The Black Project are poems written after a three-year love affair. It was the millennium and while the skies around the world painted the birth of a new century, there I was, talking to my computer and writing perhaps the most ominous poetry collection I have ever devised. Just twelve poems, I may add but daresay the most difficult to maneuver as I wanted to write pain as the most natural of all causes. In Mind, I concocted the idea that the mind itself is not a powerful ally. In My Friends, I unveiled that friendship does die and in Abortive Buddhist, God as an absentee the way pianist Michael Nyman says that the “heart seeks pleasure first”. TBP may very well draw the various shades of depression but personally speaking; these poems were written during a time of heart break, a jagged time when I spent sleepless nights logging in the Internet and a time when I would rather vacuum serendipity out of my shelf of belief’s than restoring it. In addition, this was also the time when I was heavy with Buddhism and had dreamed of Gautama Buddha and Jesus Christ being together in the scourging at the pillar. The poem The Black Project was born that morning. If poems can be considered acoustic in all its rawness then TBP is, undeniably, acoustic.

This is a small group, The Black Project. It only concaved twelve works but they were the hardest to rustle up. Perfecting decay and being spiritless in the pursuit of giving flesh to pain was no party. I was lucky to have Raquel Glorioso-Rivera, who was my fag hag and my confidante, Jonathan McTait, who, even as far as England, sent me tons of email and encouragement and Esrine Zander, who is now back in South Africa, but had been the shrewdest anti-depressant and was my running Prozac during the course of these works. Needless to say, they were the characters of these putrefactions, handsome in my subconscious, blowing words behind my ear. To the three of them, I dedicated The Black Project.

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