Poetry Time - Courtesy of Mphutlane wa Bofelo

FREUDIAN SLIP

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dear mister English sir black Wordsworth since everyday person to person ordinary talk drives you sick with boredom i’ll write this down go right down with this the grand idea frolicking in your super star head your words are beyond the grasp of mortal brains is the trick of the ego hot-air acting intelligence courtesy of loquacious flair lost & found self in the veneer of afro-hair dreadlocks to mask whitey wishes behind hard-core Afrikan blacker than all Blacks appearances your fuck the world tantrum is the cry of black man-child for the boy-child he could not be & for the soccer-boots Father Christmas forgot to deliver under the pillow your countless monikers are on account of your earnest belief Santa forgot your present because he could not pronounce your tongue-twisting name don’t worry son of man i’m not going to play Sigmund trying to explain your grand illusion when sisters open wide their tender loving arms to embrace you with big warm hugs they are spreading their legs wide open for your small man to play big dada Idi Amin on the rampage Rambo of the sheets by popular demand but this much i think i know when your bubble is burst at the feral awakening black sister is a groupie of the poetry not booty for the poet you’ll proudly proclaim your phobia for black labia hibernate to leafy suburbs playboy of liberal conservative madams kissing anything black to appease their white guilt i believe you’ll be pleased to know that master Adrian’s fancy to purge the ghosts of Vlakplaas with a black dick up his rectum may make it possible for your to realise your fantasy to do madam & the baas in one day on one bed just to prove a point to whom it may interest superman is you the only nigger in the books * okay right, master rhymes as solid as drum & bass you bust verses full blast clear sound as patent like sheer resonance unlike the drowning of the individual in the timbre of proverbial larger than life persona like the dissolution of the voice in the chorus akin the lavish absence of the person after the boom bang! as the audience struggle to grasp what’s the point of the stroll on the page via the dictionary crusade & the dance about the stage i beg your pardon doctor stylistics in all fairness i’m first to concede i can recognise every letter & syllable in your repertoire the mount Everest mission though is reading all the words as one full text my small common-man mind miserably fails to fathom the message behind the groove & the purpose after the applause

* as true’s light, son of the soil there’s no doubt about the Kafka in the aesthetics in your Charlie Chaplin middle-finger caustic tongue the mercenary penis screw on groupies & yes-men imposters, naysayers & all but the trouble with diss & unlike campaigns they are always either cold wars between egoists megalomaniacs fighting their shadows or narcissists battling imaginary foes the long and shot of this anti-diss recitation is simply to say to you comrade rhythm & poetry you have a choice to chase the Casper new verse dreams to fill libraries & the world your dome with only your books & albums or to write hope of a better world with plain good works of love & light in just deeds & words no verbal majesty or dick(rea)ctionary eloquence no ‘dicktorian’ opulence * you are dead right, father wa Thiong’o the school of language and literature is frost cold dead white men dancing all over black & white minds library shelves are full with dinosaurs but no books in the halls it’s open mic bloom the messenger program director opens the podium to the roving microphone proclaims a receive & share moment in football they say touch & pass think of a theatre version of piano & shoeshine all shine nobody shines but enter emcee the ego man twenty minutes voyage of self-grandiose hopping hip on a long march only to his presence the Mozart of verse declares everybody absent by the power of his words all letters big & small pronounce his almighty name all things beautiful & everything under the sun give testimony: poetry is dead god the lord of words he pops on the stage it’s not system but pants indicating the fall fingers & eyes have more delicate matters to worry about than the clock & the time funny how when brothers deal with their fears of the pens drying, going inkless & testosterones burst in a war of words guns running amok in brethren’ heads the butt of the insults & ridicule is the black woman sister PD asserts this is where patriarchy resembles white supremacism: in the cold war no single missile launched on white life only euro Caucasians killing each other in the figment of their imagination through Black & Latino bodies ruined to white bones to feed Aryan gods of the West & East under the Southern Sun.... in male-ego wars Kid Chomp aka Talk-a-lot cocks an imaginary bazooka at my boy, Paper-Bag with threats of how he will shoot him dead with it up his girlfriend’s bum my learned friend, Kid Psyche says that’s only a troubled man’s cry articulating penis-lack he also has a scholarly explanation for black child putting mother and fuck in the same sentence he says it’s the you-dig-puss-complex or perhaps womb-envy this shit is too big for my kop alignment nna i rather vie for dop shine up at the head-office level speak in tongues like big stomach politicians money-making pastors & sushi-eating sheikhs… for internalised oppression just read downright masochism the sushi communist’s claim to copyrights to the manifesto & Capital is ‘my mother was a kitchen girl’ the pretty nude rebel-poet adapts the song into the war-cry of self-depreciating fair-mini-ism ‘my mother was a whore!’ if you did not know this maiming of black literature is a bloody race war white unrest versus black uprising they no longer kill to silence radical scribes they just crown queen of tweets & twerk empress of letters how they mock ancestors turn them into background instruments for empty voices..

the publishing ink-dust-tree is damn right poetry does not sell the establishment go out of its way to make sure there is none in the books & on-stage don’t think there’s fiction in the prestigious novels just champagne bazaars & coconut-sales at the least there is great fiction in the biographies and commentaries white guilt gone all literati former parliamentarians & askaris appeasing their conscience the big white blue lie accepted by trusting darkies is books are the safest place to hide truth from lazy blacks gazi is not fooled he says the bold truth is that the way they hide truth from inquisitive blacks is to hide the books otherwise they find black writers to be zombies of white authors or black student ghosts of white doctors of literature don’t bank your hopes on the struggles of the poors it’s a black working-class act directed by petit-bourgeois academics fighting territorial wars for control of the knowledge industry the scramble for the soul of the people’s movements fanonians made in the micro-oven of academic research radical humanists anointed by the press corporate-sponsored fighters eying takeover of a government accounting to capital a good story to tell? tell that to the birds they never ever lie always trust the song of a sparrow to call the monkey out of the rainbow forest bliss as long as the arse is pink & Verwoerd’s blood runs in the Hart a matriculant can be appointed head economist at a prestigious bank without a moan about standards & white experience can throw a professorship at a junior degree grandaunt meanwhile black graduates are in the street the only people walking with bounce in the ghetto are amapara and the only folks making it are the new breed called amasendepreneurs and how they look down upon anyone black & poor these maretepreneurs!!!! word on the street is the boss sends a man on early morning mission takes his wife for breakfast in the afternoon he have the husband for lunch in the evening it’s him reserved for supper by white capital & the big G’s envelopes under tables black bin-bags onto cars it’s not rubbish but illicit money on delivery the stink is in the pants