She wore thick framed glasses and her colour was conviction,
Assured of herself, black, poised, my affliction,
She taps me gently on my fingertips wakes me for inscription,
She knows me well, feeds my addiction.
Wears her prose in balanced meter, long pauses of silence,
At times white noise, piercing violence,
Enamoured with adornments of the highest order, black diamonds,
She knows how to wake me and be my guidance.
Only a lover would know her and how she allures,
She’s divorce material, an obsession with no cure,
She’s the last person my wife would ever conjure,
Her name is The Night, black majestic grandeur.
How can poets repent?
When they carry the sin of every man and woman that lived before them and that will follow?
Maybe they don’t want to repent because repentance means giving up past vices
the vices that become their muses
the muses that fill their hearts with so much blood it tsunami’s into their mind
their mind can’t contain it
breaking ocean beds
smothering shores and pouring out into the pages of the city
swirling through drains
bubbling up through fountains
sweltering shop walls
drowning city halls
revitalising city parks
softening the foundations of sky scrapers
floating away old wooden shacks that have outlived their time
washing away the drunkenness of taverns
sobering the park bench inhabitants
cleansing the lanes from human waste.
Maybe they can’t repent because repentance means they can’t leave pen dents any more.
If they can’t dent a page
with love or rage
with lavender or sage
with wisdom of their age
with paying homage
to their forefathers gauge
how can they take the stage
of loves rib cage
give and engage
with the human masquerade?
Maybe they will be forced to repent
in which case
they’ll be the future generations embrace
the fire souls solace
the writer, rapper or activists brace
the stencils for children to trace
the soldiers about face of about face
the disbelievers worship place
the lovers lace
The freedom fighters giving chase
the farmers growth space
the peoples abandonment of haste.
Whichever way you look at it, a poet can’t repent, there’s things to be said which only the love off their tongue can expel and exorcise the demons out of us all with.
Priests, holy men and war mongers will all but surrender under the poets megaphone.
Be it as they may, torture them kill them or cut out their tongues, they cannot and will not repent.
To repent is to turn their back on everything past and future, severing the voice boxes of the children to come.
So off to martyrdom they go inviting death so that words may live.
Repentance after all is for the wicked!
Give me you raw
There’s no time for:
Give me you…
The way I’ll bury you.
She ignited my pen
It wasn’t just a normal pen any more
It was a fire breathing
Now all I can write about
is her flame
If you cannot suffer the pain,
You have no business falling in love with an artist.
Through song, writing, paint or any medium,
The pain inflicted is of two types:
If they love you,
It is agonising not to be able to love them back equally
If they hate you,
You will be the subject of ridicule in a masterpiece that destroys you.
Do yourself a favour, read this.
How to write sleepy prose by Nina Karadzic – http://wp.me/p4Gx61-Rm
Well worth following too.
Of molten thoughts
And lava prose
Of hair on end
And curled toes
I write with fire
From belly deep
To bite your lip
And burn your clothes.