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Your tender flesh careses my mouth
the tangey taste of your skin
which is also sticky.

I bite slowly and
See my tooth marks on yuor flesh
Yummy.

You are soft and deilicous
I am not Veegan
but you make me wish
I we're.
thes is about veegan pork
If not for hellopoetry
I would have given up
The writing was starting to take its toll
Left me emotionally exhausted
I was forced to take a break
For all my energy it had drained
Sleepless nights, endless lines
Trying to switch off my brain
Left me depressed
When sentences formed
A story I'd tell
About my life in hell
Sometimes dramatised to a new level
Sometimes I have seen myself become the devil
All my emotions that stain the page
The blood, sweat and tears
Written into each line
Left me losing moments in time
And for this writing became a crime
Didn't feel like I was utilising my mind
Until recently I realised this was the only legacy
I would leave behind
I've seen this art in a whole new light
Through words on a page, I've shown my fight
I've shown all my emotions, I have been totally open
Gave my all in every line
Sprinkled in a flavour of rhyme
If not for hellopoetry all I'd have is blank pages
A mind full of lines, forgotten in time
Took some time to unwind
And that is when I realised
These writings and I are bound for life
I've learned to embrace this now
Finally proud of all my works,
how has it taken me this long
To fall in love with this art
If not for hellopoetry
An appreciation I would never have tasted
And this whole community I've embraced it
Don't care if you love or hate it
It's made me make some changes
If not for hellopoetry
There are talents I may never have uncovered
Some of us are still so young,
Still, more room left to improve
The elder ones raising us up
Understanding a whole new love for this art
I once said These lyrics were written in blood
Straight from the arteries from my heart
That metaphorically speaking
I spread all I am, all across the page
Bled the lead with what I felt  
So much heart into every verse
All this time it was never a curse
It was something special I've been gifted
To get all these thoughts out of my system
If not for hellopoetry
I wouldn't be here...caught within this poetic atmosphere

©2018 Written By Benji James
We are forgotten yesterdays of tomorrow,
note-booked mementos on thighs time travelled,
back from the future, few tsha-tsha with flashes,
blackouts and gray-matter gashes
The slurred dance of good memory,
crib-notes on collar-bones,
bare chest, a loose tie, knots, not around neck
formal education white-suits, tucked-in remembering.

A formal date chasing me indoors.
chasing me into doors of consistent
nurturing nature of the neuro
doors on the right, left doubt outside.
A manner of hindsight sighs.

Running back to tomorrow to save my 4 unborn children
from my present past. Amnesia.
The pendulum swings in reversed backwards.
Forward is just an antithesis, poor protest-art
An analogue, roman-concept coded in digital now.
Fraudulent, faux and pseudo. We look at the sun
to tell day from night. Progress practising stillness
Passage of pain frozen in time,
sun is amber lantern,
phantom of what & who has risen,
out of resin's
suspended-infinity-loop prison.
The bitterness of honey stings
sour-sweet on the taste buds of trauma.
Strolling up memory lane, compassion
for former faults. Less envy, only empathy
Fragments of a broken dream further smashed
can’t fill in the gas smothered cracks.

We died many deaths.
A mass burial, a mountain of bodies brewing
under the garden, the slumbering soil wakes.
3 is the number of perfect balance and god.
Ma’, Sister, and I.
Mother died the day Doctor
told her that the body she named
Home was evicting her, with a 10-year-notice.
She must have watched herself
watch herself
sitting on covered couches
thinking what a theft of life
this holy trinity is –
what is left
to see
here?

I saved all pain of breaking
bones for this,
I ran in opposites, dislocated my hip
tore tender tendons, I have a Belgian-Congolese tendency
never stood for much but numbness
an absence of nothing because
feelings ****.
I saved haunting ghosts of night for day
For this day
For today.
All these reservoirs of resilience won’t be enough,
ever.

I wept
winter sunsets –
to remind my new self on the coldest of nights
that once time was warm days
a slice of life’s beauty in Redemption.

Efforts tuck sweat under my arms,
gravity grounding my prideful chest down.

A bed of waves
afloat sober dreams
nightmares of wrinkled water
submarine my day dreams
and flowing peace.
Please be polite and let me be.

I now know, less hoarding.
A pair of paradox, or pandora's box: written by Phila Dyasi
Published by: NuBlaccSoul

To call it an existential crisis
would speak exclusively to a disturbance relating to the decaying case
that encapsulates my eternal hold of being.
NO!
This crisis is a crises extending to the infinite.
A philosophical and metaphysical troubled state.

NB: Please comment and critique and share :) Feedback is always welcomed.

(C) 2018. Copyrighted 19 February
2018 NuBlaccSoul™. All rights reserved. Please quote poem with author name, poem title and date published if sharing to external sites without the link or/and if sharing an excerpt of the poem.
My Name is Phila Dyasi.
I can’t remember who,
but some person
used to address me by my full name
and I took a liking to that.

My Name Is My Name.

My first name is life
Phila, to live, not simply to be alive.
Breathed into existence by uKhulu,
Phila badane abagxeki.
And yes, it’s my only one. No middle Christian name – thank Gran'

My Name is My Name.

Dyasi, my mother’s last name,
my grandmother’s maiden name,
my late great-grandfather’s last name,
uEzra Makhwenkhwe Dyasi. He preferred Ezra.
Dyasi, his father’s father’s fani, his great-grandpa’s only name – uDyasi.

Makhwenkhwe is a boyhood reference, an insult to a proud Xhosa man,
from eGcuwa nase Dutya. A man. Not a boy as these afrikaner ******* would say.
A man. A man of God. A devout man of God, Christian by faith. His name is Ezra.
Methodist by denomination, Ezra Dyasi was. In the name of the father, his is Ezra.
Married to Cecilia Nomaza Dyasi. Married to Nomaza Dyasi, uMaSobuwa, her name.

My Name is My Name.

We had beautiful names before the white men with the black book came.
We had beautiful names before they told us to name ourselves in translation.
Our names were powerful, rich with meaning before they invited themselves here.
Our forefathers’ names that told tales of our glory and beauty were discarded for theirs.
We chucked away our good names, in favour of meek ones.

Rolihlahla became Nelson.
Bantu became Stephen.
Mangalisa became Robert.
Thembisile became Chris’, short for Christopher.
Kalushi became Solomon.

Call me Phila Dyasi for short.
My nickname is Phila Dyasi.
“Ph-“ is not “F” you ****.
Please capitalise the ‘P’ and ‘D’.
I do not answer to “P.D.” any more.

Uncle Phil’.
Phillip.
Dr. Phil.
Pills-Philzit.
I could be Phila Dyasi, but my name is not my name.

My Name is My Name.

Phila-ni is not my name, that’s the other black guy
Joshua Mark, I only have one name but you cannot
bother remembering it right, my classmate of 5 years.
Phila-sande is not my name, the suffix is suffocating.
Fila is a sports brand, I am Phila Dyasi. Dyasi, Phila Dyasi.

My Name is My Name.

Ma’s name is Thembisa, Theodora is just a 1970s-safety-net.
Mama’s ma’s name is Nompumelelo. Mavis is political accommodation.
And well, Maxwell the headmaster is better than Thandabantu, uThisha oMkhulu.
My parents unlearning their old names, displacement navigating home, steadily so.
Transkei is Eastern Cape now. Ciskei is Eastern Cape now. What is in a name?

My Name is My Name.

I am not faith, grace, hope, joy
prayer, prudence, patience;
gratitude and forgiveness
is not my namesake.
I am not a product of translation, no.

My Name is My Name.

Mbali as in flower? – No, sir.
Mbali as in Mbali.
Can I call you “Q”? – Wait, a line or the letter?
Mama said, Qiqa, uQaphele, uQaqambe nto ka Qunta, qanda lam’
Lokugqibela. My existence to be reduced to a line or the latter?

My hoerskool boere buddy James,
we naturalised him Jabulani,
uMahluleli, uMbhele and myself,
gave him his BEE scorecard.
His mother a subtle, Christian racist.

Aah! iBhele elihle lase Lenge.
Khuboni, Qunta, Langa lokulunga.
noNtanda kuphakanyiswa.
Ndabezitha. Sonani singoni m’ntu.
Clan names. I am Phila of House Dyasi. The first of my name.

It’s not globalization, it’s colonisation in your colon,
the annals of white history are ****, call they by name.
The eagle saved the fish from drowning with its claws,
Call it by its name; Uncle News, Father Propaganda.
Where can we be Black, Becky?

I am not monkey, ****, kaffir, ******, *****.
I am not boy, *****, barbarian, uncivilised.
I am not primitive, predatory, sinful and stupid.
I am not native, tribe, village, jungle, bush.
And you, you are not chosen nor superior.

I am the Original Man.
Human. Hue Man.
I am the we I speak of in the book of beginnings.
My Name is the Name of Names, I am Phila Dyasi.

Born, 7th of Mahogany May. Made Man in Jet July. Black, Nubian consciousness.
The son of the sun, child of the soil, mothered by Lady Liberty, the original.
One with the earth. The warm people: the red, orange and yellow of the rainbow.
Africans fighting to be African in Africa. My black skin is on fire, a blue flame ablaze.
**I am still Phila Dyasi.
My Name Is My Name: written by Phila Dyasi
published by NuBlaccSoul

(C) 2017. Copyrighted 23 August
2017 NuBlaccSoul™. All rights reserved. Please quote poem with author name, poem title and date published if sharing to external sites without the link or/and if sharing an excerpt of the poem.
I'm reaching but never gripping,
It's soul ripping how they're preaching, yet aren't teaching.

I'll never hide,
even when I die.
I'll be immortalized
in some formaldehyde.
Where my soul and skin divide
I'll be like a deity,
the higher me,
doing the Lord's work,
hire me.

The humble apple pie
can satisfy no appetite
here comes the hunger tide.

When wings carried Icarus
through cutting winds
we were pulled feathers
of wisdom's birdy-body of ink
taking flight to Olympus planes
the son, seeks The Sun
OH-you.

I'm grown now,
dealing with chronic stress,
and I believe less in a deity,
it seems like too far a stretch
The stench from a faithless
Hopeless, homeless.
(C) 2016. Copyrighted 27th January
2017 NuBlaccSoUl™. All rights reserved. Please quote poem with author name, poem title and date published if sharing to external sites without the link or/and if sharing an excerpt of the poem.
it's all okay,
it's all alright,
finally.

things get weird,
it gets bad,
suddenly.

there's no reason why,
things get me down,
quickly.

i don't know,
i don't understand,
how this goes.

things get better,
then they fall apart for no reason,
and it all goes to ****.
A gentleman holds my hand.

A man pulls my hair.

A soulmate will do both.

― Alessandra Torre
A poem on how to treat women, and I always remember these simple words.
Can somebody please explain,
Why a lovely ice cold thick shake,
In a cup marked  large is gone,
Gone much too quickly,
Exquisitely delicious,
Trying to stay fresh and cool.
A rapidly empty cup,
Leaves me feeling a thirsty fool.
I hereby declare that I truly need another one.
To keep me feeling jolly cool,
while in the midday sun.
(C) LIVVI
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