In a world where fascism is the fashion

And the dark skin-toned 

Is relegated to being 

The shadow of the “yellow-bone” 

And the down-trodden, 

Whose worth is next to nothing

Because that’s his neighbour, 

He lives next-to-nothing. 

He harbours copious knowledge 

Like a shipment, 

But he lives next-to-nothing…

The Synthetics are conscious. 

Mr Baal Perazim Railucep the other way 

Is awake

But, he can’t smell the black coffee

Because he now uses one hand 

To make house music.

So I had to explain to him 

That it came to life.

And how that, 

While he was sleeping “Victor”, 

“Invictus” came out 

And the protagonists were foreign. 

And the South Africans set back, 

Listening to stories about themselves 

And they were “proud proudly” 

And the small contingent 

That had problems 

With the whole setting 

Were ousted with pest-aside

Because they were rowdy. 

And the rest of them 

Wondered off like Stevie,

Throwing blind emotions 

To the commotion. 

And when they were closing His casket, 

I think I saw an iris

Which may have belonged to Iris. 

It rolled-up the people 

And now 

The Synthetics Are Conscious. 

That insignificant, good-for-nothing

Is beginning to ask uncomfortable questions. 

He is talking about Moses 

And his rod,

He says a dead man can’t become a god. 

He dares question the promotion 

“From Homosapien to ancestor” 

I tried stifling him 

But little rascal has a bigger sister. 

He claims to reflect the image 

Of the invisible God. 

He says he harbours the Paraclete. 

I don’t know what 

Half of it means, 

But ever since then 

The Synthetics Are Conscious_