I have never met you skin to touch but yet due to this alien science I can discern you, how wonderful the world is – yet so treacherous. My life is hillstone dry and parched like this Kalahari that’s my plantation station (they say watches are new chains on our wrists, how so? We toil tirelessly just to attain to them).
Words evade me lately because all I do is play chess, watch chess and analyse piece’s positions over my devices and indifferent to the divines of written words.
My vocabulary had suffered a great deal in the past several months but I know baby that I’ll never lose the cool even after I’ve broken the ice to smaller matter and quantified it. Once my muse errects I’ll inject the written style in your audio-birth-canal.
Fuck my life for all it’s worth because it doesn’t yields the unreachables. I have lost too much and I had made people lose too much too; especially my karmatic source (that I owe) by the name of Dimepiece who acquired her vengeance by taking the sucking recent ex of mine.
Nothing dies alone in this existence plane.
These are no codes so don’t try to heck them — I never conceal anything you and must trust me; perhaps I lack the courage to expand on what I’m scribbling. Anyway.
In Durban I wandered looking for sea-shells of dead fishes or whatever underwater creature thereof. And on that walk I was thinking about Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera during the demise of their relationshit and how it revived itself once more — ample times.
They had to do it for love’s sake because who knows the fate of fools?
Where do unloving fools end up at?
Just in a prolonged moment of uninterrupted solitude; within the womb of the earth and all what I was listening to was the drumming of mother nature’s heartbeat at the North Beach’s coastline. Better than Port Nolloth’s dirty sea of oblivious Pirates.
Diego churned Frida into a deep philosopher, unlike what was straight from Socrates’ horsy mouth when he indeed uttered that marrying a bad woman maketh one for a good philosopher minus the happines.
How can you withdraw happiness from a riddle?
These people are riddlers baby, they treat each other’s hearts like jigsaw puzzles and once figured out they run wild and yonder. But to tell you this; cheaters eventually find out that they only can cheat themselves and imbeciles tend to only love one another.
They sniff to sweat upon one another like mongrels. It’s hard for a wiseman to win an idiot’s heart and leash her — pardon my chauvanistic statement there.
Back on that sea-walk (‘n strandlooper was ek) I tended to miss the brief chapter of Natsozm that governed my life – it was real with Natso – actually.
Despite all of that I still have a message: Every occurrence in my life is for my philosophical and mental expansion; good or bad in nature matters not and you earthlings are mere foul players acting out a script in this yucky drama called Life. Noxx Sikuza said I must do me so I am reinventing myself, re-designing myself, re-sculpting the David named Ramasa stone by marble chip (no more iconoclasm in this era so I am safe) – shedding the serpents’ old skin and detaching myself from my old sin.
I am the street Shaman Shirley, a symmetrical seraph and the neo-Nietzsche with a will to lovepower so be mine.
I know that to be reborn I must at first die and you can be my demise. An error I committed during sex’s heat will never divert my energies elsewhere I pledge you.
The Misdirection of Ramasa Mojolwane is a myth!
The bunny hunt begins and all unconscious people must go die! Wandering Zombies with no pride nor morality. I momentarily experienced the loss of God myself and in a moment screamed “Eloi Eloi Lamasaba-gundown!”.
I told my ex that she couldn’t have loved me forever because it was inevitable that my spirit would’ve outweighed her’s. I don’t blame her, she has tongue-kissed the snake and loathed it. Soon the snake saliva get sticky and because it’s toxic it’ll begin her slow death right from her taste-buds.
I said to myself “Come pain, after you I’m guaranteed freedom!” and you are a promising freedom.
An emancipation of all constipations.
I will never do to you like how Ted Hughes did to Sylvia Plath.
How much suspicion and wonder haunted Ted everytime Sylvia recollected to him her failed suicide endeavours. On the boat floating on tides, during short dinners and during lame moments devoid of conversations. It inevitably occurred and some alluded her demise to Black Magic. The cheating; young and warm blood’s devouring by Ted’s none-directed coitus wills. The tiny and famished sex monsters roaming about his blood-cells urging him to express – both in verse and doings.
Sylvia Plath led a troubled life Shirley; from childhood unspecified traumas to Ted laying students on their immature spines to give them penis blessings. She loved him but he did her all the considerable wrongs and time to time she amended him. The intended errors – well justified by him.
It is well documented – although themes concealed in The Colossal. Sylvia was a dark introvert, a cheater tracer, a brilliant poet and a grand lover of integrity.
Anyway, I hope you’re having a good time in those islands and hope to meet you soon.
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