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Willard May 1
City cops, either
all pigs or all fathers,
break cement curbs with rubber
as the shin of a warm body
brushes a front bumper;
warning sign clearer than headlights.

I stand arrested across the highway.
An idle ghost, mouth agape, eyeballing
the Record Courier parking lot,
officers breaking cement
breaking kneecaps of a civilian.

Where he kisses the ground
I once analyzed the black of the sun,
diseasing slowly from time and the light.
I soaked the now with a present mind
and active heart, living for life

defined by want.
I recall Impressionist interpretations
of Carson Valley sitting on
the windowsill of the Courier,
a hand wrapped around my wrist

using its nails to pick off my skin
naively, so I’ll bleed out
through my scabs and my corpse
will be captured in that moment.
Handcuffed, legs pressed

between my shoulder blades,
but seconds still pass.
Divorced from a faded past,
I wait until three uniforms
shove a man into the backseat

and drive to the station.
We’re now shadows of
our former selves in
the lights of a cop car,
separated from when
our heartbeats were the loudest.
NuBlaccSoul Apr 28
https://libros-agency.co.ke/product/chickens-laying-eggs-on-the-roof/

kuPhila abafileyo, apha

the journey is much more important than the destination.
we have been floating alone.


traveling, trailing, tracking – triumphantly.
this ferris ******* wheel
of energies,
the ride that ends not,
a railway of no terminal,
poetry giving refreshed lungs
to the bare, burnt trunks
of the tree of life.

i breathe again

my garden blossoms and blooms wild,
with unplanted developments sprouting summerly
every autumn.

waves of sadness crashing past shore
with sure, steady, oscillating regularity
to want to die a little less each leap year is
significant
and insignificant
as a colony of ants
swimming and swaying to the sounds
of the roaring skies above, to lead to a twin of earthquakes
stretching the ground like tyga marks, in a butterfly effect.

talk to me, what about this text?

caped saviours who could not save themselves
the skin from drum peels itself off the iris of the drum,
seeing songs, sing-song
nature’s nutshell
folding into self.

this cruel world,
calculative at its core
cold characters
callous caricatures
of an old earth,
crying rebirth’s resurrection
death unfolds into birth
birth baby’s death
between present, past,
and projected is the passing
now – apha!

amor fati

what will be, shall be
i do not know
nor care.

society sours septic,
like septimus smith,
my cynicism circles my hope
rotting like summer flesh
fresh of sprouting spring
these dead waters
taste like the wrong end of the river.

How long have you been here?

a timid time before the sun sat down
many moons ago
when the winds of birth blew westward
eastwatch towering over the dying, dead
graveyard shift at the maternity ward,
biblical cord
split between where lucifer turns devil

we ain’t cut from the same fabric,
but an army of One
feeding ghosts this manifesto
of life, ukuPhila.

--- the world has no end
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Tiara I S Mar 19
Its spinning
Everything is spinning- nobody cares
Not a **** soul cares
That the pulsing blood people die for
Can only sustain so long

Don't you hear below your jaw
As it pounds so strong

You're disgusting
All of you disgust me
Carry your heads and walk
Trampling and leaving trails of blood
Soaked in the remnants of you
Shove everyone aside
Placing the brightest light on you
Until you need the transfusion
butterflies can drink blood to gain nutrients
NuBlaccSoul Feb 2018
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.
unsxfe Nov 2017
I met someone today.
They seemed nice.
Swallowing my fears, I approach her.
We talked for hours.
She's nice, as my suspicions confirmed.
Why am I doing this?
Set a date and time.
Meet her there.
She's wearing this dress that is so vibrant, it feels like it extends through time.
My legs feel like gelatin.
I sit down with her.
We continue our conversation as planned, an-



wait
      you like
              THAT?

Nevermind.
I thought you were cool,
  But you like THAT.
And to think I...
  THAT?
    ARE YOU KIDDING ME?
Forget it.
Forget me.
  We're through.
This one was me trying to experiment a little, fading in and out of traditional and my style.
Crandall Branch Oct 2017
slaving away
for hours on end
flipping burgers
and sighing inside, knowing that your life is emptie

how are we going to fix this problem?
corporations are evil
but what should we do?

we the peepole must stand united
liberty and justice for all
we must fight
and that is why we need you
please leave comments and feedback below :)
Crandall Branch Oct 2017
oxygen
molecules
h20
o2
co2
its overwhelming sometimes
how things can combine
to make new things

chemistry
biology
aquatic biology
its overwhelming sometimes
how when you think about new things, you have questions
and those questions turn into answers
that only leave you with more questions

books
magazines
newspapers
peoms
its overwhelming sometimes
that the written word, a beautiful method of self-expression
has been corrupted
by Them

The ones that manipulate
that scorch
that ravage the land

we must stand up
we must fight
and only then
can we be free
can we be underwhelmed
we will be strong
with everyone fighting
forming a human wall

we will be stronk.
please comment and feedback below! thanks :)
NuBlaccSoul Aug 2017
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.
NuBlaccSoul Jan 2017
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.
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