kagablog

i am now 46 years old
money is the only
poetry
left

Aryan whispers the text through once.

All the good people
let you down
Eventually
Eventually

All the proud people
On their knees
Eventually
Eventually

All the dead people
Risen up
Eventually
Eventually

Mantombi begins to play on the umrhube.

Warrick joins in on an acoustic percussion instrument.

David sings the text in isiXhosa accompanied by Zim on flute.

Bonke abelungileyo
Baya Kuphoxa
Nakanjalo
Nakanjalo

Bonke abantu ababphakamileyo
Amadolweni
Nakanjalo
Nakanjalo

Bonke abafileyo
Bayo ovuka
Nakanjalo
Nakanjalo

Warrick and David stop.

Zim duets with Mantombi.

Aryan re-states the text in a whisper.

End

(isiXhosa translation by david mayekane)

l’attention alimente la névrose
pas la solution

traduit par Dionysos Andronis

grit your teeth
waiting is hell
shot captain
sail forth
to the
moon

i’ll say it again bucko
grit your teeth
waiting is hell
and this is a
poem

my ex two exes ago calls me up out of the blue and goes on this rant:
“i’ve got friends who don’t know how to burp
i’ve done buckets, i’ve spent a night in jail
and while we’re on the subject of
ruthless solutions let me tell
you my mother never
burnt the food”

now listen chick it’s thirty seven minutes past three am
and i don’t want either my wife or my daughter to
be woken up by your inane chatter so lose
this fucken number and forget we ever
gave each other the time of night!

she whispers back, icily, “well
i always prefer to err on the
side of boredom.” click.
hangup. what
happens
to
these
chicks
after they
hit thirty? what
happened to me?
it’s all downhill, downhill
and kisses don’t work no more…

they always mean well
it’s so painful
it’s silencing
i share their skin

they always know better
they always have
they always will

there’s no hidden agenda
it’s always their agenda
no need to hide it

and there’s no way of detaching
i’m wrapped in their skin
and hence whatever i
concoct, by way of
an alternative
always ends
up serving
power
that
is

white

it’s not your life
it’s not happening to you
it’s somebody else living this
going through these (e)motions
you’ve become someone else again
this isn’t who you were meant to be (or not)
who you meant yourself to be, not at all, then
she says “but darling, you have your chores to do…”

we manufacture alienation in order to sell identities

waar was
julle nou?
life is a trip.
just do what you feel.
i downloaded this podcast.
does any of it make sense to you?

waar was
julle nou?
life is a trip.
just do what you feel.
i logged out of her mouth
does any of it resemble a dream?

waar was
julle nou?
life is a trip.
just do what you feel.
warning signs on the desktop
does any of it bode well for the future?

waar was
julle nou?
waar?

ons hoo haa wearing a daniel hechter shirt
stripes and big buttons on the sleeves
can you do me a shirt with all velcro
everywhere? stop looking at your
phone, start looking at the hot
dog. i need a formal shirt. do
you want to wear a tie? i am
learning to understand,
gradually, that all the
bitches are feral,
that all the
situations
are out
of
hand

She doesn’t know the difference between shit and pudding
it’s all rad and radness, dude, dork and dudetteski,
meanwhile he never stops trying to get into her
broeks. the oke’s as tenacious as kak op ‘n
wol komkommer. he asks her again “Why
won’t you dance with me?” she tunes
him, “i only dance with a man when
i want to fuck him” he gets that
warning sign all over his eyes,
mumbles “I’ve never been
without myself” then he
gets wise, remembers
his dad’s advice on
the subject of
bokkies
buys
her
a
monstrous
tequila-grapefruit-daquiri- special
now she’s interested, the sides of her
mouth jump up to the lobes of both of her ears
on a girl with a smaller mouth it would be a smile,
on her it’s a very broad incitement to fellatio. she sucks
half the cocktail up into that cavernous orifice in one brazen gulp
smiles at him again, her voice satiny, “6 of these and i’m anybody’s”
this oke is not stupid, he returns from the bar carrying a tray with 5 more
of the prejudicial cocktails

later, just after he’s finally
been where it’s nasty,
she looks up at his
grateful eyes and
proudly declares
“I’m from the
karoo, i
know
what
meat
tastes like.”

i saw a lot of white people bleeding
on the beaches as they was
chased into the sea
and i didn’t feel
scared

i could taste the chemical after burn of the melanin liquidater
on the inside of my nostril cavities where all the serious
damage had been done
and i didn’t feel
scared

i could imagine 433 ways of getting tortured before daybreak
and the nightshift was just clocking in
still i didn’t feel
scared

but when you did not pull your tongue out of my asshole for so long
that i knew you could not be breathing
(unless it was through your ears)
boy did i get
scared!

a man’s eyes are evil
but god will save my heart
a woman’s eyes are evil too
will god save my heart?

i gave you. what i could have had.
i gave you. everything. you took what i gave.
you dispossessed me. you made me delirious. period.
it felt like i had got bitch slapped by a whale.
then i heard the devil call my name.
“I’ll break bones for you” she said

this is what i replied to the devil:
a man’s eyes are evil
but god will save my heart
a woman’s eyes are evil too
will god save my heart?

the devil took a deep drag on her gauloises death stick
told me that she hadn’t been beaten into surrender, she’d been lured into it
“he’ll change” was the liberating assumption when she married him
of course he didn’t. now what. to get my way i suppose i had
better tell her the exact opposite of what’s on my mind
so i say “i increasingly think you must actually lie to

power” i think this chick like totally understands
me when she nods her head and goes “yeah,
underground rebel sells.” i feel like i’ve just
cornered her niche market. she goes on,
“it’s the illusion of separateness that
we’re drunk on”. actually my
poison is neat jameson’s
she gives me a glare
“all this stuff is
happening
because of the
nothing that’s not there”
and by this time i guess we
still haven’t answered any of
the basic existential questions?

a man’s eyes are evil
but god will save my heart
a woman’s eyes are evil too
will god save my heart?

i ask her to dance
she says “what on?
I haven’t got any legs.”
it’s only then that i notice
the wheelchair. damn. she’s
also on fire, if i’m to get lucky
with this devil i’d better move quick
“listen my mums a witch and my dad’s
a clown. they got married to give me some
stability. it’s called a family, but enough about
me, would you like to go outside and bring this
little poem to a quick and very happy ending?”
but’s it’s too late, the flames are up to her
face and her eyes blaze at me as she
roars “keep away from the poor!
they will infect you!”

thereafter it’s all
smoke but no
mirrors and
the truth is

a man’s eyes are evil
but god will save my heart
a woman’s eyes are evil too
will god save my heart?

this guy with a lethal mullet steps up to the pool table
challenges me and my buddy craig to a game
“for marcha”. “how much?” “twenty.”
make it fifty. that stops him short.
in cape town fifty bucks is
a month’s wages. but
this pussy hasn’t
done a day’s
work in his
life, he
gets his
money from
his mommy. so
mullet pussy and his
buddy leif go down. hard.
leif is so excited that i know
how to spell his name that he
forgets to sink any balls (except his own)
i buy the mullet pussies a round. “shall
we go double or quits?” the wannabe
hustlers are up for it. soon craig
and i are ducking out of there
with a crisp hundred to share
we’re elated, two old fucks
who got the better of the
snotneuse.

but in the
4×4 on the way
home i suddenly
realize that the joke’s
on us. it doesn’t matter
how much small change you
hussle on the way to the reaper;
the reaper takes it all back in the end

Only the thieves are really here
in Dada South - and S’bu
Zikode’s gone
underground

The Wardens of Life
can never be friends
with the Ungrateful Dead
when they are it’s only an act
the Ungrateful Dead always want
some small change, and S’Bu Zikode’s

gone underground

All my warden friends
are becoming sangomas
Those that aren’t are becoming
komas. Apparently a koma is the one
who heals a sangoma. But who heals the komas?

. A full stop?

And S’Bu
Zikode’s
gone
underground

The wardens are funny
First they grabbed the land
Then they made slaves of everybody
that wasn’t a warden. and when they eventually
let everybody vote they made sure to keep the land
(and all the valuable stuff in and on it) for themselves.
They even washed old reverend Frank Chikane’s feet
(which gave them the
spiritual upper hand)
they always get their warden friends overseas to boycott
the ungrateful dead when the dead try to grab back
their land. Nowadays the wardens are all
becoming sangomas and komas. In
this way they are colonising all
those ungrateful dead
ancestors, Robbing
the dead of their
souls
that’s all
those rowdy
deads have got left
And S’Bu Zikode’s gone underground

The ungrateful dead are funny too
they keep on smiling
at me and killing
each other
Here in
dada
south
where S’Bu
Zikode’s gone underground

Dear God
tonight I’m
thanking you
for some small
mercies: I don’t
live in a shack that
the government wants
to tear down (in an area
it calls a slum and won’t take
the responsibility for as its own)

I don’t live in Blikkiesdorp or Kennedy Road

I haven’t had to go underground
for speaking my mind

I’m not a dead (YET)

But I am nearly
forty six years cold.
I haven’t got a bean
in the bank. Every day
I hear from reliable sources
that I’m unemployable. I’m terrified
that i won’t be able to feed my daughter
or send her to a posh wardens-only school
But all of that pales into insignificance
When you think about the fact
That - fearing for his life for
speaking his mind - S’bu
Zikode’s gone
underground

here in dada
south

if you like me then that’s enough babe,
i don’t need guarantees. it’s warm
take my word on that

i was sure that i was
special til you burst
my bubble

it’s hopeless
isn’t it doctor?
this is where beyond
begins. i had a poignant
moment, i had a passionate

moment and both of them were
with you, so close your eyes and look
outside. analalyse the situation: you are

so beautiful in the eye of the beholder (me)

god tried to kill me
by making me
mortal. fuck
her

voilà ce que j’ai découvert

la pornographie est plus vraie que le sexe
plus intense
plus vivante

la haine est plus vraie que l’amour
plus intense
plus vivante

la mort est plus vraie que la vie
plus intense
plus vivante

(et sûrement sa durée est plus longue)

traduction par dionysos andronis

probably the best poetry publication on the web. i’m delighted to have five new poems in it! click here: http://www.blazevox.org/fall09.htm

You don’t have to be a visionary
to see into the future. The future
already happened. Again and again.
It’s called history. Events have a way
of repeating themselves. The technology
gets upgraded and the casts change.
For the rest it’s all ditto. And only
the rich know how to dream.

suddenly everybody logged out all at once
i felt the blood go to my feet
years later: nothing
had changed

that moment in the hotel room in new york
when you showed me your breasts
was all i could remember
of the 1990s

am i that much older?
even a whiskey
these days

is too much bother
now it’s time to
logout again

Discourse

About knowing a subject well
Let’s look at the example of ourselves
What subject could we possibly know better
Than the self, Since we are that self, And yet
who knows themselves well enough To say “I know
myself” - Anybody who says that is a liar - Or a fool

A satisfying alternative to trusting one’s own opinion
Is to have no opinion. I prefer to trust my intuition
It is best to have no motivation, To allow the
Youniversal mind to guide one always

You write “There is not much clarity
in communicating with the
confused.” On the
contrary, this is
the only clarity

I cannot
imagine
you as a
person in a
wheelchair, Unless
it were your wolves Who
hauled you through the snow

I would like to appeal to others,
But how one has to stoop in order
to do so! I could not stomach the debasement
For this reason I have no money
And no prospects for the future
But, I do sleep well,
And, I am able to
confront myself
in the mirror
Every
morning
without having
to gnash my teeth

Merciless love is not a concept
It really is nothing other than itself
It is an onotological experience of being
Incomparable with other states, Certainly
not to be dis
sected lin
guisti
cally

One should never have to strive for anything
Merely being the thing is always best
Striving is for losers

Which coloured poem are you playing?

I kiss you good night
It is a very slow,
very long kiss
We are both
dreaming
of…

“I saw that you were something,
but what it was I wasn’t sure…”