Here, for you, is some Greer. With well-selected riddim accompaniment.

Yours In word and Deed

KM

It is a very dangerous age we live in. An age of increased surveillance. Self and external surveillance are now normalised. So is seperation of the self from physical media. Control of the zeitgeist rests in the hands of platforms, powered by compliant people. You must click “allow” and “I accept.”

Along with this is increased censorship. Music, in its subversive forms, has often offered a solace and respite from censorship. But what is too much free speech? Who decides what is freedom and what is crime? What is offensive? When is it offensive? What about the matter of context when discussing controversial and sensitive issues of the time?

As I always ask. Through whose lens? Through what filter? (I paraphrase S.R. Delany)

This episode is reactionary. Too reactionary for my taste but it was made and I commit. The tech difficulties came from the mic. being too heavy for the table it rests on. Bear with the 1 or 2 drops in audio. Shit, yes, happens.

I hope you whet your thoughts on this. Sharpen your insight and alter you internal as well as external behaviour. We are often silenced and gaslighted into being our own saboteurs. Censorship has always been a weapon of the powerful. Music has always been a weapon of the people. The choice to stay silent and compliant, rests on our shoulders.

Yours, In Anarchic Glee And Chaotic Music

KM

Do enjoy 8+ minutes of original beats and verse from this humble mutant.

Yours, In Goodness and in Verse

This is Episode 3 of season 1. From 2022. I did say that I will upload the episodes I lost when the BaNtu server went down. I did also say that I will be populating my Spotify RSS feed with backlog episodes.

Episode 3 had me finding my feet with DJ-ing live while I read and even produce literature on the spot. I read 2 sets of poetry: THE THRONE OF PEASANTS and CHAOS CRAWLS BACK HOME. Three Rocks has always been meant to be improv., loosely (if at all) scripted and musical. Even the episodes without music.

For the record, episode 1 S01 has no music whatsoever. It’s somewhere creeping in the under-watched gems of YouTube. Find it if you can.

Enjoy these old episodes as i create new ones. Their time will come. As it is, we’re on Three Rocks Season 3.

I’m on https://paypal.me/unitzerok if you ever wanna donate to the show and my low-tech shenanigans.

I am quick to recover from blows

my recoil speed is like a glock fired

Ha! When i’m fired up

you’ll see

The gunpowder is still there

It’s pyrotechnical this time

This time, the chamber is empty

The sky is full of colour

The only thing I kill is words and beats

There are attempted assaults at my will

I set mind in action to cover

Survival looks like boxing

Tie one hand behind my back, why don’t you

Rigged as a rigger

Rigged like rigging in a building

Fixed like an immovable screw

Like the numbers

I’m supposed to survive and still look like me

coming out the other side

Quick. so I must be

To cover myself

To (re)cover from harm

How come harm’s way is the same road I’m walking?

All the time.

2.

I respond like a trained bird, to the name Khaya.

It is only my name because it was given to me.

I use it as a gift I was given.

Like I shirt that I can’t take off.

Enjoy this powerful and evocative, emotional collection. There is some foul language here and there.

Yours, in Poetry and Anarchic Tendencies of Dubious Honour

Khaya Maseko

Besides the Fever Grass remix, all productions are not my own. And also, other than a small segway into surveillance, it’s mostly music and mild opinions.

This recording was Three rocks Season 1, episode 25. but it no longer exists anywhere. so I thoguht I’d tell oyu about our spaces. these kasi/township spaces we live in. It’s a short, sitcom-sized listen.

Bring coffee.

Yours

Khaya Maseko: Breeder of Agents of Xaos

1.

Are you familiar with my work? I have given my work my voice. Its throat never runs dry. Or amok.

My face. You can’t see it. It belongs to more than you. To less than he sum of the parts. In the world of my countenance, it is silent.

The first form of communication is deed. Inside deed. I want you to be drowned by my accomplishments. When you are on the wrong side of the sea, the voice is useless.

2. The Violent Vedic Mystic Method

Theft

Is a child

Mother

Is desire

This matricide is honourable

Not a crime

A murder of sorts

Is how we get over want

With want not

3. Hayidesi

There’s a drink in my hand

For those who aren’t here

It pours down to where they lie

The bottoms go up

for the down-below.

4. Gumede’s Gift

To celebrate you

I need to stoop

Crouch over a gift as I create it

How does one present a present for the non-present

One puts it in a holy place

In a fragile box whose beauty begs protection

Whose contents promise immortality

And then

for you

I unzip my heart

Put my love (It is the key you see)

into the gash and wait

for you

to reach in

Use your hand

I trust you in there

5. Blue Uni Verse

Sun Ra really did take you to space

He promised

He did

A Blue Arkestra led the way

The way was audible and true

If you didn’t hear it

You weren’t using the right ears.

The fault is not

In our stars

6. Space Travel

Time is Space

Because it must be a bridge

We must cross it

To see what we become

7. Ther Apy

I want to scream, you see

so loud that I bother the sound guy

I know that trauma can be transmuted into sound

It’s an army

that I wish to extract through my lungs

The diaphragm will join the party

We’re not celebrating

This is vociferous venting

Sound therapy without the theremin

I am the player

am the instrument

The instrument of my liberation

is reflected in the polluted river

as I cross it

What I want is across the water

What I get is wet

1.

The hunger is just above the belly

He focuses on the growing dark within his fullness

He stands over the stove

Watches the pot boiling over

He is tenderising his fear

To consume it

Starving so he must stay

The hunger

2.

A random occurrence

bumping into orderly things

A bumpy ride to the smooth path

Smothered preparations

flatlined

bodies dumped haphazardly

No right way to do the right thing

How it feels

3.

Soon must end

A drowned national identity

Makes the sea a graveyard

Black bodies crowding December

Sand between their toes

Colonel Sanders in their bellies

Chains between their eyes

An ending we wish

Maybe drain the ocean of guilt

And wait for our oppressors to come again

Come again?

Though we said it soon must

Where is our living end if our present is a dead one

Next summer, we are going to the beach

We are dragging the kicking, screaming body of South Africa

And drowning him in the salty sea

While they watch

4.

I have been looking for you

Even though you are in me

All the time

5.

Tentative times

The next step must be patient

Or

I must patiently step to the next

Yes, it’s personal

You are French-kissing pretence

And trying to speak to me at the same time

I cannot believe my feet

Or

Your words anymore

6.

About going where I am

About where I am

About my whereabouts

The world that meets me as I move

The world left behind each footprint

7.

Secluded in a house full of people

So my skin runs out to get some sun

Darker we go

8.

About shadows. About traces and outlines. Days barred from the bright sun that taunts through the first storey window. Yes, it is about affirmation. Not darkness. Not really. That’s not what it’s about. The fear and existential bloodclaat does not stand. It holds no sway for our way today is about stencils and stamps.

It’s OK if you don’t understand. It’s not your day. You have a universe of your own and it has days that you own. It’s cool. What you are doing today might not be about shadows. We…we cast our selves over each other.

Am assured that it’s a spell I cast. These words that are nought but an image of what occurs. There are happenings. Imagine a soccer player with multiple stadium lights on him. Do you see how many shadows his one self casts?

Our intentions and actual actions. If it pleases you, think of them as time traces. Shadows cast on time by our deeds. A long worm stretching across everywhere we have been. And yes, it’s about light.

9.

Yeah sure

I’ll take it.

A space to be a better version of me.

A chance to be more than.

Creating it as we speak.

Don’t you dare throw the spanner of doubt lest I throw a cog back.

Not like I went anywhere far.

Travel has its own thing.

A value to the self is attained.

In a very real sense, one cares about one’s self more.

So given the chance, why wouldn’t I take a road over a home?

Even for an elastic while.

Had home. Or a home-ish thing that I loved.

There’s someone in me who still does but he’s not the one writing this.

Taking my chances.

Making types and forms of advances.

For a while. Rises and sunsets happen within and without me.

I believe that I’m still khaya Maseko. The Writer. Not the preacher,or actor, or personality. no. I am a very no photographs kind of guy who lets my writing do a whole lotta talking. So I decided, a few years ago, to entertain my self and my partner by doing a one-man show called Unit zero Muses. It eventually developed the title Three Rocks.

A purposeful ruse and confusion on my part. Firstly, the show known as Unit Zero Muses was done on Kolektiva.social on Mastodon. Before the data leak that forced a migration for some, my self included. Left with nothing but YouTube and a few nondescript podcast sources, I leaned to make a YouTube show where I read my things. Books, my own as well as those written by others.

I’d read philosophy, metamagick, poetry, prose and everything else that suited my fancy. Cue the confusing title. My world in the novella called Mashu oMusha is known as Three Rock. no ‘s’. When I decided on a podcast name, I thought of something that would be suitably relatable, whilst also holding a story. A secret message for the cognoscenti. And to most the title’s significance still remains a one dimensional story. In all this telling, I have come to share the latest episode of this thing I do. If you’ve heard my audio recordings here on Substack, you’ll have a general clue. Today’s episode is called Round About My Table. For soon-to-be-obvious reasons. It’s on a nondescript platform that we’ve been boosting with love and creative material. Go take a look, if you please. Wait, if it please you. There…

https://onair.bantu.vip/podcast-episode/round-about-my-table/

The Thinker is a bit far. But not far enough. The ship to Earth’s only moon will not leave for another 18 days. He’s stuck out here. Better than down there with them. These people are not privileged enough to thirst for knowledge. They’re actually thirsty. They’re hungry now. There is no space for intellectual pursuits or philosophy. He’d like to sympathise more actively but these ignoramuses have tried to kill him in every country, more than once.

The one who thought he was wise soon found himself excommunicated or just running. Because he was a rabble-rouser, trouble-starter, critic and analyser. All problematic. All unacceptable.

“Useqalile, ke, lowo.”1 That’s the usual statement that shows that he’s thought above and beyond the parameters. He’s mentioned unmentionables and spoken unspokens. You see? he is the problem. He’s nearly died for it, lost a few teeth to it, spilled a little blood but he’s apparently somewhere. Lost in the loneliness of knowing too much.

The world is a big mess. It’s being run by terrible powers and the people who do not run the machine are somehow too conquered to fight back. So they fight each other. They kill and shoot and rob and maim and rape and pillage, loot and shame, pour acid and hang the people that deserve it least. It’s usually the women. Shut up, trans, this isn’t about you. this is about the women that were genetically born that way, therefore the yoke is on them ever since the doctor said ‘it’s a girl.” This isn’t the place for complexity, is it? Deep issues. Is it?

Because here it seems like femininity has once more been enslaved, co-opted by men who have every right to wear dresses. The dresses are fine. But women are beyond the dress, the vagina and the hair. For a person who doesn’t think, it is a very simple issue. Women suffer first. Women are conquered first. Women pay the price for male rage. Abused men abuse women more than their fellow men. Women were liberate after even African countries gained independence. In some towns, women don’t drive. We’re not here to think. We’re here to shed light on dark corners that mouths don’t want to brighten.

Controversy? Over what? Sex and violence have lived in the same house for as long as history remembers. Liberated minds still live in imprisoned flesh. Fire seems to start in the kitchen more than most rooms. If you’re looking for something to kindle your flame you’ve come to the wrong place. They fight the fires of progressive ideation. These people are here to immolate. Set fags on fire. They can report on a ‘white genocide’ but gays dying in Namibia is just a web story. Fleeting and trivial.

If you go to a good school they teach you to accept certain oddities of life. The bad schools teach you how to build bigger walls to separate you from the distasteful. A God can help you build such barriers. Between you and the sinners. These people don’t want to know better. Upbringing be damned! They can quote the apparently holy bible to the letter. Yet violence, separation and hate is the lived reality. the holy spirit never actually comes down. What you see is the frustration of many zealots beseeching a God and they get nothing but their own voices back. It’s infuriating.

Knowing is the barrier to understanding. When you converse. They always say “I know.” When you posit a statement, their response is always, “No.” Not “Yes, and...” There’s a difference in approach between the poor of possessions and the poor of thought. Somehow, starving the belly can help one starve the mind. You force re-prioritization of goods. The things that matter. like truth, justice, liberty, humaneness, compassion. they’ve been buried under hunger and a chase for a money that gives nothing back. just illusions of gain followed by hunger. Supposed growth followed by collapse. Happiness bought is quickly spent. But our thinkers died. our saviours died and sometimes, they’re killed by their own. People don’t want to do better. they want it done for them. At a convenient price. for this, they will chase money, thinking that cost can only be fiscal. Ask them to think about the other currencies they use. The psychological ones, the social ones. Their world is shrinking and soon a God is coming to seperate them all and burn a bunch. They think that this is just. so they sit and wait. Most think they can buy a ticket to nirvana. They want to learn so little yet gain so much. It’s maddening, saddening. Mouth-sucking-a-shotgun infuriating. Our thinkers are committing suicide slowly and immediately. By every means. There’

s no crisis. There’s no genocide here. No. If you had to see the true deaths here, you’d have to think. Thinking costs you more than a pound, sadly. The price is slightly steeper. Opening your eyes is free, you know. See. Otherwise, the end is nigh.

Our thinker sits on a lonely hill outside his cavern. He is thinking of a new ways to try save people. How do you achieve such things without theism? Maybe, all roads lead to supplication through meditation. That’s why he’s still up here, chewing on his own thoughts.

He knows they’re not ready. That’s why he’s leaving. Like every thinker and sage, he has to be away. Most of those down there, they think they know. They’ll never be ready that way.

END

https://khayamasekowrites.wordpress.com/2025/09/10/medical-help/

Hope you enjoy. Feedback is accepted and acceptable.

KM

More external monologues from the poets who hates demagogues. Let us explore. Without the usual musical soundtrack. #KhayasPod #ThreeRocks

Grave-hugging friends

Held close

Warm against the memory

==

In an attempt for greatness

An illusion on the tongue

Driven like slaughter-cattle towards

==

Like a nova

When experienced up close

True beauty hurts

==

This moon, now waning

Was a glistening bloody coin just yesterday

Nature consistently shuns permanence

==

She ate warm jazz in the morning

To chase the cold ghosts of dreams

They were herded by the heat and digested

==

We call it ritual while some call it habit

This is why we worship when we do things

And some just do the

m

One early morning in a month. I took a cigarette. I broke it into 6 parts. I looked for a hammer and nailed my self down with the stumps. Yes, it was a long 30 minutes.

For breakfast, I have thirst. Then I have water. Today is yet another one. There is a drive in my PC that I cannot unpartition. There are parts of my self I cannot put together. I have realised that people and I aren’t talking about the same thing.

Maybe it’s me. But oh, isn’t it always? I tried to break a question today to sprinkle onto the rice but I ended up broken. Next time.

And so I ended up unzipped and lying prostrate. The cold zipper getting warm on my erecting cock. Didn’t move much. Thought about the pains in my bones. And how I earned some and some were just free. There is always an alarm ringing somewhere.

Outside, a someone starts. Something.

There are over 5000 ideas waiting to get their turn. Like an engine, I start. Booting up the right software, sitting in a position that faces the screen. We all choose our Gods. Some of us eventually get convinced that we were chosen.

In this memory, I am remembering paladins. Warriors of light. They come with holy writ and swords and hammers of justice. Someone always ends up bruised. There’s always a heretic. If there isn’t, we’ll find them.

Six parts and a long breath. I can still write with nailed hands. No I am not using the blood as ink. Still haven’t found the light but it found me once. Lying on my back, this time. It descended close enough to show me that its light did not burn or blind. My eyes were closed. I know what I saw. It was a 7th day on a 3rd month.

The rest of my readings and episodes are at https://onair.bantu.vip

KM

Let me explain

I am the half of you that is exposed to the sun

You, the half that is attached to the dirt

We are both you

We don't feel the same