Seminal symbolism oozes out of this poet reading his ragged jagged paean to hypocrisy comin at me thru the hi-fidelity car speakers as we wend our way back to the city – Runa steering the innercooled suv, its exterior baking in the mid-morning solarburst.

Words comin at me – universal values devalued and deconstructed – a history of the world, condensed facets from gems of the intuitive postmodern mishmash reflecting values expressed through Rimbaudish lenses and Reganish cowboy movie realities. Each piece set to its own snaredrum, bass and odd synthetic sounds conjuring up hallucinogenic visions of the evening news – Believe us we’re British Congenitals or the Cosmetic News Network brought to you by the commercial claptrap that runs the universe of mindless morons glued to the fragments with which they piece together their individual universals.

Empty lines leap to life before mein eyes’ mind piece together the hypnotic slambamfuckyouman staccato of the yak bera accompaniment dissolving into sugared tones originating in Java, the Bahamas and the oh so familiar Monaragala – waay back from colonial times. Sugar. White gold. A world of hopelessly addicted consumers. The tinkle of fine china, the dainty tea sets set in Victorian gardens of the elite to the indentured slaves tasting the whipsnapped welts burning as the rivulets of sweat and blood trickle down those tributaries networked into those burnished skins out there in them cane fields.

Then on to the Rasta rap – the Guinea gangsta ghetto conjuring images of Watts, New Jersey and of Colombo ’83’s menacing madness, atavistic anarchy plotted and purveyed. Short term Sissyphus, the boulder crushing all behind it. Pump up dat frog, he say – gembata hulang gahanda.

Then back to the Bullshit Buyers Corporashun and the Brutish Council dat tell da maan – overstay yo welcom in dis furrin cuntry boy, an yo be transformed into a white nigga – jus aks me an I be tellin it like it is – it aint no good to stay in da whitey’s cuntry too long, an if yo be singin dat state department furrin office song, yo watcha ass, coz it be okay as long a dat song be da blues. An dats all – da blues, dig? Nuffin else. Yo only get ta sing da blues – if yo black dat is. Dat – or finger da maan – I don be bowin an scrapin to no mothafuckah – an skin color don hav nuffin do do wit it.

A break for lunch – the inner cool evaporates instantly and the air outside makes the epidermis contract, so it’s back to ignition on, cool air blasts relief. Ham ‘n cheese and lettuce and tomato on white bread will have to do for now. And the sound comes on again:

It’s the Congenitally Neurotic Network announcer’s toiletbowl white toothy smile telling viewers he’ll be back after the commercial break. The war in Iraq and Afghan lands takes a commercial break. Gotta sell them deodorants and beauty products to keep them faceless masses free of blemishes – the war will go on, don’t worry, you won’t miss no axshun – just stay tuned.

Burn baby burn. Dere aint no end to dis madness – not until dat gonzo journal keeper rakes up dose words dat remind bout Marti Sandino Harriet Malcolm Che Angela Zapata Guzman  Fidel – or a young suicide bomber in Vavuniya.

Another news break for the weather report. A hurricane south of Slave Island – colonial relic of ossified mindsets. Firestorm in the Palk Strait heading for – you guessed it – Killinochchi. Donner und Blitzen in the east, so all you refugees stay in your tents – getting struck by lightening is baaadasss – much worse than getting whacked by AK47s controlled by mercenaries and them guardians of the masses.

Back to war – Kabul under siege. Brit troops in freeforall frenzied orgiastic ritual with Taliban prisoners. Investigators are being flown out and in and out and in again. Amnasty un Intenshunal refuses to play ball – unless they are tennis and signed. And Chappel and Ranatunga on display with their heads up each other’s asses. Dis shheeet be freaky maaan – dat posishun be a new one even fo da Kama Sutra.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the poet’s voice eases into a carboverdant aria seeping in Caesaria’s eulogy to the kaleidoscopic journey through the caverns of his mind – and faaadddeees aaawwwaaayyyyy….

And us? We’re safely back to the madness…