She’s like a grain from the sands of time, with her subliminal gaze which constantly sends all your wits and tactics into frantic mazes of delusion from the onset, and for the duration of this wilful derailment; wilful for the possibility that she could be the ally u’ve been seeking, and better still you could be the one she’s been looking for up until this very instant of verbal debauchery…

You see, she exudes confidence but enacts the exact opposite; with a devilish nature that is accompanied by shear willingness to assist without the expectation of eventual reimbursement. This mix of incongruity is the scent that invigorates the relentless-demonic embodiment of the primal essence which is him; yes he who searches the realms of fantasy and reality in an attempt to discover her unscripted story.

He can’t help but speak to her and converse they do indeed, but the intensity by which the unspoken exchange takes place concurrently, further fuels the addiction to discover her unknown perplexing stature of overstated simplicity…

So the willingness to excavate the un-shown and repressed is the means by which she illustrates her being. It’s the hidden crown of a queen, burnt into the vessels which transport unnamed possibilities within her underutilized dexterity.

While incorporating and publically displaying these virtuous traits she is also the worst part of desire… The lustful empire of discriminative and forced adherence to her own perceived culture of preconceiving and analysing the unknown, instead of letting it just remain as the unsold; untold beauty of being, without worry or a sense of longevity.

But when all is said and done one question still remains “Since the bible clearly states that lucifer was God’s most beautiful angel… then why do we base the likelihood of relationships on what the devil was best at? That being the ability to be beautiful with regards to the exterior, while constantly maintaining an illusion of a false interior.”

One thing is for sure, it is impossible to converse with beauty. It is merely for the gratification of the sighted and holds no weight with regards to the sustainable invigoration of the soul. Thus we come to realize that the thing that we should be in search of has eluded the presence of our ignorance, and by its absence illustrates that, by our own doing, most of us are already damned for the remainder of this loveless reality.

A reality that is in actuality, a lust-filled travesty.

Namibian-born Nikolai Tjongarero is a poet based in Cape Town. He has completed his first book – Accounts of a Mental Evolution. To see more of his work visit his Facebook page.

Lyrical users of speech. We abuse the language utilised with the goal of making their fantasies about what they most seem to need without the need to first achieve. Change moods we do indeed, because the escape we provide is a portal to a lost place in time that moves beyond what they could spiritually; physically or mentally succeed. For so long they felt shattered; shackled and rattled enough to hide their true potential and life blessings in the mask they wished to induce onto others as a whimsical lie. Yes, we lie. About the crimes we have and probably will again commit, left to embrace the creatures that have grown from what we once built to hide what was originally born and then forced to split.

The manuscript to the Sir Lancelot character of a fairytale has changed to the big-bad wolf playbook of how to achieve without the need for acknowledgment thereafter, however that wolf knows not how this has come to be. Why? Because acknowledging the fears would bring about an encounter with the very thing they have chosen to smite into the darkness hidden from the light, within the light. Making the cure the very demon of advanced measures of luminosity; willing to delve into and entrench itself within the paradoxes of those it lives vicariously through, and thus furthering the inability to do as the reliance to take upon the stigma and ridicule that might come with the fame and glory of the hustlers dream, could be true.

But how long can one remain in this plight to fight the self destructive fight? To the ends of no man standing as the last would have to, because of the existence of a self-made concious, commit suicide to the tune of a spiteful surprise? Why would this be the end? Because the burden of being ridden with the illustrious monstrosities that line the walls of the unwinnable fight, are the sanctities that this warrior must remain distant from at all costs no matter the level of his wishful hypothesis. Glory without the worry is the never ending path that can never be plotted as it does not and could never exist; this is merely resultant of the fact that they have already lived life before the glory and in that story are, not one but many, hidden truths locked within the invisible lines of the untold deception-based cries of times they were crude.

Uncivilised yet discerning to the fallacy left by the ambitious fools that never left their sight. Never able to understand why the thought of whether the answer to the question could lead right back to the question, without ever touching on the possibility of an endless circle of life devoid of the arbitrations of the truth-bound starry night could be just that, the truth. The night that could only be vanquished by the actual questions that fit the wanted answers and plights, because is that not what humanity tends to do at irrelevant intervals. To inadvertently and inexcusably pose the questions that lead to the answers they hold within the unnamed graves of their minds?
Could that be the truth about the lies?

Namibian-born Nikolai Tjongarero is a poet based in Cape Town. He has completed his first book – Accounts of a Mental Evolution. See his fan page here.

What love is love if overcome?
He promised an undying love
but pardons turned num.

Glory, glory loveless mercies
For now he lays in the arms of another.

What love is love which has no name?
I’ve sacrificed my heartships
but lovers shamed to claim.

Glory, glory desired covers
For now he lays in the arms of another.

What love is love if misled?
Words only combinations
Secret kingdom to my bed.

Glory, glory shameful lusts
For now he lays in the arms of another.

What love is love if not grown?
Too weak to combat
Fits of rage thrown.

Glory, glory fearful temper
For now he lays in the arms of another.

What love is love which has not learnt?
Common comforts shared
Ego brazen and sorrows burnt.

Glory, glory happy follower
For now his memories are mine alone

Genevieve Vieira is a freelance journalist and first time Soapbox contributor.

In a time where words take a backseat to visual poetry – stories that are told in a snapshot and painted emotion – the Cape Town Spoken Word Festival is definitely a risky but welcomed new addition to the Cape Town calendar. The festival ran over five days from 17 to 21 November 2009, inspiring those in attendance and elevating the known power of words.

The evening consisted of 6 performers with intermittent performances by MC of the night, Quanita Adams, who definitely kept the Baxter Concert Hall filled with echoed laughter. Starting the evening off was Teba. Let me not bullshit around with the “I’m not sure if this is” inspiring words of Teba, a self proclaimed proud South African with a West Indies/Jamaican accent and almost no mic technique that made his contradictory tone very difficult to understand. “If I could understand you, I would feel your inspiration,” I thought as I sat bobbing my head, feeling the beats of his pre-recorded backtrack rather than what I’d come to hear, his words.

Next up was Jy!7 who blew me away with their knowledge of their Khoi and San heritage and their ownership of where and who they’d came from. Speaking the language and teaching the audience about it through song and poetry had its moments that unfortunately drifted in and out but never stayed even though they stood on that stage and poured every bit of their past through their hearts and into the world proudly.

And then there was EWOK.  Having seen this talented actor, graffiti artist, writer, poet and activist perform on numerous occasions this year, I was expecting rehashed material in a mashup to suit this audience but to my surprise (and I’m always surprised by EWOK) he brought new material and a performance that left me wanting more. He travelled through my mind provoking thoughts and inspiring old ideas to be renewed with his slip off the tongue lyrical style of slam poetry. His indulgent content – from hip hop today to politics to bombing (both suicidal and graffiti) – and his unique style made it easy for the audience to remain captivated. His performance was definitely the highlight of my evening.

After a short interval the festival continued with Keeno-Lee Hector. As a singer, actor, songwriter and stand-up comedian, Keeno-Lee has found that perfect blend of entertainment value to keep the audience in awe. His unique sound (with the help of a very talented guitarist), effortless comedic genius and ease on stage definitely added a degree of honesty to his performance. Although the subject matter was stereotypical, he was able to add his own to each word that he spoke and therefore leave you inspired.

The evening ended off with JP (formerly of the band Super Dan) and The All Elements Band. I was more than slightly disappointed for two reasons. Firstly, I was looking forward to a performance by one of my favourite bands, Collective Imagination, as stated in the program and secondly, I was a huge fan of Super Dan when they were around and I know the talent that JP has and he did no justice to it. The young talent of The All Elements Band, with their slightly off-putting choice of wardrobe that consisted of all shades of white, surprised me. A mention must be made of the guitarist who added some life into what seemed like a never-ending cycle of commercial nonsense with his amazing solos towards the end of the performance.

Even though there was a lack of female talent that I know Cape Town has, never have I been more proud to be a slave to the beauty of words and the sounds they make than sitting in that audience, on that night, listening to my love being spread through fellow likeminded individuals. What they said may not have always been appealing to my ear but the fact that they were on that stage showing the world their chosen expression that connected with mine left me with a tummy full of excitement for the years to come of the Cape Town Spoken Word Festival.

Lara Moses is The Soapbox’s contributing editor.