE “WILLINGLY “. A CONSENT, THESE ARE KIDS WHO ASKED THESE WOMAN IN A NEW SOUTH AFRICA THAT IS GIVING PORN RIGHT TO TRADE & CONTRIBUTE TO THIS COUNTRy’s ECONOMY, & TO ME THIS ACT WAS PRECISELY A PART OF THAT SIDE OF ECONOMY OR WHAT EVER.

FINALLY MY TAKE ON THIS IS THAT THESE GUYS ARE TRYING TO USE THIS INCIDENT AS A DIViSION. THE REAL THREAT IN THIS COUNTRY TODAY IS NOT BASED ON COLOUR LINE PREJUDICE BUT IN FACT A TRIBAL PREJUDICE WHICH I THINK STILL EXISTS & IS BALANCING THIS COUNTRY ON A BUBBLE.

POLOKWANE & INCIDENTS THAT AROSE BEFORE POLOKWANE CLEARLY ALERTED US TO THIS POSSIBLE DANGER. THE 100% ZULUBOY CAMPAIGN & UMSHINI WAM SO CALLED FREEDOM SONG IN TODAY’S SA ARE A CLEAR INDICATION OF THE REAL PROBLEM IN THIS COUNTRY.

IF WE AS A COUNTRY ARE SERIOUS IN NATION BUILDINg WE SHOULD STOP ERODING & ERASING the WONDERFUL JOB DONE BY MANDELA , TUTU & MBEKI (AFRICAN RENAISsANCE).

GIVE THOSE KIDS A BREAK
GIVE THOSE WOMEN A BREAK

I WONDER HOW MUCH DID the MAN BEHIND THAT CAMERA GET?

MAYBE I WRITE THIS BECAUSE MY UMBILICUS IS SURROUNDED BY PINKNESS

luzuko elvis bekwa

there is nothing but voluminous silence.
loud and hollow.
hollow and loud.
stark reality
abrupt and cold
wanton desire swept up in a heap
to be dealt with at more convenient time.
wishes caught up in a net
of regret where no one can shake them free.
the virtue of patience calling out
from behind the reverie of fear
asking for itself to be known.
Achilles Heel strapped and bandaged
limping through a labyrinth
searching for a way to find what i’ve been
praying for all along.

you need not explain your silence

my ears discern the music

of your quietness as good

as your looks caresses

me beyond delight

i hear a love declaration

behind your heaving breathing

& quivering mumbling

the same way you were

able to read my lips

as a tongue-tied me

fumbled and wrestled with language

in a fervent plea

for the tongue to transport

deep into your bosom

a telegraph from my heart

how could i not feel

the welcome of your hands

the embrace of your compassion

& now your quiet

loudly beautiful face