We’re so evolved kids

I crawled cradled into a hole,
a little one next to Mrs. Ples.
There I laid my head down
on our grandmother’s breast.
There it was I cried
the where’s, the what’s, the who’s, the why’s.
Do we hurt each other so
like siblings do, me and you?
You pull each other’s hair, she said
To bash the other on the concrete,
the street, to claim the game’s victory.
But the game’s gone
too far, much much too far.
You’ve forgotten what a cop, what a robber is.
To hide (away) and to seek (refuge)
playing on the streets.
She’d hit us, she said
if she had had the strength.
You hate too much and care too little
So the game my dear
isn’t worth its prize.
It isn’t fun anymore,
it hasn’t been
since even before my time.

Empty flags and flowers.

I stand on ground cracked with divided opinion.
My flesh pale on the earth,
my tongue doesn’t carry this place’s many words.
Only my own lost unfurling.

Outsiders see the wild.
I see the jungle of the city
that wants to eat me
for being outsider inside it,

I’m not forgiven not forgotten.
There is history here,
under my feet are paths I didn’t walk.
But I’ve been lead on them,
heavy under them.

I don’t belong, even if I say
myself as African
in a tongue I don’t speak,

African Afrikan Afrikaans.
Betrayer, I don’t know,
I wrap myself in reds whites blues
of lands I no longer belong to.
Lands in my blood, not under my feet.

My gods are in Hollywood’s hills,
your gods stolen by Picasso,
and in London’s towers,
where they keep your jewels
that they stole too.
The missionaries gave Africa
a new god, but he’s not mine.
So I’m further lost.

Raise me up, I’ve shot
out of this ground from
from foreign blood.
Purple blossomed, alien and admired,
loved and hated.
My people have drained the land,
we’ve Dug our roots new,
stolen the richness in the soil.
I’m a new blossom on this tree
blown off and wandering suburbs.

I stand one leg in Africa, one in Europe,
so they say my penis dangles in salt spray
and so we are all made bitter.

Who is Africa? I don’t think it’s me,
If it isn’t, then on this ground
I fly empty flags, I fly
an empty petal in suburbia.


I’m sure every blog in its beginning’s struggles to settle its roots deeply in order to grow into something impressive. It’s not that I aim to impress, or even for growth. These are just my thoughts about things as I have them, shifted around, put down on paper and then uploaded for all to read. Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about roots. Currently I’m doing the history of English in my English class, in philosophy we’re questioning the concept of a history that progresses to a point or whether we as people have progressed at all.

Maybe some time I’ll write a post about that, but this is all a little more personal. I want my blog to also resemble a story in a way, a narrative of the things that happen to me, only because I enjoy reading blogs like that. so here are some of the roots to my emerging little story.

I shouldn’t be here, I’m too young, it’s too crowded and the cigarette smoke is seeping into my clothing and turning my eyes red. The thumping music drowns it all out, the constant thoughts, the constant, “did he care about me? does anyone care about me?” I’d probably leave with someone else tonight, partly because I can’t drive and partly because I can’t find a reason not to. I’m that innocent looking kid with a twisted smile and an even more twisted sense of self-worth. This is really highlighted when the credit card crushes something on the top of the toilet, the powder is scraped into neat little lines and all I can think is, “I should not be putting this up my nose”. That idea soon leaves my mind, but is followed by more “should not’s”; I shouldn’t be having another tequila, I shouldn’t have taken my shirt off, I shouldn’t be making out with this guy and I really shouldn’t be making out with his boyfriend. All of this culminating in a blinding morning-light thought: I really shouldn’t have done that last night.

After my break up I was a little more demented. I was looking for an escape in the rat filled holes of the city, I was escaping into the city lights, I was a black room boy. It took me two whole years to really shake it all, with a few botched relationships, meaningless flings and another big heart-break along the way. I’d say that I was saved by the good lord but I wouldn’t be able to do it with a straight face. I saved myself, I grabbed myself by the scruff of the neck and dragged myself out of these places, away from these “friends.”

There are certain moments that saved me. Insomnia driven, tossing and turning, thinking about life, kind of moments. When the rest of the world is deep in REM, and the only rapid thing about you are those incessant thoughts flitting around your head, and perhaps your quick reaction to the “skip” button on your Ipod, because you don’t need to wallow in Adele right now. This is the paranoid exploration of your own life up to this point, and a fearful glance to the possible future you’re headed toward. You try to remember a time when you were a kid and you were happy, when things scared you and you could just hide under the covers. Back before the monsters were under your bed, not in it. There’s no more hiding or running to your parents, you have to be the big boy now and sort out your own pile of crap.

Now I’m much better adjusted, to being in my own skin that is. I think it absolutely necessary that I went through that, it built me in ways that I couldn’t imagine, especially as an artist. The road ahead seems a lot brighter, unless of course I’m about to be run over by an 18 wheeler truck. I’m still growing, I’m still not exactly where I want to be but it’s all part of this journey.