Along the lines of prose
they strode
you know
to pose
smoke hash
tag the woke
Now what matters is the front row
that symbolic art at the falling of Rhodes
to structure black magic into sterile poems
while the lives of brushstrokes
are hung in digital posts
at times with ropes
else framed by oak
Karen’s culture cancels conscious cleaning cloaks
as they march in abundance to politically identify their woes
Those stories ancestors foretold
as they were traded for gold
shedding tears at the coast
with each stolen load
nations torn on boats
family names disposed
manhood decomposed
daughters of the soil dethroned
this could not be the destination
of that road
where we still try to convince our own
that who we are cannot be owned
even at this very show
we seem exposed
our art is bought and sold
crafts brought in to fit established moulds
creations sourced only to make a trend grow
so your Face is booked for the Twitter of Instant gramophones
But what do I know?
A third citizen in a continental dirt bowl
Where we seem to exist in the history of shadows
forced to tiptoe
& dance at foreign tempos
the subject of fetish talk shows
they say it’s quid pro quo
two backs scratched
tit for tat
a way to pay it back
maybe a reparation act
escaped from a guilt trap
still
in the end we’re left alone
in the time that toppled statue whispers
“Cape to Cairo!”
what remains of our Pharos
is in some dusty underground dome
on the other side of the globe
so the descendants of Thievery have something to prod and poke
until they have a new ology to promote
through a new ism they’ve exposed
But then again, what do I know?
For along the lines of prose
they strode
you know
to pose
smoke hash
tag the woke
Now what matters is the blunt joke
that exotic art for the trawling of votes
to puncture black classics into futile hopes
while the lives of brushstrokes
are stuck to miserable quotes
by rich folk
aimed to provoke
even underground bros
let me bring you into the origin fold
I refuse to be disrobed
for some contrived waltz on a greasy pole
In fact
I’ll trade you zero fucks for that thick wad of crisp offshore notes
even for this collectible droll
of garish rhymes I wrote
“Yo Smalls! Take it slow.
Redirect the resentful tone.
Conserve that spirit for warranted foes.”
Oh yes of course
extenuate connecting woes
attenuate collective throes
accommodate rejective shmoes
commiserate
neglect the blows
Afterall
How dare I bulldoze
master’s primrose
a gift he/she/they bestow
to diasporic widows
No more waiting for Godot
for now we’re clothed
far cry from allegoric blackholes
“That’s exactly right Smalls.
Bring it to a close
it’s for us & by those
whose legacy lines enclose
a line age that extends
along the heirship vine of Eden Garden afterglows
Let the melanated kinship have the distinction Scorpion holds
sheer conviction when they pose
for photos
Botaki ba baTswana bo benye sebaka
Banne bantse ba batla bontle ba Borwa bo bonwe
Bo buse botho ba batho ba bone
Boloi ba bana ba bone bo bontshe bogabaru ba basadi ba ba bolokileng banna bao bosigo.”
Along the lines of black virtues extolled
Along the lives that art urges
uncontrolled
Yes,
they strode
to pose what matters
behold…
BLACK LINES MATTER
Copyright © Thabiso Nkoana August2020
#mzansiartist #art #zurich #southafrica #collaboration #blackartmatters #poetry #interdisciplinary #BlackLinesMatter