Saturday, September 11, 2010
Friday, August 28, 2009
new creation
you curled up in a foetal crouch in your matrix pipes
the womb-like warmth of the stars and the stripes
and a refuge of half-truths and blindfolds and bliss
and you’ve never bothered to wonder how it came to this
you collect all the pop-hits and shoplift the charts
like pockets of darkness that harness your heart
is ignorance the lining of your comfort-zone home?
or is it a conscious response to the death wrapped in your bones?
I can relate to the sensations of a life half-lived
the machines of aspiration and taking more than you give
and giving in to a system that fosters this twisted
insistence to deliver not even a hint of resistance
a vicious cycle of lukewarm delusion…
perhaps you sense the hatred in the words that I’m using
it suffices to explain that I’m familiar with these shadows
I’ve wrestled in the bitterness and swallowed all the low-blows
and God alone knows the extent of the damage that I’ve sown
you hear this tale of sorrow? yeah, that puppy’s home-grown…
SLAVE SORROW SMOKE SICK
BRAVE BORROW BROKE BRICK
TODAY TOMORROW TOKEN TRICK
GRAVE GROW GROVEL GLITCH
HAVE HOLLOW HOAX HIT
FAVOURITE FOLLOW FLOAT FIT
SEVER SOLACE SPIT SHOE
NEVER KNOWLEDGE KNIT NEW
there is an ancient Voice that rings through time
and Hands that built a bridge between the fallen and the Divine
and a Mind that knows the blueprint of this intricate design
and a Love that stretches further than the fuel of a reply…
we’re disguising our rebellion in blindfolded tolerance
swapping “open-mindedness” for well-founded common sense
your mind is so open that your brains are falling out
throwing veils over deception is not what truth is about
there is a newness that seeks you in the eye of the storm
and a fresh wind that heralds the coming of the dawn
we are born in that moment when the heavens are opened
and we separate the healed and the clean from the broken
and we dream of the end of being stuck in this mud
and the machines are disconnected in a baptism of blood
so few who understand this heavenly anticipation…
as the scales fall from your eyes, behold! a new creation
cindy van den berg, ajax and yolandi otto, "ajax and friends 2007"
the womb-like warmth of the stars and the stripes
and a refuge of half-truths and blindfolds and bliss
and you’ve never bothered to wonder how it came to this
you collect all the pop-hits and shoplift the charts
like pockets of darkness that harness your heart
is ignorance the lining of your comfort-zone home?
or is it a conscious response to the death wrapped in your bones?
I can relate to the sensations of a life half-lived
the machines of aspiration and taking more than you give
and giving in to a system that fosters this twisted
insistence to deliver not even a hint of resistance
a vicious cycle of lukewarm delusion…
perhaps you sense the hatred in the words that I’m using
it suffices to explain that I’m familiar with these shadows
I’ve wrestled in the bitterness and swallowed all the low-blows
and God alone knows the extent of the damage that I’ve sown
you hear this tale of sorrow? yeah, that puppy’s home-grown…
SLAVE SORROW SMOKE SICK
BRAVE BORROW BROKE BRICK
TODAY TOMORROW TOKEN TRICK
GRAVE GROW GROVEL GLITCH
HAVE HOLLOW HOAX HIT
FAVOURITE FOLLOW FLOAT FIT
SEVER SOLACE SPIT SHOE
NEVER KNOWLEDGE KNIT NEW
there is an ancient Voice that rings through time
and Hands that built a bridge between the fallen and the Divine
and a Mind that knows the blueprint of this intricate design
and a Love that stretches further than the fuel of a reply…
we’re disguising our rebellion in blindfolded tolerance
swapping “open-mindedness” for well-founded common sense
your mind is so open that your brains are falling out
throwing veils over deception is not what truth is about
there is a newness that seeks you in the eye of the storm
and a fresh wind that heralds the coming of the dawn
we are born in that moment when the heavens are opened
and we separate the healed and the clean from the broken
and we dream of the end of being stuck in this mud
and the machines are disconnected in a baptism of blood
so few who understand this heavenly anticipation…
as the scales fall from your eyes, behold! a new creation
cindy van den berg, ajax and yolandi otto, "ajax and friends 2007"mzansi fo sho
ladies and gentlemen….
Che is dead, so get over it
you want revolution? wash a beggar’s feet
I’m sick of your commentary from the backseat
fruitless and empty, like yelling at a taxi
this ain’t New York man, I’m speaking Mzansi
your friends are all on permanent matriek vakansie
alcoholics by twenty while the rest leave the country
and everybody’s laughing, but nothing’s really funny
I’m a white man’s white man, with European lineage
but my strength is born in Africa, like Popeye eating spinach
the Greenwich Meridian could never confine me
I’m living in the promise that my death will be timely
but my people have forgotten how to spell “reconcile”
yes, there is a new school, but the old is in denial
and the vilest of hate-speech on every street corner
makes my blood hot and sweat drop like sitting in a sauna
you’re the star performer in this cynical spin
the only one who understands the mess we’re really in (2010)
a flagship for hardship and constant complaining
but maybe your heart is the reason your whole life is failing
I don’t claim to understand you, these are merely suggestions
maybe its time to burn down your white picket fences
svibonakalile imatihlo aina (we have seen with our eyes)
svitakalile etindebeni taina (we have heard with our ears)
langutani eshihambanweni (let us look to the Cross)
my boy plays pool for money to buy shoes
a mirror of the terror in the paths that we choose
it’s not a matter of judgment, it’s how we hate to lose
(something is the matter…) what? something is the matter, man!
50 year old boys at the bar til they drop
something is the matter…fill the glass to the top
of my alcoholic skin, will this cycle ever stop?
even these guys sing along to the atrocities of hip-hop
everyone’s desiring the fruits of “a good time”
but no-one understands when you try speaking about new wine
your shoes shine in the moonlight but your heart is ever dimmer
you find love in a stripper’s eyes when there’s not even a glimmer
remind me why the deep end does not make of you a swimmer?
you speak of all your struggles like you’ve never seen a mirror
we grow old in denial and a blame-shifting pattern
can it really be my fault that something is the matter?
zvataona handizvo (what we have seen is terrible)
nezvatanzwa handizvo (what we have heard is terrible)
tarisai kumuchinjikwa (look to the Cross)
let’s burn the picket fence around the tents of the wicked
offence is explicit in this pre-emptive visit
to the nation of rainbows that’s flying a new flag
but the co-ordination of halo’s looks crap like a do-rag
the boomerang effect of a history of bloodshed
turns cold-blooded killers into heroic figureheads
“quick! change the street names”, the masses are restless,
and far too suspicious to see the gifts that they’re blessed with
and the next generation inherits the complex
until every election is littered with bomb-threats
come on! where are the optimists? my people with no blindfolds?
sisters and brothers who perceive the urgency that time holds?
I’d die for the cause and pour my blood out on the altar
that is raised in true repentance of the mistakes of my fathers
I’d much rather insist that the sister I wed
brings the purest of her culture to our future marriage bed
than allow the eyes in my head to be dictated to by pigment
imagining love is racially bound is like bowing to a figment
a stigma of hatred and ignorance that numbs us
but Hitler had Jewish blood, so you add up the numbers…
forgiveness runs deeper than the fears we’re all gripped with
leaves sick myths of hierarchy slowly dimming to a whisper
so raise your fist to the oppressor that resides inside you
and leave a wake of hope for the sake of the ones behind you
Che is dead, so get over it
you want revolution? wash a beggar’s feet
I’m sick of your commentary from the backseat
fruitless and empty, like yelling at a taxi
this ain’t New York man, I’m speaking Mzansi
your friends are all on permanent matriek vakansie
alcoholics by twenty while the rest leave the country
and everybody’s laughing, but nothing’s really funny
I’m a white man’s white man, with European lineage
but my strength is born in Africa, like Popeye eating spinach
the Greenwich Meridian could never confine me
I’m living in the promise that my death will be timely
but my people have forgotten how to spell “reconcile”
yes, there is a new school, but the old is in denial
and the vilest of hate-speech on every street corner
makes my blood hot and sweat drop like sitting in a sauna
you’re the star performer in this cynical spin
the only one who understands the mess we’re really in (2010)
a flagship for hardship and constant complaining
but maybe your heart is the reason your whole life is failing
I don’t claim to understand you, these are merely suggestions
maybe its time to burn down your white picket fences
svibonakalile imatihlo aina (we have seen with our eyes)
svitakalile etindebeni taina (we have heard with our ears)
langutani eshihambanweni (let us look to the Cross)
my boy plays pool for money to buy shoes
a mirror of the terror in the paths that we choose
it’s not a matter of judgment, it’s how we hate to lose
(something is the matter…) what? something is the matter, man!
50 year old boys at the bar til they drop
something is the matter…fill the glass to the top
of my alcoholic skin, will this cycle ever stop?
even these guys sing along to the atrocities of hip-hop
everyone’s desiring the fruits of “a good time”
but no-one understands when you try speaking about new wine
your shoes shine in the moonlight but your heart is ever dimmer
you find love in a stripper’s eyes when there’s not even a glimmer
remind me why the deep end does not make of you a swimmer?
you speak of all your struggles like you’ve never seen a mirror
we grow old in denial and a blame-shifting pattern
can it really be my fault that something is the matter?
zvataona handizvo (what we have seen is terrible)
nezvatanzwa handizvo (what we have heard is terrible)
tarisai kumuchinjikwa (look to the Cross)
let’s burn the picket fence around the tents of the wicked
offence is explicit in this pre-emptive visit
to the nation of rainbows that’s flying a new flag
but the co-ordination of halo’s looks crap like a do-rag
the boomerang effect of a history of bloodshed
turns cold-blooded killers into heroic figureheads
“quick! change the street names”, the masses are restless,
and far too suspicious to see the gifts that they’re blessed with
and the next generation inherits the complex
until every election is littered with bomb-threats
come on! where are the optimists? my people with no blindfolds?
sisters and brothers who perceive the urgency that time holds?
I’d die for the cause and pour my blood out on the altar
that is raised in true repentance of the mistakes of my fathers
I’d much rather insist that the sister I wed
brings the purest of her culture to our future marriage bed
than allow the eyes in my head to be dictated to by pigment
imagining love is racially bound is like bowing to a figment
a stigma of hatred and ignorance that numbs us
but Hitler had Jewish blood, so you add up the numbers…
forgiveness runs deeper than the fears we’re all gripped with
leaves sick myths of hierarchy slowly dimming to a whisper
so raise your fist to the oppressor that resides inside you
and leave a wake of hope for the sake of the ones behind you
ajax and friend. photo: gerhard uys
the tireless satire
came home from the south on a bus the other day
squirmed my way through the aisle and sat down next to a rough-looking man
shiny things on his hands, and a New York hat on his head
I could see he believed in hip-hop, but I wondered what that meant to him
as the bus pulled off I turned to him and said:
please excuse all this plastic spit
that’s dripping and shooting off my spastic lip
I realise it’s getting quite drastic, sh…
but come on, this is the fantastic bit
that right now every rhyme’s a classic fit
flexible, like playing with elastic wit
what? me? I’ve never been on a sarcastic tip
just you try and grab this pen from my emphatic grip
it’s almost impossible, like the ink is in my veins
and the words that form inside me become breath that sustains
and I really can’t stop rhyming, it’s like I was born to do it
and yes, “I am the greatest, my middle name is Music…”
whatever, man, that one-way road is jammed full
of emcees who really believe that the world is for one man, who
just happens to be every single emcee
that ever held a mic and thought it was his CV
I’d rather stay home and watch TV, it’s a lot more educational
than the same brain-dead spitters battling all confrontational
no expansive vocabulary, just some predictable dissing
and when you get home from the club, you realise something’s missing
you were listening hard all night, but you can’t remember one rhyme
the sound guy must have got it wrong, he does it all the time
you know what I mean, don’t you? it’s not like every night sucks
but just too often you find yourself wondering why it was thirty bucks
and the culture that surrounds you has almost forgotten about the music
that started this in the first place, now it’s just sex and image
hang out with little girls who proudly claim to love hip-hop
when you question them any further they recite from “drop it like it’s hot”
and you realise that it’s rotting but what are you supposed to do?
the thought police might come and arrest you and ask questions about your crew
that’s writing their own tracks! that’s completely unheard of…
by the way, my name is ajax, and this is where I get off…
tell me, which “Father” do you pray to when you ask “where is the love?”
are you referring to the next track about the hookers in your club?
now every rapper’s got a prayer on his album to make women think he’s tough
shut up, just shut up, shut up…no, really, just shut up.
do you see God shouting out mixed messages of promiscuity and faithfulness?
or is the halo around your angel of light as bright as the one around satan is?
somebody said: “hip hop is a gun,
killing alla y’all for the price of one…”
I said: “it doesn’t have to be death, sometimes it’s life.”
I asked him if he got kids and how he treats his wife
he said: “it’s hard man, I’m a chauvinist, I hate them.”
and so the first minute was the end of the conversation.
I know what he mean though, cos women can be heartless
but men can be pigs when they’re supposed to be fathers
and if his gun was for murder, I hope he never holds a mic
cos it’s so good to end a show when the stars come out at night
and to be able to see them is a still a gift of freedom
that the hip hop in me keeps aflame as a reason
to suffer in silence and voice my heart before God alone
and to fight for every people cos this planet’s not our home
so point hip hop at darkness if it happens to be your gun, too
your bullet holes will join mine as we shine and let the sun through…
ajax vs. byron's angel, 2005
squirmed my way through the aisle and sat down next to a rough-looking man
shiny things on his hands, and a New York hat on his head
I could see he believed in hip-hop, but I wondered what that meant to him
as the bus pulled off I turned to him and said:
please excuse all this plastic spit
that’s dripping and shooting off my spastic lip
I realise it’s getting quite drastic, sh…
but come on, this is the fantastic bit
that right now every rhyme’s a classic fit
flexible, like playing with elastic wit
what? me? I’ve never been on a sarcastic tip
just you try and grab this pen from my emphatic grip
it’s almost impossible, like the ink is in my veins
and the words that form inside me become breath that sustains
and I really can’t stop rhyming, it’s like I was born to do it
and yes, “I am the greatest, my middle name is Music…”
whatever, man, that one-way road is jammed full
of emcees who really believe that the world is for one man, who
just happens to be every single emcee
that ever held a mic and thought it was his CV
I’d rather stay home and watch TV, it’s a lot more educational
than the same brain-dead spitters battling all confrontational
no expansive vocabulary, just some predictable dissing
and when you get home from the club, you realise something’s missing
you were listening hard all night, but you can’t remember one rhyme
the sound guy must have got it wrong, he does it all the time
you know what I mean, don’t you? it’s not like every night sucks
but just too often you find yourself wondering why it was thirty bucks
and the culture that surrounds you has almost forgotten about the music
that started this in the first place, now it’s just sex and image
hang out with little girls who proudly claim to love hip-hop
when you question them any further they recite from “drop it like it’s hot”
and you realise that it’s rotting but what are you supposed to do?
the thought police might come and arrest you and ask questions about your crew
that’s writing their own tracks! that’s completely unheard of…
by the way, my name is ajax, and this is where I get off…
tell me, which “Father” do you pray to when you ask “where is the love?”
are you referring to the next track about the hookers in your club?
now every rapper’s got a prayer on his album to make women think he’s tough
shut up, just shut up, shut up…no, really, just shut up.
do you see God shouting out mixed messages of promiscuity and faithfulness?
or is the halo around your angel of light as bright as the one around satan is?
somebody said: “hip hop is a gun,
killing alla y’all for the price of one…”
I said: “it doesn’t have to be death, sometimes it’s life.”
I asked him if he got kids and how he treats his wife
he said: “it’s hard man, I’m a chauvinist, I hate them.”
and so the first minute was the end of the conversation.
I know what he mean though, cos women can be heartless
but men can be pigs when they’re supposed to be fathers
and if his gun was for murder, I hope he never holds a mic
cos it’s so good to end a show when the stars come out at night
and to be able to see them is a still a gift of freedom
that the hip hop in me keeps aflame as a reason
to suffer in silence and voice my heart before God alone
and to fight for every people cos this planet’s not our home
so point hip hop at darkness if it happens to be your gun, too
your bullet holes will join mine as we shine and let the sun through…
ajax vs. byron's angel, 2005unruffled
how do you see through me like that?
the bottom of your shoe is messing up my hairstyle
I’m sick of getting trampled on, being told I don’t belong…
for a while I stayed inside curtains drawn, soaked in scorn
harbouring thoughts you would’ve sworn were too dark to be borne
by the mind of one who had seen light and tasted the difference
between day and night...but in this time I learned that even dawn
can be drowned in storm-clouds, and mornings born proud
could be killed at birth by the tempest…with clenched fists
my spirit breaks the boundaries of light-speed, I am a joyful refugee
free from my ability to see and discern colour or be held back
by time, sublime in my essence, guided purely by a seventh sense
I learn lessons of eternity in a dimension never entered
where no-one can condemn me and my hair remains
unruffled.
how do you see through me like that?
one second, a moment, negotiation not left open
like broken mindsets, Russian roulette
security smashed in an instant, blink and you miss it…
let us enter a mind-game where a space or time-frame
does not exist, and face is not lost under fist
and the reason to resist escapes the masses
and the world keeps on turning when the stock market crashes
where pacifists are hypocrites and the moral blanket
is a little bit too small to fit everyone under it
where philosophy meets science and the answers stay defiant
where household violence teaches children to be silent
like a time-bomb wired to the purpose of life
exploding in white light through every moment of strife
a knife-edge balances the future like a tightrope
and even slight hope is drowned in statistics
and politics and numbers make everyone a pessimist
have you got it yet? this hypothetical suggestion
settled in? the proverbial napkin tucked under your chin?
well, if you sure you can imagine, then let’s begin…
how do you see through me like that?
you see in the dark
but it fills up your body
let me come to where you are
we’ll talk about mercy
jacob israel setting up some sweet sounds
the bottom of your shoe is messing up my hairstyle
I’m sick of getting trampled on, being told I don’t belong…
for a while I stayed inside curtains drawn, soaked in scorn
harbouring thoughts you would’ve sworn were too dark to be borne
by the mind of one who had seen light and tasted the difference
between day and night...but in this time I learned that even dawn
can be drowned in storm-clouds, and mornings born proud
could be killed at birth by the tempest…with clenched fists
my spirit breaks the boundaries of light-speed, I am a joyful refugee
free from my ability to see and discern colour or be held back
by time, sublime in my essence, guided purely by a seventh sense
I learn lessons of eternity in a dimension never entered
where no-one can condemn me and my hair remains
unruffled.
how do you see through me like that?
one second, a moment, negotiation not left open
like broken mindsets, Russian roulette
security smashed in an instant, blink and you miss it…
let us enter a mind-game where a space or time-frame
does not exist, and face is not lost under fist
and the reason to resist escapes the masses
and the world keeps on turning when the stock market crashes
where pacifists are hypocrites and the moral blanket
is a little bit too small to fit everyone under it
where philosophy meets science and the answers stay defiant
where household violence teaches children to be silent
like a time-bomb wired to the purpose of life
exploding in white light through every moment of strife
a knife-edge balances the future like a tightrope
and even slight hope is drowned in statistics
and politics and numbers make everyone a pessimist
have you got it yet? this hypothetical suggestion
settled in? the proverbial napkin tucked under your chin?
well, if you sure you can imagine, then let’s begin…
how do you see through me like that?
you see in the dark
but it fills up your body
let me come to where you are
we’ll talk about mercy
jacob israel setting up some sweet soundsxenophobe? yes/no!
much blood was shed in 2008
we must investigate these acts of hate
a lot of people had a lot to say
but what really happened in the dark days of May?
all you couch politicians who supported these attacks
when the knife was at your throat, who was it that had your backs?
I’d like to return everyone’s memory to the 20th century
when the hopes of this country rested in the ANC
and the government of the time forced their leaders to flee
and the nations of the world took us in as refugees
now can somebody explain to me the tyres around their necks?
when our country was in trouble, they gave us only respect
perhaps the dark days of May only proved that we are murderers
of the 62 dead, 21 were South Africans
the masses are illiterate and stereotype mad
with fear of what’s different the future looks quite bad
it’s a matter of bloodguilt, look down at your bright hands
the youth are consumed, we’re diminishing life-span
now the authorities are disputing if the cause is economic
but with spiritual discernment, even poverty’s demonic
you’re a flagship for hardship and constant complaining
but maybe your heart is the reason that your whole life is failing
do you really want to know the truth of the matter?
when you killed that man in May, that man was your brother
do you really want to know the truth of the matter?
when you kill that man today, that man is your brother
“ah! this guy! he doesn’t understand our problems!”
well, what I know is you’ve made murdering a part of your solution
now you’re killing people, silently, at their places of resettlement
one by one, quietly, so the press won’t really notice it
and the laxness of the government encourages your hatred
and the truth is eluding you because you won’t face it
do you think God cannot see you with your panga in your hand
and when you kicked down all those children, do you think He’ll understand?
our land is drenched in innocent blood
the dry soil running into dead, red mud
it’s history repeating in the township streets
the cries of injustice over kwaito beats
but props to the churches and the people who took notice
the hearts full of love and the shelters that were opened
I’m so sick of all the clichés when we only need reality
this rainbow nation…may God have mercy!
do you really want to know the truth of the matter?
when you killed that man in May, that man was your brother
do you really want to know the truth of the matter?
when you kill that man today, that man is your brother
looking mean in Krakow, Poland, April 2008
we must investigate these acts of hate
a lot of people had a lot to say
but what really happened in the dark days of May?
all you couch politicians who supported these attacks
when the knife was at your throat, who was it that had your backs?
I’d like to return everyone’s memory to the 20th century
when the hopes of this country rested in the ANC
and the government of the time forced their leaders to flee
and the nations of the world took us in as refugees
now can somebody explain to me the tyres around their necks?
when our country was in trouble, they gave us only respect
perhaps the dark days of May only proved that we are murderers
of the 62 dead, 21 were South Africans
the masses are illiterate and stereotype mad
with fear of what’s different the future looks quite bad
it’s a matter of bloodguilt, look down at your bright hands
the youth are consumed, we’re diminishing life-span
now the authorities are disputing if the cause is economic
but with spiritual discernment, even poverty’s demonic
you’re a flagship for hardship and constant complaining
but maybe your heart is the reason that your whole life is failing
do you really want to know the truth of the matter?
when you killed that man in May, that man was your brother
do you really want to know the truth of the matter?
when you kill that man today, that man is your brother
“ah! this guy! he doesn’t understand our problems!”
well, what I know is you’ve made murdering a part of your solution
now you’re killing people, silently, at their places of resettlement
one by one, quietly, so the press won’t really notice it
and the laxness of the government encourages your hatred
and the truth is eluding you because you won’t face it
do you think God cannot see you with your panga in your hand
and when you kicked down all those children, do you think He’ll understand?
our land is drenched in innocent blood
the dry soil running into dead, red mud
it’s history repeating in the township streets
the cries of injustice over kwaito beats
but props to the churches and the people who took notice
the hearts full of love and the shelters that were opened
I’m so sick of all the clichés when we only need reality
this rainbow nation…may God have mercy!
do you really want to know the truth of the matter?
when you killed that man in May, that man was your brother
do you really want to know the truth of the matter?
when you kill that man today, that man is your brother
looking mean in Krakow, Poland, April 2008loving yourself is a ridiculous notion
it was just a joke, but in retrospect I meant it
and the humour of the moment drowned the pain your mind invented
so I’ll send it in the mailbox a million times just so you get it
and I’m pointing to that big green sign, it says “EXIT”
for my next trick, my best friend, I’ll make you cry until you faint
cause I really get insensitive when your fingerprints are in the paint
the patron saint of love-bites has his picture on my wall
and the curtain-call of hardship leaves no room for this at all
so, yes, I am frustrated, because this plastic melts right through me
and the effort to really love you proves to be too time-consuming
maybe I should live in my room and avoid all social gatherings
because tonight even reality is just a bit too flattering
and I’m scattering your feelings while sticks and stones lie dead still
we’ll pick the bones in skirmishes to meditate on God’s will
so hold still, while I speak out the salt into your paper cuts
and the dawn will break tomorrow shedding light on only one of us
ridiculous notions of hope in the dark night
I’m fixing antennae, crack open the star light
in backyard experiments with cigarettes and language
the anguish of dead ends and idols that vanish
through faces of friends that relate to the panic
to a backtrack of a beautiful girl rhyming in Spanish
I lavish the quiet reminders of death
the silent denials kept under my breath
that hold back the ruthless and ritual rapist
embracing its victims primarily because they’re faceless
I’m faced with the same shapeless choices as you man
the makeshift criteria distinguishing the true fans
from counterfeit groupies that synchronise like clones
but die alone like the last note with no music in their bones
I’m building a home for the liar in you, son
I’d stop counting deceptions if you could see through one
like writers exploiting with vague metaphors
dissolving the evidence through cracks in the floorboards
resembling your mind with its haphazard pattern
emphatically screaming for your heart to shatter…
ridiculous notions of hope in the dark night
I’m fixing antennae, crack open the star light
and the humour of the moment drowned the pain your mind invented
so I’ll send it in the mailbox a million times just so you get it
and I’m pointing to that big green sign, it says “EXIT”
for my next trick, my best friend, I’ll make you cry until you faint
cause I really get insensitive when your fingerprints are in the paint
the patron saint of love-bites has his picture on my wall
and the curtain-call of hardship leaves no room for this at all
so, yes, I am frustrated, because this plastic melts right through me
and the effort to really love you proves to be too time-consuming
maybe I should live in my room and avoid all social gatherings
because tonight even reality is just a bit too flattering
and I’m scattering your feelings while sticks and stones lie dead still
we’ll pick the bones in skirmishes to meditate on God’s will
so hold still, while I speak out the salt into your paper cuts
and the dawn will break tomorrow shedding light on only one of us
ridiculous notions of hope in the dark night
I’m fixing antennae, crack open the star light
in backyard experiments with cigarettes and language
the anguish of dead ends and idols that vanish
through faces of friends that relate to the panic
to a backtrack of a beautiful girl rhyming in Spanish
I lavish the quiet reminders of death
the silent denials kept under my breath
that hold back the ruthless and ritual rapist
embracing its victims primarily because they’re faceless
I’m faced with the same shapeless choices as you man
the makeshift criteria distinguishing the true fans
from counterfeit groupies that synchronise like clones
but die alone like the last note with no music in their bones
I’m building a home for the liar in you, son
I’d stop counting deceptions if you could see through one
like writers exploiting with vague metaphors
dissolving the evidence through cracks in the floorboards
resembling your mind with its haphazard pattern
emphatically screaming for your heart to shatter…
ridiculous notions of hope in the dark night
I’m fixing antennae, crack open the star light
recording for lack of bitter words in jacob israel's studio, early 2009
somebody give me a mic
in the rhythm of the marketplace our dreams are stagnant
see despair of our fathers’ faces and wish we hadn’t
fed the cyclic habits tragically governing the colony
reciting them backwards, and then forwards from our memories
until it’s hard to tell the difference between tomorrow and last week
and when our voices challenge systems we suddenly find that we can’t speak
find solace in the promises whispered from the dark streets
without realising the problem is a simple lack of heartbeat
but even social commentaries are just words by their nature
and the writers of reality are forced to practice patience
while hip hop sells it’s soul to a dance of promiscuity
and the poets are disclosed to remember the truth in secrecy
mere observers in the corners of the halls of revolution
biding time by mixing rhymes between the lines of this condition
while the friction of the dreamless masses steals their sleep at night
they’re all just waiting for the Light…somebody give me a mic
lightning strikes in the same place twice
I speak of revolution and a reason to fight
somebody give me a mic…
“please don’t talk about that now”, she asked politely
I replied that I rarely waited for someone to invite me
our society is rotting because of that indifference
“you do what you wanna do, just mind your own business…”
but business is profit and the prophets are quiet
and the ones who truly hear the voice of God are taught to deny it
like painters robbed of colour, or infants from their mothers
we tolerate the blindfolds to separate us from each other
“you’re speaking in riddles and my heart is tired,
maybe you allude to truth, but surely the taste is acquired…
I hired a soothsayer and my soul is soothed now
please go, even if you were right, I still wouldn’t know how…”
quiet! the cycles run riot inside us!
denial and false pious fires that silence
defiance just blinds us like liars behind us
in choirs of violence that rise til we’re mindless
crescendos that echo our deadliest choices
and pop-sing-along melodies that make us envy their voices
the boisterous façade of celebrity wardrobes
that rocket the market while we’re suckered like pocket clones
“wait! you’re a conspiracy theorist with too many metaphors!
hanging with you for a day would give a teenage girl menopause
you’re making me angry and rather upset
is there a reason I don’t even know your name yet?”
hmmm…9 tiny years I’ve been in this game
manifest in many forms like different paintings inside the same frame
names became irrelevant, but my voice is the constant
reminder that a mind exists to whisper in your conscience
so is this rap conscious or merely wack nonsense?
I really don’t mind as long as it generates responses
to hell with indifference and incestuous apathy
I exist in the shadows where your slumber cannot grapple me, and
lightning strikes in the same place twice
I speak of revolution and a reason to fight
somebody give me a mic…
see despair of our fathers’ faces and wish we hadn’t
fed the cyclic habits tragically governing the colony
reciting them backwards, and then forwards from our memories
until it’s hard to tell the difference between tomorrow and last week
and when our voices challenge systems we suddenly find that we can’t speak
find solace in the promises whispered from the dark streets
without realising the problem is a simple lack of heartbeat
but even social commentaries are just words by their nature
and the writers of reality are forced to practice patience
while hip hop sells it’s soul to a dance of promiscuity
and the poets are disclosed to remember the truth in secrecy
mere observers in the corners of the halls of revolution
biding time by mixing rhymes between the lines of this condition
while the friction of the dreamless masses steals their sleep at night
they’re all just waiting for the Light…somebody give me a mic
lightning strikes in the same place twice
I speak of revolution and a reason to fight
somebody give me a mic…
“please don’t talk about that now”, she asked politely
I replied that I rarely waited for someone to invite me
our society is rotting because of that indifference
“you do what you wanna do, just mind your own business…”
but business is profit and the prophets are quiet
and the ones who truly hear the voice of God are taught to deny it
like painters robbed of colour, or infants from their mothers
we tolerate the blindfolds to separate us from each other
“you’re speaking in riddles and my heart is tired,
maybe you allude to truth, but surely the taste is acquired…
I hired a soothsayer and my soul is soothed now
please go, even if you were right, I still wouldn’t know how…”
quiet! the cycles run riot inside us!
denial and false pious fires that silence
defiance just blinds us like liars behind us
in choirs of violence that rise til we’re mindless
crescendos that echo our deadliest choices
and pop-sing-along melodies that make us envy their voices
the boisterous façade of celebrity wardrobes
that rocket the market while we’re suckered like pocket clones
“wait! you’re a conspiracy theorist with too many metaphors!
hanging with you for a day would give a teenage girl menopause
you’re making me angry and rather upset
is there a reason I don’t even know your name yet?”
hmmm…9 tiny years I’ve been in this game
manifest in many forms like different paintings inside the same frame
names became irrelevant, but my voice is the constant
reminder that a mind exists to whisper in your conscience
so is this rap conscious or merely wack nonsense?
I really don’t mind as long as it generates responses
to hell with indifference and incestuous apathy
I exist in the shadows where your slumber cannot grapple me, and
lightning strikes in the same place twice
I speak of revolution and a reason to fight
somebody give me a mic…
Freshly Sliced, Johannesburg 2009
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