sweet magazine
 who we are
 contact us
 join our mailing list

change text size

  PDF  Print  E-mail 


my spit that spat a thousand words

I spat the ground full of rhyme cobwebs
The ebbing flow of my manhood descending
Into the bellying lava of my manhood
Stuck up in the stockpile of rejection

I became the physics of tar, a horrid blackness
I was told to be black was to love oneself sick to the bone
But my spit dried up before I could utter the word 'consciousness'
I imagined Biko and Sobukwe turning in their graves and calling me names

I spat again, this time I made sure that all my mental froth showed
Showed its blossoming manifestos and covered its egalitarian toes
While mine were ravaged to the mouth
By succinct dust and the bite of the highveld winter wind

Yes my spit was cold and fuming furious flames
That lay next to the sidewalk, considered dying sparks by passers by
Melting away their own existence at a note, a value of six-pence
Slowly rescinding into Africa's earth, seeking the soil of rebirth

But my spit will always be the same,
Out-birthing itself in the same tongue with the same mannerisms
Landing from the same mouth on the same Africa, down there south
The place of my birth, my flowery youth breaking the waters of the high seas