amiri baraka's against bourgeois art + transcription 

war on the horizon; a ship with bloody sails Andy Young slips on his Chamberlain appeasement getup he got from years listening to the CP hype Martin Luther King. is there somebody hear to record this? the US being thrown out the front door? the Russian bear coming out the back door my man suddenly clearly an apologist for new-style colonialism telling us we can't fight the US, those centuries of our dead are buried here oceans of our blood have fertilized the black nation in the South / is there someone here to get this down? can I get a -- like they say -- witness? an eye that can see through this year, in Jimmy Carter's snake-oil show, there is a room nobody talks about steel door, fumes seep underneath inside, blood and hair on the floor bones stacked in the corner photos of Goering and Goebbels and Joe McCarthy and Nixon in the nude trying to put helmets on their peckerwoods; will somebody put this stuff out?  // you walk through a museum all the colors of the spectrum but not one image... except of checks passing Pollock dollar signs de Kooning fortunes Larry Rivers pots at the ends of the rainbows. No people no love no heart and soul insides flowing out no fighting on the street no fires rip the sky no children screaming death no police no state, except it is the state, bullshitting on the wall, no peoples' struggle, just colors thrown by baby snooks a down and leaving unintellectual NO RECORD OF THIS PLACE. as wild a motherfuckin joint America is somebody should get this shit down, otherwise no one will believe it. get it down get it on the record get the hate the horror the lies the rockefeller monsters eating corpses / heey bro, say hey, what it is, dude, yeah too, to do it is, yeah? wowlaowdootieroo baybaybay-BE, carrying a radio on his shoulder eating corpses coal mines, garment center, assembly lines hot steaming steel poured through space / not any of life is there. hey poet. you, artist, he turns in the shadows suckin a marble. dribblin andy warhols lost nut / he is an ARTIST, he is a po' 8. a po' 9. his work is about everything, his work is about the universe, her work is about the universe, her work is about the stars, belching her work is about grey hair lost in the desert peeped in a teeny voice NO BABIES NO SCREAMS NO RED LIFE NO FUTURE, death peeped in a teeny voice, stupidity dripped in a sultry voice 

bourgeois poets yodel nonsense about boring absence, they think of funny ways for letters to sit on the page, concrete fullshit, arty dumbshit, they are as safe as old toilet paper. revolution swoops the world, bourgeois artists stare at crumbs of dust in the light. people change reality. but these dull imitation poets talk to us of fragmented nothingness like 2-celled creatures trying to bebop; the world is heavier than they know. they do not know. they fight knowledge with abstraction and think they cool because they talk to theyself! they are full of shit. like vultures peckin on an open grave / they uphold dying capitalism and give themselves airs they think they shit is profound. complex but the people think it's as profound and complex as monkey farts.

now, meditate.... on that!

no video link - click 4 gods wisdom's wonderful cover of on the beach by neil young. cheers

soror

i have had
no blood to give
my home guards
kin.

meet the body of my sisters
wide-eyed limbs held together
with dues / the terror of relation
struck us all at once,
we ran less than we thought

continued states / a chapbook

i wrote a poetry chapbook called continued states. it has 22 poems in it. you can name your price for a pdf copy - email rinanku at gmail.com

https://www.paypal.me/rinank

https://cash.me/$rjna

names

 sunday at the top of the Carleton Center (JHB)

  sunday at the bottom of the Carleton Center 

 old fort/constitution hill

 Sandton

in front of the Mandela estate (Houghton)

 Soweto, from the top of the Oppenheimer tower

 Johannesburg, in front of MuseuMAfricA

I

talk to God every day

on outrageous fortune...

HAMLET.

To be,

as you know,
there are more questions than that
and they loom over your head and into the fine stretch of night where
your father wanders. Sometimes he is a question and sometimes he is
an assumption, but either way his presence finds the means to burn, so
you suppose that things could be narrowed down. A void that curls around your
head

the color of dried blood.

Your tongue tucked into the corner of your mouth,
and other stories.

MUTUAL SLUMP

think

deliverance

as a motion, so simple

as the way your legs now

drag under your body 

and upside-down

you swing 

fists smeared obscenely

with the delicate blackness

of a nighttime dance,

the balance maintained 

until the dawn’s early light

· · · – – – · · ·

You feel really guilty

when you watch an episode of COPS...

security question

here is where you are furiously

human, you decide

shirt stained with some

distended feeling      screen glow

sinking into your skin     

along the gentle hum

of a possession.

maybe you are knee deep in a mirror

        for the first time

and you are trying to drag your

reflection out of its confines

and all you can manage are

measured pieces:

(blood from your nose     and the

chatter of your teeth     and

a cut on your cheek -

you have a hard time sharing

fleeting parts)

I've got a new poem in Queen Mob's.