Grand Apartheid

A concrete jungle, pulsing, throbbing with white prosperity, stretched across the stolen land. But the white control freaks,twitchy and paranoid, couldn’t stomach the black presence. It was a virus in their sterile system. So the grand scheme,hatched in smoke-filled rooms thick with fear and ideology, began to crawl.

A fever dream of segregation, a cartographer of hate redrawing the map with bulldozer blades. Black flesh scraped clean from the fertile land, leaving raw wounds in the earth. Houses, once homes, become grotesque cardboard giants, toppled by the mechanical locusts of the regime. The Africans, herded like cattle, their faces etched with a righteous fury, loaded into steel wombs that rumble down chrome arteries.

Bulldozers, steel monsters exhaling diesel fumes, ripped through black neighborhoods like a metal plague. Homes,testaments to lives and dreams, crumbled under their iron bellies. Families were herded, bewildered and angry, onto rickety trucks. Their belongings – meager tokens of a life built under oppression – tossed aside like trash.

The Bantustans, these postage stamp nations, carved out of neglect and dust. These scraps of land, carved out of the least fertile regions, were presented as a gift. Barren wombs masquerading as homelands. Flags, a mockery of sovereignty. A cheap cloth with meaningless colors flapping in the wind. A parliament?

The parliament, a grotesque circus of puppets, their pronouncements hollow echoes in the vast emptiness. “Citizenship,” a word dripping with bitter irony. A cruel joke, a bone tossed to starving dogs.

 “Look,” the white masters sneered, their voices dripping with false benevolence, “we’re giving you a home, a nation.” A nation?More like a prison yard, fenced in with barbed wire and checkpoints.  A puppet show with actors playing pre-scripted roles, their strings held tight by the white puppeteers.

The air hangs heavy with the stench of sweat and despair. This is the new map, drawn in blood and barbed wire. A monument to madness, a testament to the depravity of the human spirit. Here, in this desolate landscape of the soul, the grand apartheid plays out its grotesque theater. A twisted ballet of power and oppression, where humanity is the expendable set piece.

But beneath the surface, a tremor. A low growl of resistance. In the flickering candlelight of hidden shanties, eyes gleam with defiance. The stolen land festers, a wound that will not heal. The grand apartheid, this monstrous edifice built on sand, may one day crumble under the weight of its own lies. For the dream of freedom, once ignited, cannot be extinguished by bulldozers and barbed wire. It burns bright, a flicker of hope in the gathering darkness.

Architects of Permission

Permission Structures

Power wriggles like a parasitic worm, burrowing into definitions, twisting language into wet rags. “Apartheid,” “genocide” – words pulsing with meaning, then morphing into hollow husks, sucked dry by the leeches of justification. Bureaucrats with ink-stained fingers pronounce pronouncements dripping with legalese, not blood. A word virus infects minds through media, turning “apartheid” into a social hiccup, “genocide” into a bureaucratic snafu. Victims become statistics, screams swallowed by the white noise of permission.

They crawl out of the corporate data havens, burrowing deep into the lexicon, twisting words into wetware rags.  “Apartheid,” “genocide” – hot data pulses for a fleeting moment, then decay into hollow shells, sucked dry by the leeches of justification. The feed’s saturated with their noise, a constant low-rez drone. Bureaucratic pronouncements dripping with legalese, a bloodless simulacrum of outrage. “Apartheid” becomes a social glitch, “genocide” a system error on some cosmic mainframe. Victims reduced to data points, screams lost in the white noise of permission.

But the stench lingers, a miasma of fear and blood seeping through the cracks in their sterile pronouncements. Architects of permission, playing a shell game with suffering. “This qualifies,” they croak, human lives footnotes in their bloodstained ledgers.

They play a shell game with suffering, these architects of permission. A bureaucratic shrug, a flick of the wrist, and human lives become footnotes in their bloodstained ledgers. Lines blur in the crimson haze. “Apartheid,” “genocide” – words dissolve on the fetid tongue of oppression. It’s a power trip, a monstrous carnival of suffering, where despair is the greasy concession stand fare. They dole out permission for outrage, ration empathy like discount coupons in a world gone mad.

Just dry, dusty lines in a textbook waiting to be rewritten. They build cages of semantics, steel bars of legalese, where screams are muffled by pronouncements. A macabre ballet on the bones of the innocent, dissecting atrocities with sanitized language while blood runs hot. Apartheid? A filing error. Genocide? A glitch in the algorithm.

Their eyes, like dead fish behind mirrored visors, see the world in a binary code – suffering neatly categorized into ones and zeros. But the human heart bleeds in a messy, analogue mess, a riot of emotions they can’t filter, can’t control. So they twist language into a weapon, pointed at the victims, a denial of the reality they’re trying to define. Words writhe like code on a corrupted screen, the truth a data leak they can’t contain.

A macabre minuet, the powerful pirouette on misery’s mountain. But the music changes. A drumbeat of resistance. Words reclaimed, cages shattered, the true cost of permission structures laid bare. The gears grind, the machine churns. Power defines, then uses those definitions as shields. A monstrous game on a bone chessboard, pawns manipulated by strings of definition.

But in the margins, words are dissected, rearranged, their true meaning revealed. Apartheid, a suffocating control web. Genocide, the cold eradication of a people. The virus exposed, its lies laid bare. The fight is for language’s soul, man. Can we reclaim the power to define? Tear down permission structures, expose the raw truth? The cut you gotta make yourself.