Poetry should have rhythm
like the rolls of drums of war
rhythm like foot taps
like ta ta ta
and a raw emotion to its flow
Poetry should question
it should be the rejected stone of our social structure
something for revolution and ghetto glee
the jubilee of our sovereign claims
hope for the youth living without truth
of whistleblowers dying without proof
just another nigger dead
just another dying flame and blessed be the name
just another statistic for TV headlines
That is why my poems talk about
death and god and hiphop
the death of god and hiphop
it is a reflection of my beauty and mandate
it be my DNA’s blueprint
my soul’s foot print
my rain drops on rusty iron roofs of conformity
the black blood in my arteries
the hair on my balls
as in my ego trip
as in my heart beat on a silver platter
as in my break beats to hiphop medleys
Sir, when you hit that stage
feed my rage
my urge to run naked and bleeding
“fuck the system!”
“fuck the rhythm!”
“fuck the victims!”
or feed me squabbles of your skewwhiff definitions of love
how corrupt politicians be
blah blah blah
how Africa can redeem herself
from her dying glory
her dieying her pubic hair
so she can birth children of colour
her stolen jewellery
how she lost her virginity
to the bible and the gun
and her starving children
at least pretend you give a fuck
lie to me in your short sentences you call poetry
how you care for humanity
make me feel something!
Feel something, bitch!
Feel the damage of your own words!
Feel something, man!
Free your soul!
Free us all!
Free your homies from project benches!
Free your mama from the trenches!
Fees she paid for your colleges!
It’s time to give Mother Nature a kiss
On her green lips!
Feed the globe with love!
Yes I’m preaching motherfucker!
Let poetry breathe life to her dying soul,