He is weary of gender and race and their impact on technological development — automation for humans, technology for Automatons.

The words and images have become meaningless. Empty visual cliches are all they have to offer: the sharply cut Savile Row suits, the straight hair, the plastic smiles, the manicured fingernails and made-up faces. Plastic, as they look, so are their words; semiotic saturation prevails. They are all drowning in…

There, where the velvet musk crushes the soul my heart grew bold losing myself in the copper forest here — I laid my burdens to rest an experience like no other his skin was peppered: a rusted piece of metal; the scent was potent metallic with an acidic sting. I prized myself to look over the expanse…

Once you spark the narrative, the story develops an inherent power. Bitter words you sow, the toxic lies they will swallow. The whip they lash you with is their tongue and indifference you are paying penance for the crimes they commit against you and your ancestors. They beat you black and…

The world was not responsible for decimating your industries — the revisionist history. You always paint the past in golden hues while discharging raw sewage into the water. Alas, notions of superiority were responsible for your decline. On silver sails, you sailed and conquered all — bringing unto them your ‘civilisation”. Time…

I am happy that the Latin vibe has come back into my life remembering my childhood listening to music over the transistor radio The Latin American vibes always used to make me smile. Shouting out loud: the heart and mind synchronised the infectious rhythms always made me want to dance, embraced in a celestial romance…

The solitary calabash tree stands in a savanna plain under a night of starry skies. The crickets are playing the banjoes and singing bluegrass music. Here it seldom rains; the calabash tree carry heavy fruits. It is a wonder the branches don’t break. She was in the shack, on her…

Mid-February, wafted on the cool morning air; perfume was my garden — encapsulated in memories — sour cherries — the acid stings. It was here that Lynn Anderson sang I beg your pardon*. You never promised me a rose garden, though the scent lingers. Concrete walls replace picketed fences —…

The Psychological Foundations My quest is to maintain my core values (The Angel) without succumbing to (The Demons): the shadow: the negative (maladaptive) behaviours accompanying my quests for the ideal. ‘The Angel’ came from the longings for my mother’s love, ‘the ideal’ being the idealised love I believed I should…