Spit in my Left Eye

not bound by chasms, racism, fascism I am the stream trickling from the peyote cactus in the dry dead of the Sahara, The sand storm that sanitizes every stained spot in its wake. I rise from the South, East, North and West. Under the camels hump I am shadowed from the sweltering sun at noon and clothed for the damp dead of night. I shake the dust from burdens dragged through the evening heat. The hiss of the desert monitor stills not my focus. Like the hooves of a rhim gaselle are my feet - sure yet soft. Caves and burrows shield my dignity in drought. and the waking croc smiles at my courage as the rains wash away my dried tears. I am a Woman I stand tall and fall, My exploits are as the twist in every tornado and when morning comes I rise to meet the scorpion dead on. I rise - from the desert sun - from the dry savanna scapes I am the wisdom of the rock hyrax that moves with my sisters while we forage for the hungry world around us. When t

A swelled pinhead and colonial offshoot declares your home is a shithole; to remain where you are. you look around and see the crap - raped beauty. Molested potential. Stolen riches and resources.  Overwhelming chaos. Pee without pots No water to wash away the stench of ammonia Lopsided shacks - The drop no longer long; a hole in the ground where flies meet. Bread without butter Riverbeds dumpsites for termites. Homes heavily laden with worry. the uni-grad doing taxi not for joy but because he has nothing to eat, no job in his field. The picture of seized splendour rises inside your heart and it hurts. Truth dawns - the thief looks good in your gucci's The rapist wears your scent like the devil wears prada He knows what he took he orgasms on memorable euphoria; rubs your face in the soil where your soul lives. Its all there in black and white - Your fist hits a bulls eye - colonialists must fall eat grass you slimeball! Peace-molester. la

"I became a whole person when I finally put away the exile’s little packed suitcase. If I am ever liberated from this bondage of racialism, there are some things much more exciting to me, objectively, to write about. But this world has such a social orientation, and I am involved in this world and I can’t cut myself off.” ****Peter Abrahams - first internationally published Black South African author - 1946 "Mine Boy". I have been to Zimbabwe and experienced the fears and falling tears. I spent more than moments within the barracks of Nigeria and witnessed gruesome atrocities and the divides of rich and poor. The ghastly and animalistic slayings of refugees in South Africa and broader nations. Teens begging me to care less and let them die at their own hand - life in the trenches of the ghetto too painful and overwhelming. Poverty and abuse a hell hole most would do anything to be free of. I reflected and re-visited the sins of apartheid; it's authors a