I Give

I am worried.

I am insane from it.

Out there

Someone is dying a death that they don’t have to.

I am worried for my Africa.

This continent is a soft vagina getting violated by a big barrel of oil from its own womb.

I am not being dramatic. I am being accurate.

How about book-burning?

So that we don’t remember our own history.

I am going to count all the mass graves records can show.

But King Leopold burned records for over a week or so,

so no.

What then, is left for my insanity to do;

this care that’s driving me nuts?

We are not secure!

We are not secure!

We are not secure!

And I am insane for a reason.

I will be sane when I am safe.

We all know that that’s never.

So I will use this insanity.

Until I die.

Or until there is no longer a need for terror levels.

Or doomsday clocks.

Or AK 47-led elections.

Or mass rape.

Or squatter camps next to million Rand homes.

I give a fuck.

But all they want is to fuck me.

Or over-fuck...me...over.

I troll the internet for a “big tune” or a “brutal song,“ feeding my curiosity

But because someone is spear-heading the truth online, the Egyptian government shuts down the ‘net.

Meanwhile, one is an an Artist.

A creative.

A member of this ‘global village’

To thrive in a city, I am supposed to

And supposed to be.

Some Miner died tonight to keep my lights on.

Some Miner is dying for the micro-circuitry in my phone.

Their deaths are in my hands, in my eyes, on my back, keeping me warm.

Their deaths are in my pen.

The tree that makes this pad is in my nose, the page is in my brain, as an image of possibility.

But there is no Art here.

Only the haves and the you-just-can’t-afford-its.

Get out of their mall, out of their shop, out of their beach, out of their hair!

Luxury means blindness.

I am mad for a reason!

No, not one, excuse me. I’m used to lying to seem sane.

I am fucking-crazy-potty-dotty mad for many reasons.

The ones we tell ourselves to sleep better.

The ones that tell us to tell them to others.

Those lies.

Like the one that tells us to obey our alarm clock and go to work.

Like: I can quit anytime i want.

Like: I don’t need them, they need me.

Like: I’ll make it through the day.

Like: Jesus loves me, this I know.

Like: It’s a new South Africa.

Lieslieslieslieslieslieslieslieslieslieslieslies!!!!!

I hold truth like the Sun holds Helium.

I hold insanity like Africa holds orphans.

I hold more issues than a paperboy delivering copies of the Daily Sun, which give no luminescence at all.

I! AM! WORRIED! SICK!

And I’m not done.