I say the heart of the city lives,
In her I will never die,
The dream of a carpenter builds
Merging with hopes
That I have for her:

    Free I write my poetical
Amongst the flowers and demons,
         The nonturnes of my heart
And the dawn of my fires,

Tell me the Alamo will be remembered,
Her beauty like a sword
Making my words bleed,

        I am my city.

Dream of the desolates
From my cursed youth and poor
Words, the poet in my rich in life

          My city is me.

The prostituted poor like an addict
Blowing a flute,
A cold stare, no food, no remorse,
The floor of anguish, a passionate girl.

         We are one.

I am the streets,
Among the thieves and thugs
Who like you have dreams,
Among the rust and damp wooded
Homes, into the parks of my city,
Where Spanish missions still
Pray over the people,
     My church,
My heart,

My city full of dreamers.

I wanted to head to the African Union to speak my mind
So I wrote a letter so they could respect my kind
Then I thought maybe if I go to the paper they'd hear me out
Seeing as the newspaper is the bastion of the spectacle
But I got hysterical, as they told me I should come back later
So I voiced my thoughts and pulled out a hailer

Here's the story, the revolution is in labour
Africa is a child who needs hospice, he needs to go to theatre
But many would turn a blind eye so maybe this is a show that should play out in theatre
But maybe that wouldn't be enough so a black story should be told on a white sheet called the cinematic theatre
African child get your 3D glasses and take a moment for some introspection
This is a dedication which needs intrinsic meditation
So instead of fainting, here's a painting
Do you still treasure your body like the gods said you should?
Do you remember the time when the San were working on wood?
Sailing the seas and they would later be called the Grimaldi
They could sail the seas don't believe the whitewashed folly

African Child do you remember your clesetial roots?
Or have you been embossed in the culture of Timberland boots?
Do you still grow your hair for your follicles are receptors like an antenna
Or has the weave been weaved into your scalp so much that you only see white tapestries
Your afro was your beauty and now all you have in your head are glued and knitted seams
Martin Luther had a dream but the only colour that succeeds seems to be the one that gleams

Are we to remain a colonised progeny and have amnesia when it comes to our galactic ancestry
Yet we're quick to receive European ideologies
Soon after that we earnestly accepted American anthologies
And yet we know little of our African anthropology
Have the forgotten ancestors ever received an apology?
For accepting foreign religions and capitalist industry

But no they have all been reduced to slaves, what of our chiefs and sages?
No a millennium African would be quick to skip those pages
Instead we find wisdom when we're in cages
Our ancestors we've put in a box and that's not our original coffin
Through the coffers of the soul you see them in your past lives and they have been trapped in an X-box
Yes they are animated and we are left mentally incarcerated in the television plasma box
You would remember that many who still held the truth were given small pox

So I say on this day, make things of clay
And stage your play of our beginnings - breathing in sun rays
Hold onto to your dread locks for some dread that that so many uneven black threads can lock
Made to believe that whiteness is intelligence and blackness pestilence
Well spell out your excellence in trance states and let them call it deliverance
African child, wake up, the planet needs you
You have been the seed Alkebulan
Way before Scipio Africanus canned us
Rid yourself of these heinous cancers
Hear them the Martian chanters
They are ululating calling out all ascended masters
We feel the sacrifices of the yajamantas
We are one with nature and we bleed with the sun
Rise and grow to unite the world for beyond complexion we are one.

I burnt down the metal cage
that confined me

I have broken up with God
and I am blossoming

without his hand pushing
my head down

I eat blackberries straight from
the bush

tasting the dirt where they grew
the tightest bud bursting

into fruit that nurtures me
that sustains me

I am Godless and cageless
I am a woman of

flames, starting fires
wherever I go

burning, burning, turning
into ash

into the very dirt I courted
with my purple stained

lips

Spinal necessity exists
Between ludicrous *****
And the pulsating brain
Lumbering and slobbering
Separate from the mind
Which is tuned to distraction
Feeling every nuance
As a ricochet
For this sensitivity is not delicate
But damning and demanding

Tentative toes step around
Lightly sleeping memories
Which will bawl upon waking
Demanding delivery
Into the light of recognition
But, evading perspective
They become demonic in aspect
Causing crashes
Stamping all over corpses
Bringing them alive
And each of these ghastly debutantes
mutters softly
"Dream of me"

                                By Phil Roberts

Simply sit down.

Don’t seek the Way,
you are already
on your way.

Just be present and
as you awaken,
the world awakens:

colors shout fragrance,
birds recite poetry,
breezes whisper caresses,
rivers of music flow.
light smells of hope.

Consider your past,
but do not dwell there;
consider your future,
but do not expect it.

Now is Is.

Peel away the squawking
layers of your heart
like an onion unwinding,
like a snake molting.

Approaching nothing,
you arrive at everything.

Do this until you think
you will vanish
and then vanish:

the more you lose,
the more you are.

I rode the crested waves
that graced the coptic sea
And crashed into the shores
of North Africa

The water was as warm
The blood hotter still
No one went on living
unless they had the will

You never made a friend
nor aquaintence by the hill
Life was sweet and short
Too easy to be killed

Your best friend was a bottle
A cigarette would do
And in emergencies
a colt 45 was too

We smuggled guns and roses
across the white hot sands and dunes
We bartered in broken languages
while whistling a softer tune

With a third eye looking back
where bullets would fall as rain
On our way to Gibraltar
One dip salute , rev the engine of the plane

There is no water to quench you
To wash away the sins
The waves of guilt run over you
They bring the sharks with fins