Demons Clib Trees the selected work

This is an excerpt from Kush Kerma( Kasup Ka Mano's) poetry.

be
be every color you choose
your femininity flows from your womb effusions through dimensions uncharted as storms,as natural upheavals
or dark stallions with rippling muscles raging possessedly through the wild foaming at the mouth
untameable
as if the very existence of warmth is birthed right from out of your pores
tightly
i hold on to you
as if my salvation will spring up out and envelope me in your garden's beautiful scent
fortified by two mountains that inspire warlords to each stake claims at the cost of spillages of clots of gooing blood
inspiring the unuseful cowardly poets to paint you in words and images and calculated strokes of colorful inks
you are the sound of the early morning sun's warmth
your naval leads like a path to an oasis of life
mothering all other things alive
one with nature
only the symphonies of harps
only the symphonies of flutes
though virgin instruments only their sound is pure enough to express you
perfect synchronicity
only you can define you
let it all go
have mercy
for i have relegated you to an uneducated vocabulary and unreaching combination's of words
how dare i
let it all go
mercy,mercy
be every color you choose my love
be every word that remains unsaid
[14-05-10]

Give Me Hope Soweto

Many Zambians view Soweto as the hub of black empowerment in Southern Africa. We see Sowetans in the eyes of directors of movies and documentaries. They are portrayed as strong willed, afro centric and proud men and women who do not settle for less than they deserve.



















I have never been to Soweto but I have been fortunate enough to have interacted with people who hail from there. On one of my encounters; a discussion organised by cool politics. I had to force myself to get out of bed (on a cold Saturday morning), for what I thought would be a predictable discussion on Development Aid. To my welcome surprise the setting was not traditional. The 'educated fools' were not the only ones taking centre stage but a number of painters, musicians and poets.

It was not arguments of PHD and Masters Degree holders that sounded practical or had an ounce of wit, but the arguments by a group, Deep Soweto that deserved the blowing of the Vuvuzela.



















The songs sung by the people of Soweto asked the listener to get up, get out and get something. They scream out to Africa to not wait on crumbs from governments and foreign donors.I the people of Soweto keep up with what they are doing, the rest of the continent will follow suit. Then Africa will not wait on good will to solve its problems. We shall get a piece of the pie and create development that is uniquely African

AT TWILIGHT

At twilight the sun’s rays hit the clouds from below

At twilight THC and caffeine combine

At twilight I feel hollow

At twilight I greet my bed and it is mine alone

At twilight I take a bath

At twilight I become James Joyce

At twilight the path of a writer is born

At twilight I cannot hear the bird’s voice

At twilight I say a prayer

At twilight the fear of the crimes I committed come to the fore

At twilight I feel the devils spear

At twilight my sins burn from the core or is it my soul?

At twilight free range chickens head to the shed

At twilight boys’ feet coated in red soil mess the house

At twilight love brews, welcoming kisses from a lover

At twilight a mother whips the boys’ for sneaking out like the mouse (forced rhyme).

Twilight is the afterglow

At twilight happiness is smeared by loneliness

At twilight my phone vibrates, she says she wants a show

Twilight is birth, death, gestation, conception of happiness

At twilight she says I am her lover

At twilight we are one

At twilight we are art

So I scribbled this poem

So I scribbled a poem
on a napkin in the coffee shop
Inserted your name in my diary writings gathering dust
You smiled and your number was mine

I do not remember your name,
there were five girls last week at the coffee shop, they all had hope
They satisfied my groupie lust
They remembered my every line

So I wrote a story
Inserted their names
Each with a romantic sentence
All five have my love

But you were erased from my memory
Though you hung on to the fame of you name in fine print
All the tossed notes we shared in class burnt in my winter furnace
But you still have my love when I see you

So I scribbled a poem
Asked your sister for a date
Oh boy I love my fate
She returned my call after a week, my old class mate

So I took them both
Never thought twice
Thought about the girl sitting next to them
Thought of touching the hem of her breast

So I spoke a line
Read in Rossetti's poem
Ended with mentioning I scribble words
Mentioning how nice it was to see a woman with soul

She said she did not want an orgasmic relationship
All she wanted was a platonic one
Checkmate I met my match
How am I to snatch her?

So I scribbled a poem
One as solemn as a woman in harem
My tears made the pages stick
How could my ego grow so thick?

P.S I mourned for my ego nothing less
So I scribbled this poem

Article written for sowetolive.com

http://www.sowetolive.com/live/kultcha_view.jsp;jsessionid=9CE201EE500F640B91A29AA8CCC68A6F?kultcha_id=26453
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Nkandu (13 March 10:15)
hahaha like its bin said ordy neva try to imagine what goes thru kushs mind least u go crazy like seal. Am out of credit later ama call you.

Kush Kerma (13 March at 10:50)

We'll use them for tooth paste

Nkandu(13 March at 10:46)

thats whats up we have Awoken!! King we are awake.

Kush Kerma (13 March at 10:08)

Hahaha this is my newest favorite verse king.-AWAKE,AWAKE,PUT ON STRENGTH,O ARM OF THE LORD;AWAKE,AS IN THE ANCIENT DAYS,IN THE GENERATIONS OF OLD.ART THOU NOT IT THAT HATH CUT RA'-HAB,AND WOUNDED THE DRAGON?

Nkandu (13 March at 09:58)

I love you man!! Gladiators we are, I shall take my place as nkandu and slay what comes in my way for the Lords arm protects me. He has given me you and has given you me. We shall fight and conquer am so spiked out am know am a kermite i eat wolf. Isaiah 51-9

Kush Kerma (13 March at 09:34)

No man.after you become ali you become liston.after you become david,you become goliath.after you become proletariate,you become bougoursie.grow man.hunt the bison!you need to realise that you're a meaner creature man.you are not the sheep in the wolf pack.you are the you in the wolf pack.a meaner much superior predator.you eat wolf.you eat wolf.you hunt canine and cat.i don't know what you are.i've never seen anything like you.natural 'abitat.

Nkandu (13 March at 09:20)

I miss you man, today i slipd in2 mild depression. What am I to do Without you? My big brother, my hero. I lv you!! Evryday ur words echo and i stand stronger. Read the bible you told me, it will by weapon u said. Dont fall into the system. Dude remember tyms when my mouth runs away and u tell me to relax and u impart ur wisdom? Who will hold my back? Whose back will I hold? Am weak sheep among wolves, with no ounce of strength. But still I look into the eye of the enemy and ask myself 'are u a blood relation to the 'kush kerma'? I hope i slay goliath but lyk Ali vs Liston i wont fret. And dude i cant wait to see you and talk forever. When chuch comes do to her what u did 4 me! And you are on the stage you just have to play the lead role!

http://postzambia.com/post-read_article.php?articleId=14713

I Dream by Kush Kerma

Once upon a time in a world not so similar to this,there lived an ant that took time to take time and told a story to a leaf.there is a reason for the 21st century if you are jaded and petting werewolves.you can't learn to be you without learning to be someone else.who hires who;the brick or the bricklayer.what if you died and woke up alive only to have your soul trapped in your reflection?after all,you could be a slave even to freedom itself.if you wake up something to realise this civilisation is built around a plug.everyone dancing to its music in unrhythmatic fits of incestuous orgies and building identities around a television set,an evolved mirror that tells us not only who we are,but also what we are not for the occultic purposes of the first.i sat down to calculate one multiplied by one added to level one and divided it by adding a baking soda and the answer was quite nerve constricting.throw it away,throw it away.a 3rd world war played a trick on our dumbstriking painted faces,sharpened bayonets,nuclear bombs and raiding defenseless arid regions by its subtlety.the she-male has overthrown the reign of man.in a scenario where men are the ones paraded wearing lipstick.the cosmetic war indifferential to the psychological fabric levels has been achieved.the battle isn't over but its so abstract that my pointing out at this ,in itself is an indication of how lost i am insalvagably in this state of the art labyrinth that it CANNOT be won anymore.physics cannot allow for it to happen,the momentum carries it through the one sided battle in complete control of its outcome like a water molecule down the current into various tributaries,rapids,homosexualities an into the ocean.powerless.it cannot be reversed.the outmaneuvered classical man has to afford an applause to this unscripted turn of events like a defeated sportsman who,the new femininistic regime dictates,should be a 'good loser'.avant garde strategism.we didn't see this coming.strategism at its peak.a piece of brilliance.man has been defeated and is. . . to be continued

POSTCARDS TO AFRICA by Kush Kerma

Daughter of afrika
you cried and your tears found no comforter
they combed straight the kink from out of your hair with a burning comb
you cried
they bleached the soils from the skin with poisons
you cried
they forced you to walk in a fashion strange and alienyou cried
they tortured you to walk on spikes to accentuate your curves at market
places of lustful rapists
you cried
they ripped your undergarments and defiled you sacred places
you cried
they gave you food and falsities to blindfold your young
they paraded you with handbags and taught you to believe in your burden
you cried
we went into the fields to toil in yokes
today a few slew the beast and we are come
dry your tears,cry no longer
you have found your comforter
we set sail at daybreak

Beautiful gracious,
i pray you overcome the perils of this world and its civilization
afrikan princess
not just an angel
but more than the least the lucifer couldn't convince
flow you black nappy rivers of hair into my inner heart
have insight
be slow to speak
they smile for as long as they need something
if in your day you find her for only 5 seconds
tell her the afrikan godman in me loves her
i appreciate her divine beauty and majesty
she symbolises the graceful mercy of creation;let there be a separation of land and sea
the water breaks
her existence makes me alive everytime i gaze into the colorful black,browns and grays of her warm eyes
may you have seasons of harvests of plenty
may the afrikan sun and the lost afrikan deity gods and goddesses of rain,harvest,beauty,good fortune,creativity and child bearing bless you even when i forget to remember
did you not miss me?
I was almost lostgood woman be black.be black.be black.Speak truths
if i loved you yesterday
i love you more today

A Famous Interview by Che

We were also joined by one of the dearest and most likable figures of our revolutionary war,"Vaquerito"[roberto rodriguez].together with another companero,vaquerito found us one day saying he had spent over a month looking for us, and that he was from Moron in Camaguey.as always in such cases,we interrogated him,and then gave him the rudiments of a political orientation,a task that frequently fell to me.vaquerito did not have a political idea in his head,and did not seem to be anything other than a happy and healthy young man,who saw all of this as a marvelous adventure.he came barefoot and Celia lent him an extra pair of her shoes,which were leather and the kind worn in Mexico.owing to his small stature,they were the only shoes that fit him.with the new shoes and a large straw hat,he looked like a mexican cowboy or vaquero,and that is how the nickname vaquerito was born.as is well known,vaquerito did not see the end of the revolutionary struggle,for as head of the "suicide squad",he died one day before Santa Clara was taken.of his life among us,we all remember his extraordinary joyfulness,his uninterrupted joviality,and the strange and romantic way he confronted danger.Vaquerito was an amazing liar;perhaps he never had a conversation in which he did not adorn the truth so much that it was practically unrecognizable.but as a messenger,which he was in the early days,and later as a combatant or as head of the "suicide squad",Vaquerito demonstrated that for him,there was no precise border between reality and fantasy,and the same acts his agile mind invented he was able to carry out on the battlefield.his extreme bravery had become legend by the time our epic war was over,which he did not live to see.It occurred to me once,after one of the nightly reading sessions sometime after he had joined us,to question Vaquerito.he began to tell us about his life,and we began surreptitiously calculating his age,pencils in hand.when he finished,after many witty anecdotes,we asked him how old he was.Vaquerito was a little over 20,but adding up all of his deeds and jobs,it seemed that he had started working five years before he was born.