Friday, November 6, 2009

Ship-wrecked on-board the Panopticon...

May 10, 1873
Cape of Good Hope
A ship floats on the vast river, awaited for by
3 Bold men of pallid complexions standing at bay…
and it was night there.

Bartle: (To his counterpart, Dillwyn)
Out with these fusty creatures, man.
Get the bastards out of the ship, and on with Supply…
(The Bolted-Door Is Opened )
…we cannot only serve who stand and wait. Gentlemen!
(Speaking Towards the Ship) Come, come get out.

Enter First Maiden Slave – Nude.

She is fastened at the wrists,
bound tightly behind her back.;
She is unable to move, her ankles are knobbed.
She trips and falls.

Bartle: (Continuing) Come on, you bitch. Get on your feet.

Enter a Male Slave – Nude and Enraged.
Bartle rushes towards Kabu (the Girl), and pokes her back with his pistol.
Laughter breaks; then quietly vanishes.

Bartle: Stand up (pause )
Do not move… (To Omoro the male slave) You follow.
And look me in the eyes, boy.

The Negro’s eyes fall. He walks towards his Sister.

Bartle: Come now for time’s sake, Next!

Enter another Maiden Slave – Silent, with tears down her face.

Bartle: (Showing her where the others are ) There, Little Girl. (He cautions)
Do not give trouble, now. Don’t cry, mother is not here.
Unfortunately. (Laughter breaks once again)
Next! Come men, range the slaves…
Lodge the others against the…(He looks about)

There’s a perplexing Silence.

The Auctioneer.
He is tall, has white hair.
He finds a spot of light.

: Is this the whole cargo, captain?

Bartle: (Lies) Yes, of course; (As an Excuse)
I neglected to mention the Prince’s reluctance this turn, My Lords.
Auctioneer: (Unnerved) Is that Correct?

Bartle: (Silent for a while) My Lord, rather to tell the truth (hesitates)
we had a stormy voyage. I opted to reduce the cargo, we would have sank otherwise, my Sire.
Auctioneer: What have you done to them?
Freed them.
Bartle: into the sea, Yes. Well, many freed themselves; mainly men.
(The silence deepens)
Auctioneer: You sure did not depart from Zanzibar with these … (Condescends) many slaves, Sir Bartle.

Bartle: Very well so, My Lord, considering that slavery is still a religion in that region.

The auctioneer looks at Bartle with despising eyes.

Bartle: I am heartedly sorry my lords.

Auctioneer: (A sudden bold response) The purchases for tonight may commence… I
I don’t expect anyone to loose value here. Captain, examine them.
Thoroughly so, I say. And keep them tranquil. Feel those heads, each below them is a
Bestial type. (Points at Kabu) She must be the lynx.

(He Ignores The Inspection)
… And the highest bid is my business. Only.

Walpole: (Humbly)10 000 ounces of tobacco trash for the maiden.

Auctioneer: That is an excellent price for two maidens, Sir…
Walpole: It is Walpole. Sir Walpole is the name, Sir.
And may it be. (Points To His Cart) Take them there, Captain.
(To The auctioneer) And I do thank you, Sire.

Kabu begins to cry and objects,
Omoro forwards in a rage.
Bartle lets loose with his club on Omoro’s head.
He falls and faints.
Kabu starts shouting at the fallen Omoro, in a strange language.
Auctioneer: (To The Buyers) …the congress still stands gentlemen. One more young,
healthy and strong back, worth any pound.

Lord Granville: Him, Sir.
(Kneeling To Examine The Pulse) He is not dead, is he?

Auctioneer: He must have a pulse. He’s alive.
He merely lost consciousness.

Lord Granville: My cart is not far… a few feet past the Tower,
You can’t miss it.

Auctioneer exits in silence, followed by Bartle dragging
Omoro by the feet.


Curtain Falls

The Cruelty Scene.



Every slaver inspects his cargo… first the lick of the tar-ridden skins, to decipher the contaminants sheltering in their pores. When all the men are shelved against the decks, and their women in pens ushered to upper levels of a ship turned brothel – for nude moons they bear testimonies of rape, whence their privities were incestuously examined. A parcel of slaves, upon the raucous decks of blue-eyed orgies – theirs was a fate unto the wolves.

In the master’s place of words… the sole male’s sweat nourishes the concrete slabs of his shelter. In his master’s words, he finds the wounds he yielded to, scorched and exposed to the suck of baobab leaves. With the demands of curiosity he cast the dark flesh unto a retreat and died in the dried beatings of emaciation.

And the markings on their breasts signified them.

And he is a man of menial efforts and a beast, wood-stricken at the platform of bargains.

Omoro is sitting by the furnace.
The hands and ankles are still buckled.
The door bursts open and
Lord Granville enters, with arms full of clothing.

Granville: Here’s my old scotch trousers. Over this pair of boots.
A shirt. (He Counts) a cap of some stuff.
There’s a grey overall. A coat. (He Looks Towards Omoro and the Fire)
Unfortunately I should put you at light…
This is not Africa.
This is Her Majesty’s Territory. We are civilized here. No one goes bare here.
(Pause )
Us, the English,
we reveal our genius for mechanics in everything;
even with our discipline of dress.

Omoro looks bewildered.
He looks at the stuff, then at
Granville, in silence.

Granville: Put them on. (Notices The Buckles)
Perhaps after I release your feet and hands…

Omoro rises without a word.

Granville: And your name shall be John. (Pause)
I am Master. (He undoes the shackles.)
There you are, John; put the clothes on.

Omoro seems to not understand.

Granville: …your expression is still of a barbarous society. This should soon change.
(He demonstrates as though putting the trousers on himself.)
Like that, boy.

Omoro puts the trousers on and looks Granville in the eyes.

Granville: Well done, John. Now, try the shirt on.

Omoro does as instructed.

Granville: You are now civilized, John. You are a machine subject for any action.


Fading Black-out.

Ten-To Midnight.

In a pale room
A white boy stands.
Cheerfully speaking to his father.
Omoro is seen an image on the white cloth, curtaining him from the rest of the room.
By the fire.
Undressing.

Boy: Who is he, Father? (Pointing At The Image)
Granville: He is John, Earl.
Earl: He is Black.
Granville: It is the color of his skin.( He Pauses To Emphasize )
He is not like us.
Earl: Why is he not like us, Father?
Granville: He is a slave, son. (Poorly Clutching The Boy in His Armpit)
Every man is illuminated by the divine light of our God…
It sure doesn’t shine through him.
Earl: But he has a head, ( Starts To Speak To His Fingers ) and fingers.
A nose, between two eyes…
Granville: (Interrupts) He cannot think, like us. Nor see the same thing with the very
two eyes.
Earl: So, he doesn’t feed when hungry?
Granville: Earl, even monkeys do possess thought to that extend. He probably can too.
( He Notes )
…there’s a draft tonight.
Earl: John made a fire to keep warm,
I wonder how’d figure that out.

Sudden Black.

Morning.
Light slowly fades into the kitchen setting, creating and dismembering the dark shadows.
In the room, Omoro stands over a white basin, washing hands.

Earl enters first.

Earl: (Find a Towel) May I? (He Begins to Dry the Black Hands)
Omoro, but your hands together they form the contours of a womb. (Surprised)
I saw that image in a book…once
Omoro: In your hands too, yours is from your mother.


Sudden Silence.

Earl: May I get you a belt for those trousers…

(Earl Exits, Amazed by a void response from A Slave, then soon Reappear )

Earl: Why. We are the only people in the house.( He Starts Scanning About )
Omoro: (Calmly) There is nobody else in the house.
(Omoro Pauses to Construct Another Sentence)
Is there much to see in here?
Earl: Plenty. Full.
Omoro: What is there?
Earl: You must see the Castle.
Omoro: I’ve seen it, with the gigantic the Clock Tower.
Earl: Ah, then you must see the Lodge master quarters.
Omoro: If I am not mistaken, We were inspected right at the Lodge Master’s quarters, and through to the Tower.
Earl: (Pulling a Card out of the Pocket) … have you seen the bazaar?
Omoro: I was at a bazaar, myself.
Earl: (Almost Gasping) The New Church? The Jewish Synagogue…
Omoro: O yes!
Yesterday, in the Jews quarters-
Sir Bartle pointed it out for us to see, of course.
Earl: How did you arrive here John. I mean, I wish to ask you certain details, about the matter of your arrival here, may I?
(Omoro, suddenly relieved by the boy’s innocence,
finds it in himself to cheer him up, he passes
an invitation )
Omoro: Carry along, my lord. Sit down.
Earl: About the operation, from the beginning of your journey… (He Hesitates)
Can we go some place better that here?
Omoro: I believe, (Not Finding A Chance for a Revealing Reaction) I am a stranger in this town. Do have any suggestions?

(They are seen following each other, in Omoro’s rear a faint darkness collects.)

Omoro: (He Begins) I can tell what my memory has not lost, Sire.
My mother is dead. I am certain. It was in accordance with the Sultan’s
decree. She was reduced to ashes. ( He begins a Pacing Monotony )
It was a summer morning. A brutal year! The ground was red with thirst…
You see, it hadn’t rained in years. ( He looks at Earl’s Mouth ) I was happy that
morning. I had fallen in love the night before.
I sang a matrimonial chant, and entering the bush…
Earl: (Interrupting) And then, what happened?

The Previous room.
Enter Lord Granville with a paper in his hand.
He sits down on the sofa.
Pulls the reading lens and purports to be reading.

(He looks up.)
Granville: Anne Lady, (Waits For A Response) Come see this.
Today’s earliest news.
(As Though Reading, he continues) …Sir Bartle Frere’s mission to
Zanzibar, (Looks Up For His Perfect Remark)… to put an end to the
‘ slave-trading ‘ in that region is now stated to have failed.
Anne Lady: Weren’t they opposing this slavery,
In Africa;
when we, in their blind-spot I might just add, collected the best art for
the British museum.
Granville: The Sultan of Zanzibar has two excellent reasons for being obdurate, my dear
He makes much money by the traffic, that is one, but I am sure that the
other has a greater weight with his pious soul.
He is assured that slavery is ordained by the Koran, and therefore it
would be ‘ wicked ‘ to suppress the system.
Anne: (Interrupts) But it was a revolution down there… they were at war.
And you should have joined the Southern Army, as I recall.
Granville: Dear, this is not a matter of choosing the war, rather a matter of being chosen
by the war. I am not hesitating to enroll for my national duty;
(He Adds) …but should our sovereign freedom be threatened by those
revolts, I’d wage my own war on the bastards.
Anne: (Hinting Sarcasm) Even when faced with such matters as equipment for our
Patriotic Soldier?
Granville: (Reflecting the Phrase) …even so.
Anne: (She Diverts The Conversation) So I envy the patriot in you. Even in the face of dire severance of ties in Her Majesty’s Palace. (They contemplate the words) Besides, the only model of union in England is
Cricket. Played on a Saturday, on home ground and winning on the
first innings.

They laugh.
Together.

There’s a knock on the door.
Anne rushes through towards a passage.

Father O’Keeffe: (Not in the Picture Space) Good morning, Anne Lady.
Anne Lady: Good morning to you too, Father. Am I pleased to see you…
(They Are Seen Entering)

Father: It has been a long while, since I paid such a pleasant surprise unto this household.
How’s the little man doing?
Anne: (Smiling) Earl is just fine; but how are you, Prelate?
Father: (He Returns A Smile) Coming sent by God.

(Granville rudely distances the clergyman.)

Granville: God? (He Gasps)
In what manner?
Father: Well, as you know that even though I have severed these ties with some of the
systems of our British Empire, I have not severed ties with the Mother Church.
(He Attempts to Smile) … for should I sever ties,
then I would have severed ties with the God-sent.
Granville: (Interrupting) … could your points be more precise, Father?
Father: The bitterness you have towards me is very costly to the people you serve, I say...
Nevertheless, I wish to request your permission, perhaps to
proselytize your slave. Attempt to civilize him.
(He Feels Ignored)
I will teach them.
I will put into their mouths, the words of our Divine Father.
I feel they are His children too.
Granville: (Negating) So that the black male can see in my life that I am emancipated
by the message I preach?
That I’m free from Fear?
Or even how I am concerned about my well-being?
Father: Granville, I have chosen between being taken by my rage towards you;
Or remaining free in spirit to find change in those who need it…
Now, please bear temper less with my proposal… I beckon you.

(Anne Lady bring in a tray. She serves the two tempers tea,
Before they gnaw each other to the bone.)

Granville: (He Drinks The Tea) Did not Christ – The Anointed One himself, say
It is not fair to take the children’s bread and cast it to the dogs?
Father: The Lord chooses His own messengers, my dear Sir. (He Handles His Cup)
That, until the house of Israel is moved to jealousy. (Pauses for a Drink)
Christ could have very well given glad tidings to a succession by
these Blacks.

They chase not after wisdom nor wait for any sign of a God-Head,
yet they are fiery hearts. They are a great furnace of thoughts.
Granville: So they aught to be free, I suppose.
Father: When the Gods Allow, my sire. (He Puts His Cup Down)
And I have already spoken about the matter at our Church meetings…
Granville: (Careless With His Cup) … and what was the response?
Father: Mr. Cowper-Temple, indeed promoted the idea of even opening the Church-doors
to these other persons.
Granville: (Anger Overflows) Such devilry, I am opposed to any of these moves.
And recalling the subject matter, Prelate… (He’s Interrupted)
Father: (To Anne) You didn’t prepare me for how violent he’d be.

Granville: …The outcome, is none other than witnessing this mob advancing,
bearing protest-banners lettered ‘ God Made Us All,’ with other blasphemous
inscriptions…
Father: Why would that be so, Lord Granville?
Granville: (Admiring Earl At the Piano) The Thought which works noiseless in these
Blacks, will soon make blood tingle in our men’s veins;
and soon after, whole armies and assemblages will sing their melodramatic
gestures, with eyes weeping and burning, hearts ever defiant of death,
and the Devil.
Father: (Disarming) We all should understand necessity, should we get a chance.
With a little confusion, yes;
Soon definition would transpire…
Granville: Does the Governor know of this babbage ?
Father: It seems Governor Goss is of the same opinion as yourself, my lord.
But, for the sake not of God; for our children’s, don’t we need
a history of peace?
Granville: (Harshly) … that can only be perchance, when your Protestant versions of the
Bible would be read and commented on by despotic school-teachers.
Now, that is a provision that places the devout Catholics in a position of
peculiar hardship – convicted to mixing blood…
There will not be a single Catholic School; and know this,
in the hands of thoughtless children, our knowledge of self cannot escape
the common fate that awaits used-up school-books.
Father: (He Suddenly Rises and Walks Towards the Door) Your patriotism has long
betrayed you, Granville… Even Mohammedans reverently put aside every scrap
of paper bearing the name of God, ( Responding to the Protestant Prejudice )
but you Catholics are still willing to expose HIS Name to the sorriest end,
(He Stops Walking and Looks Back) … provided you force your end on an
unwilling people. (To The Standing Anne - Lady) May peace be in
this house, Mary Anne
Anne: Soon, I hope. (She is Heard Opening A Door, Saying) Go well, Father.
Granville: (Interrupting Loudly) I tell you nevertheless, pious Father;
I will not obstruct your efforts.
Father: …but, sometimes sentiment does come the sentimental way, dear fellow.
Omoro stands, between the door-frame;
He holds a pair of shoes, and the table is silent.
He has perfected the art of concentration.
He draws a chair for sitting, trembling.
He tries these one’s on, they don’t fill around the foot.
He rises to find another.
He found some… to finally begin the monotony from his waiting chair. (Black Out.)

Omoro’s Dream.

Omoro: I am marred mother, by last night’s dream… and uneven torments.
A man had curiously collected my spit, He said,
He thought I’d realize a fate awaiting me. (He Shows The Goat Skin
Around His waist)
This girdle bears the Ancestry of my loins. Here, ( He Pointed )
I buried It, it seems, to see a light amidst all these shadows of death.
This skin’s dross has become a rock, dripping of my gross darkness.
(Omoro Requests Further)
How has Ncwaba grown?
Mother: It has grown. (She Reflects) Oh, that child fed with whey…
Omoro: (Interrupts The Diviner) He’s no Dog.
Mother: … but Dogs do have their own blood.
Omoro: The woman, He grows on her venal hunch, I pray.
Mother: It makes a Wife of her – unlike touched by You, a mere mortal.
She carries it on her back.
Though I fear she hangs by a slight parapet of sanity, Hereof she would.
Omoro: (With Anger) …but I am still pining. There is a great pain we exchange in our
dreams, that blows me apart.
Mother: My warts, my witchcraft,
Can we waste them, then? (A Man Is Seen Facing A Sun)
The man, why , he hanged his socks in the fog of an evil moon.
He speaks to voices in the Sun. He reached that score for his Wife.
(At Him She Stares) You Would.
Omoro: (Mumbles) …yes, score that reach; I will, wife his. For sore scores that reached
He. In my Fatherland.
Mother: Little Man , little man.
It is you who has to tell their name.
It is you who has to shine their face to the world.
For the Land. That is for their land, not any feverish lust proposed unto you.
(She Pauses) Come then, the bean has risen. Try another birth.
Remember, she is but a raison of sorority, and you’re just a heifer in
Her sorghum fields.
She is a woman. She has a school of Grave-Ants.
She crushes them and the soil from cross-paths.
She can concoct Love.


Omoro: (In a Complete Trance) I recall her rigmaroles – she constantly embroiled me,
Constantly demeaning me…The in, that walked I
I as so
How dismissed had I –
Ground, the in-spot…Black, the Drum. Of circles. A more it is. But was it up? Growing for Blade? Is it hair-pale? The is it! The take we do, first on the reach to second stepping.


The Conversation in the Oracle Presence – Anne Lady is by the bed-side, dead of sense. Earl has collapsed. His voice is heard questioning the progress. Omoro paces about an orb of tension.

Earl: (A Robotisized Vocal) I wish to ask you, eh – certain detail matters about your
arrival here, Omoro. I hear that most were women.
Omoro: …much of the women were old – half naked, with cold necks fast in the grueling
ropes. They marched the floggings ahead a captor’s horse; old women of savage
ends. And the brown maidens – handsomely habited – those who were salvaged
for later rapes by the mean, haughty spears. Women and children were
saved the wrangling of men…most who were shackled together to prevent
their mutiny.
Omoro: (Continuing though never Interrupted) I turned around… two men where
carrying mother on their shoulders. A third man was coming at me,
strenuously.
(He Admires His Memory) Then, I found a piece of wood…
a bloody piece of wood, and challenged him.
They laughed loudly, muffling my mother’s horrible cries. (He Stopped)
I noticed, he carried a fiery weapon.
I was obliged to charge perfectly at him, but then I noticed the Blood…
Earl’s Horrid Voice: How?
Omoro: (Properly arranges his clothing on his body ) First, let me say,
The night before, I was invited to dine with a rather peculiar,
Communist household, by the name of the Pitchards.
I am doing badly out of my memory, am I?
Voice: Not at all.
Omoro: I arrived, the guests were already at the table. Suddenly, I realized
My being the only Black presence among them.
I recall the dinner vividly, whatever little meaningful contact we all had.
(He Gets the thread of the story)
I was outraged by their fundamental lack of understanding.
(He Controls His Senses) … I let loose, he fired. That is the last I remember
Voice: Who was she called, Your Mother?

Omoro: Nami.
She named me, Omoro.
The meaning I learn in a lifetime. (He Recites More)
An old man told me, it was at a festival of punishments.
He saw hideous skeletons onboard the Panopticon, but none
was severed such as my Mother’s, he said.
She was drawn by four horses, pulling at the arms and limbs… they took pincers,
and pulled her breasts . Her bosom was bare before her trunk was cut to
the bone.
Voice: (Suspended) And she was still torched, even after all these tortures.
Omoro: The last piece of her flesh was found burning long past the midnight hour…
And, yes she bore the horror; within the embers no spirit could remain immune.

Us, the soiled, we
were baked until like stones of clay.
We were treated like Lepers; some fed to the sea and its gods –
In these schools, approved to some extent by our fathers…
the curses, the rigmorales about our ungrown patches of hair,
our head-givens as no more than reaches-to-never-climbed…our retrieves to
failed we, falling thrown down ladders to tottering heights – Who are We?

Scene within doors – Kabu seated the grand woman upon a stool. She is brushing her head-givings.

Judy: (Calls) Jane. I need You. Here. (Looking Over Her Shoulder)
Kabu: Did you call, ma’am?
Judy: (Waving Her Hands At Her Pet) As you are doubtless aware, my Dear.
Kabu: What may I do you for, ma’am ?
Judy: Today, (She Begins) there will only be the park in the morning, and
And then some people come luncheon;
Afterwards…
Kabu: (Interrupts Quickly) How many guests for your luncheon, my Lady?
Judy: There will be only five at the Luncheon.
Kabu: Should I Mind Lady Nina for Four O’clock tea? After which
you aught to go to the flower show for an hour or two…
Judy: (Sounding Relieved) Oh yes, then I shan’t leave for Aunt’s dance tonight.
Kabu: And what shall my lady wear, not a tail I’m sure…

(Judy Stands and Struts About Blithely)

Judy: No sensible girl, unless her feet and ankles are exceptionally ugly, now goes about
in long dresses. I will not be draggle-tailed.
Kabu: Does your mother know you’ll be in, this afternoon?

Judy: (Teasing) No. Of course not. Rather say it thus;
Will mother-in-law know I am outing, this afternoon? Consider her sinile-ness.
(Kabu Shakes Her Braided Head. Belle rapidly enters, silently enquiring
about an Over-Heard Comment. Kabu doesn’t mind her. )
(Judy Continues by Saying) … you see, although I had never known a poverty
for men,I have my pride to respond for me. So, meanwhile, I shall meet some
other wives’ husbands… I hope.
I am not a little girl, any longer.

(They are interrupted by a sudden entry of Judy’s Friend, Belle.)

Belle: (A somnambulist woman hugging a pair a shoes all Together Astounded)
You’re –
You’ re having an affair… My God. What’s it like? Tell…
Judy: (In Repose) I am not flattered by your assumption of my vagrance. But, I hope he
Dreams of bresats…
My large brown nipples…and, Good morning, Belle…
Kabu: At least, some good you accomplished.
Belle: (Tries the shoes for size) And I hear you’ve even invited Granville and the wife…
Judy: I often wondered what he was like in his Twenties…
Kabu: Who, Ms Walpole?
Judy: Granville, dear. And I am ashamed to say, (She Struts away through the Corridor)
I can’t seem to help myself.
Belle: You are utterly contemptible, Judy Walpole. (They laugh) But,
You’re the girl of the period, I’d say…
(Suddenly To Jane) Do you ever do awful things, Jane?
Kabu: Only when I am forced to… And about my Lady, will she marry Granville?
Belle: Even without her mother’s consent, I’d say. I Know Earl Granville, He’s almost
close to my Family, with his demanding curiosity…

(Belle proceeds to exit and find a fitting pair of shoes, she admires Judy’s Curiosity as Kabu prolongs her efforts with the retarded mother, and the first guest arrives)

Judy: (Leading Him to the Garden) Good Day, Sir Granville!
I see not Lady Anne’s company, by your side today…
So sorry she couldn’t come too.
Granville: Nobody here is likely to regret Lady Anne’s absence half
(He Has Advanced To Sight) …so much as I do, my
hostess.
Kabu ushers in Judy’s mother – The silent entity in this gathering of murky souls.
Granville takes his place at the long Buffet table, Kabu notices
him and approaches…
Kabu: May I offer you a drink, Sire?
Granville: (Not Flattered) Make me a light,
tall, weak drink…

Kabu pours a glassful of a Transparent oil. She gives the tall glass to Granville. He seems bored by the uninteresting feminine crowd. Another man soon enters, to relieve the tension. The ladies are bewildered by this stranger.

Stranger: (Calmly) My name is Sir Charles Forte…
You all seem utterly perturbed by my intrusion, may I somewhat set you at ease by
saying, I am a mere Romanticist… (They all gather at the Table)
The communal instincts do have the best of me, I won’t deny…thus perchance
I have Romanticized, revered… and worked, or rather am meaning to work
on some sexuality Prognostications of someone rather friendly with me. Why?
because I am a novelist. And a friend. Romance is a part of me, and
because ‘Order’ bores me, torments and baffles me. And any throng that preserves
this instinct…I surely shall befriend. Politics are the rent threads of a fabric
called community, I believe. I hope you’d pardon the intrusion, but
Lady Nina adviced I grace the luncheon for the pleasure of you womenfolk. Wold that pass for an evil endevour?

(Lady Walpole attempts to Interrupt )

If I simply may say, I adore your up-tilted nose, Miss. And the red head. Those
pear-shaped breasts. ( He Gasps ) Strangely, I dream of breasts lately. Say, are
you divorced? There are plentiful those around here, I’ve heard.

Granville: (Boasting the Comment) That is very well so, Sir Charles.
And her, Lady Walpole…is pretty much in her bare skin now. Be warned , alas…Ms. Judy is appalled by the remark, my sire.
Forte: But, I’ve never seen her like this before.
Granville: You’ve known her before?
Forte: (He Nods His Head) uh! And she never got tied again.
Granville: What happened?
Forte: Let us merely call it a reckoning. (He Pauses To Watch More Of Her Struts )
I still find her great personal beauty very Greek;
Her intellectual love of beauty… she truly admires her human form.
Not her high-heels and waspish waist…I hope. I couldn’t contrast her with any other
senseless shape in my bedroom, in her ridiculous attire at times.
Granville: (Malevolently ) So, it’s you who put her up to this luncheon.
Forte: Do you know that I wished to be a Scientist, once. When I was young .
Granville: I’d rather be using a saw and a drill. (To Jude) But it truly a scientist to get me here.
Forte: I am intelligent too, but a little less ambitious.
Granville: Inquisitive?
Forte: Yes! Most about the opposite sex, though. The literary abstractions thereof.
Granville: … and you do seem not much in repose about it, I’d mark.
Forte: I have said that I’m not in repose. I am thinking furiously hereof.

Father O’Keeffe, Red With Anger Bursts Through The Door;
A Ray Of Light Is Behind Him….He carries with him a golden case.

Judy: (Directly To Forte ) You - Get out of my house, now. And never…
Belle: (Suddenly dwindles a laughter in a peculiar voice, without an attempt to disguise
the intonation of her laziness)…Let’s go to her room…
Let’s play. I will go to bed with you Sir Charles.
(Deliberately to Charles) Are you any good at it?
Forte: I fell very badly about this.
Belle: Are you angry?
Forte: I am – very hurt, you are old enough to be my mother. Are you keen on me,
honestly? And your insanity, quite attractive, I must say. But… it bothers me.
Are you truly keen on me…I am bad company for morbid women, my Lady.
Belle: Yes, I am keen dear. Corrosively so, that I can’t be flattered to drop my lechery.
Forte: Then, you would wait just a little…
Belle: (Not favoring the remark to follow) For God, No.
Father: Mind your vocabulary – you foul wench!
Forte: (Infuriated) What in God’s name difference does her vocabulary make?
This, by all appearance, seems to be a day for drifting off.
She is not a little girl, anymore. (Belle is Pounding Her Spoon On the Table)
She can wed as much as she desires.
Judy: But… La Belle. Are we this obliged to breed for men we loathe most?
Are your travails for a descent pleasure falling short of our vow?
Belle: … but what stature is set forth for womanhood, an European womanhood –
any womanhood, for that matter? No lesser are we slaves for these
unscrupulous men, Jude.

(Belle increases the impulse of the shoe-hunt. Disturbing as her abrupt exits and re-entry, the thought patterns of her mind are now becoming visible. Now, the piled shoes cover the stage.)

Father: And please do recall that African races revere you ladies even to their deaths.
You are the Mother-Land! The mothers who are the initial mourners of
war. Any war. But, I’m amazed at your disdaining motifs towards these
Negroids.
Belle: These Blacks are no better remarked than primitive, and comparatively speaking
few of them can even read – since they are said to have no written literature.
(She Exclaims ) And the barbarous gods these natives fetish…
Father: (Interrupts with a Note ) … have you made yourself acquainted with these
Gods of their faiths, My Lady?
Belle: Why? Would there be any purpose for that adventure? Please, say.

(She’s fondling Forte while throwing words at the Prelate. Clutching the newly found shoe, it seems her aim entirely to handle Forte like the shoe pressed between them)

Father: Let be; that evil you choose from good, for your sake,
not God’s, My Lady.
Rather fear he who fears you most.
I have visited a ritual ceremony, once, in Congo.
The Gods whom all natives worship and acknowledge are those of the Light and of the Darkness. The fatal symbol of death to some is darkness, yes. But in the dark art
All Spirit-lands, all with their Principals, who aught be propitiated before any approach is made.
These are the tales of the natives, imported this far – we are all riddled by them.
…A woman was tortured that week, if I recall correctly… because she had
represented the greatest mystery of all:
That of the source of life, and light
as represented by the sexual inter-relations of civilized societies…There is the nude dance of maidens under the tumultuous sky…for they had been the fertile stars who abate the insurgence of bad omens – they were labeled precariously as whores.
(He Adds) To dance the six veils of adoration, She – the Priestess,
exposed her sexual organs.
That was seen as crude. But honestly, if
regarded without hypocrisy; she was merely expressing her fascinated joy
for an intrinsic passion she had acquired. (They Are Silent )
And that should be before the God of the Gates, the wisdom and
medicine to heal the land.
Judy: But…how are the victims selected? …don’t women occupy a low stature
among these races?
Father: I fear they aren’t so, My Lady. For the loafers, yes they are chattels… though I d
Flicker my words. Yet, for the Gods, they are not victims,
women are an attribute of prosperity, at right, effecting the destiny of all men.
Judy: Still, that cannot foist me against most of our civil resolutions
Granville: I openly agree, Lady Jude. ( He Holds More Attention )
To resume with you my Sire, would it be fair to say that the activities
of your mission are directed along the lines of endorsing your ideology
based on international anti-slavery conceptions?
Father: That would certainly be fair.
Granville: And you are in pursuance of this isolationist belief in basic human
dignification; is that correct?
Father: Correct, Yes.
And only for the mild resolution they require with their ancestry…which now is
exploited by the vile indulgences of such brutal men as yourself and Mr.
Dillwyn, and platoon.
Granville: Now then, in your opinion – does the mission’s work not tend to weaken the
Capitalist system of our governance?
Father: My answer is no. But, with consideration of the slaves you coax…the lewdness
and debauchery of your kind’s brawls – the wretched adulterers.
Granville: Is there not a range of possible entities indulging in a body of such thought?
Do you, Father O’Keeffe disapprove of the customs of this here
London’s constitutional justice? To the extreme of proselytizing these masses
your vulturous resolutions.
Father: Yes! And admirably so. I don’t think my mission is of the extremes of
Isolationism, that is not our function, as you have misconstrued.
Granville: Yes, but are my judicial views entitled to consideration?
Forte: ( Interrupts ) And if I may add, I would believe that Sir Granville’s questions
are not intended to convey criticism, My Lord.
Father: Are you a believer, Sir? (Addressing Forte )
Forte: Yes. Although I’d suppose the Invisible Power knows me a sinner enough
in my life-time.
Father: You do believe, therefore, the Miracles conjured by Christ and his Disciples?
Forte: I do.
Father: And the suspense that swathed the latter hence their Master’s walk upon the
watery floor of a Lake?
Forte: Certainly.
Father: (Seeming Unimpressed By Forte’s Logic) Heretics such as yourself should be
exterminated. This, I shall pass to you in secret; You, the chosen few.
That we shall cramp your organized religions with bombs.
Granville: (Unimpressed Too) But, Weren’t all these men entrenched with special
powers, of a different kind?
Father: Certainly so. But, were they not adorned with the exact powerful acts that
Buddha and his followers performed in the similar nature of Christendom?
Were they not sufficed with existential powers, as well?
Forte: Essentially so. Not a bit of doubt. Supernatural acts of two men of differing
God-Senses; borne countries apart, could reasonably be portions of an
exterior force, not peculiar to any religion, but utilized once one has
communicated with it.
Father: So, you do believe in Witchcraft, don’t you Sir?
Forte: Not that I can confirm my relation to that subject, Father.
But, do people acknowledge such supernatural grants today?
Don’t we all impugn any such a motive?
Father: My dear Fellow, all that exists deserves a quantitative opposite.
Like love seemingly deserving a hate. And if life is but death’s transition,
Then death is surely a living trance in the timelessness of life…not living.
Forte: (Defeated) That is true.
Father: Then, why won’t an unwavering cultivation of evil yield forth fruit,
the opposite to those begotten in cultivating good?
feasibly and proportionally. In a time of life…won’t memory be the only defeat?
Forte: How frightful. I can’t recommend such rudimentary wisdom over a meal,
Pious Father. Are you felling alright? ( They All Laugh )
Father: (Warning)You might jest about the co-equal enemies warring for the will of
mankind, the powers of Light and Darkness who’re at odds without cessation.
But, be assured that the truth of this doctrine transcends even the greatest of arduous
enquiries. An inner truth lies common to all incepted faith, all faith rises towards
spiritual perfection – that over flesh and her pleasures..
Granville: (Mockingly) What a re-incarnationist objective…
Father: Let us not submerge this truth in our humanly meticulous ceremonies which
eventually loose meaning. Sooner or later this perpetuated horrible lust
for immortality will exterminate all traces of truth.
The hours of night are equal to those of the day, and no less active are they,
when distorted from their original simplicity.
Granville: We are all tinged by that vague truth, that ours is a fate enveloped for
mortal decay. But we all want to Give Man; improve our status
by any means possible.
Father: Even by means of animating their brains, lambasting and injecting thoughts
of your subversive expression; to distance these Blacks from the astral
gain preserved for them, by their long-dead spirits. What Laodicean cunning is
being launched here?
And do your women-folk revolt at this sacrilege inflicted
upon their wombs…(To the ladies) My ladies, how remedial is the indifference you subscribe to the tortures of their infidelities inspire your aims for a better matrimony?
The insinuations of unreserved lusts in most of your courtly speeches, do these
divulge the malign demons you brew in the caverns of your waspish waists? I
await not the infernal retribution upon the seeds you scatter by their loins.
Aren’t ye, flogged with impunity without reason of trifle joys, thy beds drenched by the torrents of their wretched breast-fixations? Or do you also delight in the cruelty of their desires?
Granville: I suppose we all know the reason we have gathered here, at this Last Meal.
All: We all Understand.
Granville: Yes. For the abnormal happening where we burn portions of human flesh,
for this here London.
Father: The practice should now commence – cut-up the gore into a mess of flesh. First, with the raw strokes of your whip on this negro’s back. Will you please enter Omoro?

Omoro enters slowly and attentively…

Omoro: (To Them Collectively) Please say my name, it’s not in vain…
All: (Except Granville) Bravery!
Granville: (Shouts) You Satanist. And such a bastardized act…I swear it better to
have exterminated you with that spiteful mother of yours.
Omoro: You had you chance, sire…once, functionally. Yes, you could have ended
the cycle…this supposed evil principle of my kind degraded by their vices.
What invincible obstacle has there been against your generous intentions…do tell
Sire. Is not you art and might now wrought in the caverns of their mysticism?
Aren’t you finally at peace that the beast thou hast civilized? You have incarcerated
them all, even their generations unborn. Even your young are inquisitive about the journey you have plotted for them, by what they know as a devilish hand of their birth.
Granville: What have you done with my son?
Damn you, what happened? Earl, he’s not dead, is he?
What happened in that wooden building?
Omoro: I can recall no wooden building with regard to Earl’s sleep, My Sire.
Granville: All he does is garble on the diabolical eleven words.
And that strange language – the burns on his throat, why?
What wretched body lies cared for by my wife?
Omoro: He has no soul, now – My Lord…
Granville: (Astounded) Could it be? A living corpse…
Omoro: Yes. A single life is not enough. He can’t escape this place. The seed of death is
growing in your loins, as well. His spirit will not continue its greater
journey. He will remain tied, he will never look the loved faces of his
fellow races with that rage; that hatred of which your personality is
influenced.
Granville: But – I don’t see the connection. What is the point of this?
My son, the delirium in that house; who put his body that far from home?
Why? I gave you my abode to rest and sleep, you scoundrel.
Omoro: Have I got a home, my Lord? With you.
Granville: What was better, for you? To put you into my good house as an apprentice -
so you’d learn a trade…What was better? to survive, to find you a station or the
perpetual vagabondage your race is hailed for?
Omoro: Sire, by now you know that I have no father, no mother and no dependents
whatsoever. I am independent. Shouldn’t I be free then?
Granville: But, you are no master at any trade? And why are you here?
Omoro: So – You’d be led here, to set sight upon the tapestry of your fate.
Father: (interjects) Man often asks, why so much pain? When he inflicts upon others their
visions of a strange god. He’s a Negro, by trade a blacksmith;
genius inclined him that way. And he has no other dependants…
what so ever. He’s free.

Granville: Their invisible existence of darkness has forced an entry on us, this grip that
held their Dark Continent for so many centuries has spread.
It’s a plague into our own abodes. Why are they here?
Father: They are here for Land.
Not this feverish lust proposed here.
All: What do you mean? What?
Forte: Yes. Tell us, we misunderstand you. He’s a slave, not merely by acts but by the
livelihood that characterizes his kind. The miracle of our White Magic has always
remained irrepressible. He will not protest in the name of his human individuality,
his body and soul, as a principle of that character he represents should forever serve under the elements proposed for their collective punitive restraint.
Father: You all art of no importance to me; especially you Forte, nevertheless I
distinguish in you a rather intelligent man…you don’t propagate on common
knowledge, if I may say.

(He Admires Them All, Demeaning his stature.)

But, You all anticipated this…you hung on the hope of this. You,
who shall hear through battered skins.

(Omoro Draws A Wooden Pistol)

Omoro: In place of that cat widely vested on my laps and arms…the night-watch of your vessel flogged his own back before the debt of your seamen. You gave a pistol – and I will utilize the pistol. I will shoot the messenger, for he selflessly gave this pistol between us quickly, in this naked room. And as for the pails of vinegar washing off his tortures in the quarters of your employment – would the messenger speak?

Granville: ( Cheerfully )You do know that I, I assaulted her. You should know how
she lay bogged and swollen, from those blows I did rain upon her.
Woman are often considered rather too nubile and apologetic, no! just not
her. She was a rebel, she had always been a rebel. She alone, willed to
spit upon my face, in clear view of my brigade.
I hated her. Her venomous lips and their outbursts…
Omoro: Did that hate become most effective in proposing your measures to her kind
Sir, those black Others? (re-examines his statement) I’d hate to have
asked it wrongly, but…
Granville: (Puzzled) What precisely could be asked wrongly at this damned moment,
Friend?
Omoro: …those accomplishments of your Hate, Sire.
Granville: I could assume it so,
Omoro: Could you hate her just the same now, if I had to bring her back? Here.
Granville: ( Proudly )As I speak now, Friend ; I speak for ages who won’t die.
That is a certainty indisputable by time herself.
Omoro: ( Addresses a figure at the entrance ) Come in, please do.


Granville waited astounded, as the trivial thing stood there
in the perfect order of the worn-out frame of rest.
Dead. Or Living-Dead. Her gaze was wearing remarkable intelligence.


Omoro: (commenting over the glare in the frozen visage of Granville)
You… seem to have some pledge of remorse, I would say.
I am impressed, my lord. Alas, I must infer to you that, that alone
is not enough a plan for your salvation, yet.
Your salvation is not an option, yet.
Granville: (Concerned)Why, …she won’t even come in closer. May I touch her?
Omoro: She is not allowed to be touched.
Granville: If I may, just to satisfy myself. Is it truly her?
I am not trying to lay on your willingness as a friend, but…
Omoro: ( Stoically ) No. Not a feeble chance therefore.
Granville: …but, Friend?!!
Omoro: Had you not encountered her before? You know her. You have touched
her…Still, the fact that you were bound to a wife in matrimony,
Sire, what more desire would need to fulfill itself, now?
Granville: I meant no harm hereof, just a plea friend.
Omoro: That does not excuse you at all. The seal on your fate is broken;
And has that occurred to you?
Granville: Elementarily so, it all is still striking truth.
Omoro: Now, could you tell me reason for that brutal emotion you granted her?
Can such a charming character as yourself exhibit that monstrosity?
Granville: I felt, I wanted to die, to be seated…
Omoro: …but that would be wasteful of time. What ever your tireless efforts,
and whatever sign of remorsefulness… how vain it all will be.
Granville: The seal is broken.
Omoro: Yes, the seal
All Around The Table: The seal is broken.
( Then, sudden chatter breaks around the table, muting his inquisition,
He realizes his loneliness, He Cries silently with gnawing gasps of
Air. He has lost. )
Omoro: The punishment thereof, is just as inevitable.
Granville: I feel no remorse. I feel none. It was an obligatory deed and gesture I did.
No matter how misrepresented it all is.
Omoro: How regretfully so.
Granville: Regret, how much more can I feel?
I can recall, she ran towards the forest;
the trees, their arms slapping her needle limbs with fear-strokes.
She was unsure where to hide, perhaps the mountainside,
…perhaps. But, why hadn’t fear shouted through her throat,
I don’t know. I alone, of all, committed this. Only I,
Such a primitive act, only I could presume...
Omoro: Is that so?
Granville: That is so, yes; that paining segment of pure evil, within all man.
First, to acquaint myself with the blood I was to shed, that bubbling
conscience about it – beginning to gnaw. With that pain I had a crucifix.
Upon this, I hung long before I would let her.

She was naked, truculently nude. Her abdomen carved like a mature
earthenware. She was flooded with the sweat of a dying prey and all convulsions
of human strain.
All that fear, her fear …radiated by her trails in the woods, was the fore-game
before the mystery of creation.
Omoro: Had you lasted for black flesh before, sire? Indeed, what myth had infested your
mind, then? Tell me, it is necessary for my peace of mind.
Granville: She bore no physical defects, for one. And her silences, anyone could
decipher that like sanely diviners. That wordlessness mentioned more than
necessary.

A body fried in the oils of raging flames…is traded in this luncheon of monsters. Each is ordered and obliged to cut and imbibe the satisfaction of rotten-ness. First, it is Granville the servant of the potions of meat. His tension is enrapturing. The fixed gazes of his fellow offenders overwhelm the women-folk. They foresee a dire future for the family of their retributions. They are sad and profound in tears of horror.
The grand lady’s silence fills the space with remorse, for all these are her womb-splatters and shameful mites from her red sack. She sobs after what Judy would have called never…and those tears become a flood vomited through eyes.

Omoro and pastor interrupt their purpose, they forcibly summon they reluctant ones towards this mess. Others regurgitate and the grand lady stares. At this council of slave-makers…Kabu still braids the streaming hair of the virtual ghost. And that’s the awe in the moment, for she seems not intent of seeing the terror.

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

Theorem 710

In death,
Spirits marry.

Tuesday, October 6, 2009

Poems written with no adolescent sperm and heart’s blood.

Hymn 1

Knifed, and
Bladed –
Content in the blurs,
I tower over
These evergreens
Of cult-control
On watch;
For genesis of days
Humming skeletons
To concentration yards.

Hymn 2

Of undwelling lifeless-
Ness,

Illusions and delusions
Both of shadows and pillows;

Of confused figurines,
One in colour and superior pall –
The maw who reserves all confusion…

His draining eyes are silent now!
Self-absorbed fairies, wired
And operating…
To mend detached bodies;
the blurb thereof –
To play the rough-ridden garment of love
Tearing at the seams.

Hymn 3
The Leg

And naked
He towered upon
Her gaze, not
Ashamed of
His senseless body…

She caresses
Him, for he said:
Silence me
Challenged woman
Prone and defiant.
Sacrifice,
Alter me.

Thursday, September 17, 2009

Theorem 709

The man
shuns the slightest
grief,when the grave
seems not slight.

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

Another Day...

Corpses sought
the naturely life
tired
Until their
shelters
homely at day

Like the flame
escaping a candle
in the dark
A shed for the dogs
we pet

"People are living there."

Friday, July 31, 2009

And towards a finality...

There will be
No more poems
Written
With adolescent sperm
And
Heart's blood.

Thursday, July 23, 2009

A Day...

When angels tap on my forehead,
The late I
drowns in a corpse's bathwater...

Wednesday, July 1, 2009

Theorem on Love

In the moist clutch of a taciturn termagant,
The mural man writhes in a cold pond of silence –
Immersed in mar and
Unrepentant of sins committed in dreams.

Serenely chronic endearments graze the floor;
A corpse
And a lacuna of wartime eyes
Panting paranoiac affirmations of truths –
Truths clogged in the dry-rot of a room.

The wind confides their secrets to the traffic;
Glass beads and tears shipped along eye-shores –
Eyes that could not feed a prisoner’s thirst,

Yet,
Love was felt an institute of repugnance;
Execrable excuses treading their bed-post –
Imbecile hearts poisoned by fires of felicities;
And other penalties of love’s unconscious conquest.

A day towards a new reside…

An incendiary peal of church-bells in chorale – Sunday morning in the junk-room of a scotched country-side. We are near a line of tropic – and today, hitchhiker worshippers flock the heat blizzards of winter for sakes of charities. Piety hangs like rags on flags poles of cheap hotels; somewhere a city miser yawns after a night of binges with trailer park hoodlums and highway prostitutes. The fun is worship here; virgins know a rewards of heaven dick bound – reveling in farm foolery with drunken truck-drivers.

We are nearing a praetorian town – a signpost carved in grim letters that destined my past schooling: SETTLERS – an ink-blot on a map to tatters; a former reformatory, agricultural landscape. I pubed incarcerated there for 2 stolid years – boarded with louts and troubled clans from my arrested age. Young and initiated into cotton-picking and animal husbandry. A shiver of recollections. I recall riding those crop strewn plains with my father after gambling bouts in some austere resort slots – listening to Maria Callas – loses quelled by the night’s staccato silences and inaudible sights. Star tails of white stripes crushed by fugitive wheels – those were ritual dare-devil moves swerved around gravel roads and straight, yet narrow.

The normative radio dawns from far-off casinos, belched fed with machine diets from 24 hour parlors – dead foods and coolers from a sea of bleeping souls. I lived a phantom then, memories layered in cinder of conquered ambitions. Metallic anguish of a pot-hole jerked automobile jolts me from the reverie and soon I glut my mind upon tales yet to foretell my sojourn among those I left five years prior. And now that the pervasive hooting of another ghetto idiom, languished prints of concealed nostalgia takes tide beneath the excrescences on my taut skin. Selfishly I realize I love that penitentiary, but age betrays often such many of memoirs. Once near the purple blossoms clogging drains – at those street crossings of a friendlier city, I adorn my archives with the light of inquisitive fingers nibbling my soiled soul.

Inevitably, the black of pennilessness will assail me still – in the glare of new millipede street havoc. Every newcomer does eventually loll along with freaks of this wild rhythm toned by dry-bread hoarse intestines and the languid burn of fresh water on an empty tripe. Yet, I have returned to these fangled left-over visages of this mannequin city – waging my raw war like a draft in that geography of earthbound, stolid faces painting each day’s wake bloody. I am here, bilious with uncertainty and groped into a labyrinth of my uncontrollable tomorrows – at thirty, wishing that I in wretched penury would have died at birth, than to traverse the silted cobble of life’s famished paths.

Friday, May 22, 2009

As with other days...

I am still resident in mystery’s wilderness. With the future’s entrance taut as the past’s, a tiny bubble of joy (heaven’s kingdom taken legs) in one of the back-rooms in the yard of my present station waltzes about; a queer tease to memoirs of my seed.
Only managing four audible words: Halo (said with a noose of a whine), Mama, Fine and hey! We sit today watching a bird scale concrete-cracks for bits of dried slaap-chips and like a leaf it floats back to its tree.
With friends under a scotching winter sun piercing viral into sleep-wrung skins – the nauseous belly of noon speaks unto insatiable silences of our make. A slight jest here, a snarl there; with coded languages fingered into portals of a computerized method of talk.

Un-good for the soul’s nerves, the idea of destitution reverses horns unto my love of self – loosing all lovable me. Angels waking my start, transmissions of nightmares by alcoholic arteries knowing I want to go start again from the end. Frothing mugs of beer golden with a child’s piss, should I drink? This is ghetto past-time; salons for women, and shebeens for the lovelorn men.

A comb and bottle caps lie strewn across arid cement flooring… then pleasure’s memory cries for no reach’s brace. The mother seems stricken by unfading abstinence towards these wails, tears soured with other mists of infantile rage. Catching a glance of a plane’s pale tail; only ever seeing such in winter, I recall – and flies inebriated by heat wrestling amid smoke puffs from irate nostrils.
Fluttering wings of a swallow – a twitched communique in feather-weight. A disintegrating tail of the runaway plane, and the engine chorale in the street’s vigil.

I watch the dried gold of a shedding tree swept into drains by intermittent gallant winds. Antennae are watching a sacrilege in moving shadows marked by the day’s slide, sending percussive hooting of a ghetto’s idiom into burning grass clouds. We talk about a pilloried generation spoon-fed dis-education through OBE curricula, the ridicule of thought-bubbles in matriculants’ textbooks - Nana labeling the advent: an inter-generational tyranny. The crying child’s mother is pregnant again (being one in the bag of Adam’s decayed apples bruised by nights spent with a drunkard), but “isn’t the baby only one?” the chef asking with due concern. Blotches of mosquito bites on the child’s limbs; tattoos of poverty on necks of those born unbeknown.

Wednesday, May 20, 2009

A Day In Song...

Night’s so lifeless, with too much road-kill
Hidden my head in a pillow to figure its side
Under Orion a green candle
Wobbling into his sea of exploding butterflies

Broken limbs of mine
Pressure of tears
Married us in sleep
Taking us out of our coffin

Eyes that gravely stare
Care to reverse this curse
A pheasant’s eyes stained by misery
Rays that fall on concrete

Like dying dragon flies
For a measure I am selling my soul
Poison the forests in hindsight
An old tattered brain beneath their wings

Ahead a pack of secrets
Ragged and frail
Dark sins against love pull ashen swords
Against Eve without a navel

After Days...

To day towards winter

A delectable orgy of wrath is copulating on a rosy garden floor – my pain’s bedrock, at winter’s nigh whiskers. Falling from a busted cradle of mended dust, I am close to crying. Finely shady sighs now and again, decaying lids flailed by the wind’s bruising romps -signs on the sky’s billboards… the chill is here. I need be hashed in wool, fur-sting on a moist neck; a foaming mane of madness.
But, my sickle and hammer rag is all I carry under this crude sunlight.

A slunk pace (walk of the dispossessed) towards the browning park again; a fired brain and sewer breath – haven’t had a toothbrush for weeks. Township cage-work spluttering my pivoting might - draining patient pores of sweat as I wait in this molten glitter of a noon’s sun. Wind bridling my jaw-bone; winter is early this year. Riches from faded pockets won’t barter a beer for my tarred saliva; and damned bees are lunging at my sweetening face. Dirt on the palate - dead skin, of an un-despairing outcast prowling in nakedness of brute nerves. The shakes, jaw-bone ferric with cramps… word-noise receding, soul’s tempting storm thundering ineluctably – the poet’s circumlocution becoming acrid smoke that lights my eyes.

Fly-blown fog of passion sweeps past – scattered with other authentic blossoms, snares and invidious comments that made swords of all my loved ones. Words’ tide abated yes; but I feel tears burning. Heaps of gore-stained apologies sucked with the sea of mucus flooding my nostrils. What eternal sunset will forgive me now? Are these the gains by my loses?
A pack of dogs amble by, sniffing cold soft grass, following shadows of past defecators and lapping other stranded odors - leaving me slightly amused. What past trail had they lost? Had I lost?

When evening drops its grey steel cover, misted panes drip tired breaths as monster-rats toss steel-wools left with un-scraped pots leaning against lavatory walls. Hung rags cleansed for tomorrow’s sloth dry under an odd moon’s breeze. Murmurs of flushed deposits linger in the air’s whisper; children singing gothic limericks at a night hiding today’s secrets from those who are yet to awake. I am loosing something here; a human offering from sanded palms; vicarious ruse of phantom repentance.

Then, a wasp crawls into a rusted pole, and a tingle like crystals in my arteries gnaws by arms, legs and face.

Monday, April 20, 2009

A cursed Morning...

What do they want from me?

I believe that of all the loathsome precepts of human-ness is the ability to stand callous chatter even when not interested. I haven’t had a drink in three days and I feel I could tear my beard out in a tempest. The hosts’ expectations that I would smile when tired of my soul, fades with my raunchy face piercing their morning joys - all that bile that swims abound my eyes splashing like wet-words of a suspicious hatred. They ask: Why are you acting like a child? And I flip! A ponderous groan heartlessly felling my lungs, then some strange upheaval of sadness. Fuck… what a patronizing query is that to respond to – ‘have you had a child to know how they act?’ Suddenly someone decides they want to yell my name… I wait to figure out what they want… and they suddenly act like I’m crude.

I hate my name being hollered at, in ghostly anticipation for no concrete reason posited prior to beckoning. It’s some minutes before noon; I am a tossed spirit that snored drunk and frightened itself out of torpor. I hate being talked to like I am a pedantic wench who needs to be guided through everything topical. And if they knew the sacramental terror of my leprous thoughts – those that numb fingers, skin – even the phallus (this muscular gum of sex a bore), they’d oil their tongues or just keep to themselves. I hate having to purport calm when wrath is gnawing my innards - I hate raised voices when addressing mine crouched in its ardent nonchalance.

Later, when the sun has chastised residual dread dredged into my muscles by nightmares, I walk about the yard, a bashing fear careening the gibbering knees folding wearily with every step. A frightened realization of gloom rises whence I notice the phone twinkling a message received as I slumped comatose. Then a perpetual void – I marvel at this self-reflection. A wild sensation of awe creeps through vein-catacombs – boils for veins, reined to a despicable horror, and like sultry gnomes, memories awake for my penance. Under a solemn tree I pull a loosened dread-lock and shove it in my pocket with other bouquets of dead flowers I picked up at the graves.

I am sick (even with that gleeful smile – a moron smile eclipsing my broken face) and this picnic joy is sourly waning, even when monkey angels drop pearls from sweet lips, flaring arms in jubilant hugs. I reciprocate though, but half-heartedly… and this shows. Fuck this day’s blow and its pheasants nesting in my chest.

Soon I sigh an inner voice saying: Tomb, bend to the wind this cursed day.

And true, sunset hovers without my notice and the night’s corpuscle awaits a bleed, announcing another frail dream as I watch the wall of leaves in the lavatory. I eat, drink tea and decide to try bedding, but not a dream, just foul reminiscence of death’s stench xylophoned in my mould.

Sunday, April 19, 2009

Day Something...

A while back when at home, I decided to grab two books for the road: The Quantum Mind and The Age of Spiritual Machines. And the person-cell thus finds inspiration this dawn in words of a machine soul named The Cybernetic Poet.

This is a computerized author – a computer program to be precise, which was designed by Ray Kurzweil. The Ray Kurzweil’s Cybernetic Poet is a computer-generated poetry system, which uses language-modeling techniques to automatically generate completely original poetry based on poem that it has “read”.

A Haiku written by RKCP after reading Wendy Dennis:

PAGE

Sashay down the page
through the lioness
nestled in my soul.

After reading John Keats:

SOUL

You broke my soul
the juice of eternity
the spirit of my lips.

The one I love was generated after reading Kathleen Frances Wheeler:

MOON CHILD

Crazy moon child
Hide from your coffin
To spite your doom.

After reading Robert Frost RKCP generated the following:

I THINK I’LL CRASH

I think I’ll crash.
Just for myself with God
peace on a curious sound
for myself in my heart?
And life is weeping
From a bleeding heart
of boughs bending
such paths of them,
of boughs bending
such paths of breeze
knows we’ve been there

Saturday, April 18, 2009

Today, Or Not to day...

At the graves…

When the dead are roused, under spades by loved palms… beneath a blazing sun; at noon their voices are heard. Reprimanding, time’s manifestos awarding pride to those filled with faith. The elders lie here foiled in the mysteries of an after-life lived among mortals in harmony and balance.

I stand and watch florid grave tops, overgrown with bristled grass and graphite tombstones. Their tired feet pointed towards the east, that they would be awoken in time to stand and face the sun. 9 pigeons hover aligned upon a telegraph line, in memory of an obituary of our flaws… we watch the earth sink; coffins pillaged and serpentine mazes hauled out from beneath silent rears.

At that noon’s later hours, we set alight firewood, blossoming sparks clambering up the wind toward the ultimate void… and meat is burned; fumes bewildering dog noses… and rodent’s, as they criss-cross the garden mess. The sun slinks past aged branches, flushing a hot belt waved across my face, the sanctity. I lie atop a blanket of winter-chapped grass, gaze unto dim stars hiding behind light-rays, the smoke plumes of ghetto chimneys brewing cancer storms for infants to be yet born. Cars wail past in hectic frenzies, their music carried by a dry smoggy draft as though campaigning with itinerants to partake in a collective suicide. Politics gracing faint radio buzzes inside the house, sex scandals in song in this stage of machine creatures in time that seems to be in reverse.

There are the cul-de-sacs jabbering with bashes somewhere, punitive lust displayed with automobiles and high strung shoulders of feline street maids. This brawl typical of township penitentiaries keeps the night at bay, our zone heaving the rhythm of soggy folks and forlorn youths mingling souls in taverns posing for vortexes of mundane energies. Later I crawl along to grab two beers and browse tabloids of a generation obsessed with sweet-lips – and I find myself at a peace, wound streaks rubbed by flies’ noses. It is an orange dusk, dust rising above calm roofs of shacks dreaming under a summer’s pan. And I am home to reminisce about the elders asleep. To wait for them to be resurrected facing the sun-god toward their last reprieves.

Monday, April 6, 2009

Another Day...

I am not concerned with purism in literature – some belated adherence to certain literary traditions. But I am concerned with how my literature shapes my affinity with the real and long denied existence of suffering – personal suffering to be precise. I understand that a moving human testimony written in fictional terms may or may not be a literary masterpiece – and I am not intent on the blog being such. It is but a chronicle of my self-conscious point of view, which I deem essential for the eventual collective criticism of historical realities.
There are great myriad of reality-definitions constructed to keep us all attuned to this post-modern sophistication purported by western trends; nonetheless, these require a great deal of self-exorcism at an individual level being perceived as an authorial generalization.

This blog is that pure individual interface with existence which is created within collectivized kin spirits and travelers within the dream of life. I mean besides, all good literature must co-exist with bad literature. The irrationality of my writing stands for the stamp of its origin – an inner light when the soul was sun-less. It is a chronicle of a mystical encounter with reality as experienced in a vast collection of moments.

“We shall not trample on the right of an artist to express nothing but his personal experiences and self observations while disregarding all that occurs in the rest of the world.” Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn.

Saturday, April 4, 2009

Day Thirty-One...

It has been a while since I wrote some kind of a love letter, but until this morning - it feels like a rather ravenous time for such an endeavor, with my mind's spaces shifting their pillars for my routes' calm. All I remember is waking up within a dream space in this Kasie, nearly dead under the stars overshadowed now...yet bemused by the clasp at life all humans of light doeth possess. There were those wondrous sights at dawns of a thirsty bright..., the sun ever creeping unto the underworld at drenched sunsets. I meet faces I will recall in my after faces...when the faces sought in the mud no longer hold. I mean the faces seen through the inner chambers of their bosoms once I have climbed over the seal of the windows cut in their chests.

I imagine those millions of trees aligned by human ingenuity over hills and mountainous terrains – such as in Mpumalanga, such pulchritude un-bound...and yet this same species has their alceric clog holes called cities - as death is the needled stupor it injects the meek with… raping the sanctity of our sole bearer before our leap into the vault of the eternal abyss. In SA yes, they are awakening to the effects of their hedonistic lifestyles on the environment...but, we all know it is too late. Cars are being advertised like they are whores for any stud-minded horse-dick, and the nymphs succumb...mesmeric you'd find them heaving breast-bare over phallic toys emasculated males require for power.

Ok, I know perhaps things are the same everywhere... but…
Please know we are one, for no vision of the inner light can occur otherwise.
I feel am about to die...in another chapter of the revelation of my present condition of evolution.

Darkness always creeps over my sights and awe wrecks havoc with my cranium, yes. I do often wish for death, but death does not accept my proposal. It just leaves me with a hole in my chest…a gaping maw. Is this hole in you too? For how could you fill it up in one scoop of your manure?

Is the dark serpentine of homicidal conditions of our present existence gnawing through the marrows of your virginal bones too?

Thursday, April 2, 2009

Day Thirty...

To start off, lets assume the artist, a self-conscious vehicle of the spirit of the people; how does the artist become this?

Is it because are truly Critics of Society?

Art, since the times of Aristotle has been viewed as somewhat of a phenomenon imposed upon its bearer; this meaning, to me at least that the style or ideas of style as inflicted by the individual’s reality-definition is substrate transmission of the received stimuli after calculative correlations and summation into generic fabrics of morale within society I live in. Morale is mere example of what any art-activity can accomplished on behalf of the collective social awareness. Therefore, the artists can be duly credited with all constructive pressure that sustains all culture and thus implying a method of becoming the essential vehicle of collective knowledge even more poignant in times of struggle for transformation of alternate perspectives. In situations of social oppression based on all other biases and handicaps of culture as has to be transformed, we find it necessary to eradicate some notions in order to pave way for change within each institution’s evolution. Here, culture becomes an anti-acid for the cultural belly which is in itself a melting pot of ever-transient methods of growth.

The artists’ concern for freedom would then mean an inverse of ART-AS-Freedom hypothesis which I hope was deciphered in the opening pages of this essay; thus transforming the mandate of this skill into those of ART-FOR-freedom.
But, this would seem to contradict all notions of freedom as that human imaginative truth which should be a model of fixated truths as those that history is concocted from. Art as the freedom should have been the author of tendencies of free activity, but now that it seeks to reform the exact notions it has planted… we begin to see art becoming a form of social re-engineering experiment, ever in flux of stimuli which charge and trigger all exponential growth that permeates all human activity.

But, there are risks to criticizing the normative structures of social liberties which can include the loss of those same liberties on the side of the agitating artists, since the majority tends to be capacitated towards negativity and antagonism of that which is of minority opinion. Andre Breton called this ‘The Hatred of the Marvelous’ – and this capacity can overwhelm any expression uttered with immediate aims of instigating change.
Ok, like most changes in life and thought-patterns to which any language in the world can refer – the same thought system-changes can dictate the language of their transformative period within a continuum of evolving cultures.

That language can either please or displease portions of society in its segregated reality-definitions, either making the artists for instance “fully fledged Writers” or despots who deserve society’s scorn, for their rejection of that which had already been admired.

This could be a way that most writers and poets are viewed by their readers/society; and also by those who have learned to commodify this special skill for gain in other modes of social transactions. Class as a cultural reality itself tends to feed into this paradigm of censoring thought and reception of subversive definitions of the word, thus we are came across ideas of democracy, industrialism and classism as adjunct of culture as a whole. In societies clustered with contradictions moral or otherwise, there rises the urgency towards problematizing dissent/opposition and sadly the ones plagued with imaginative experiences/truths tend to suffer the first blows.

I must also emphasize that the word imaginative is not implicit of escapist and illusory tendencies attributed to its meaning. By ‘imaginative’ I import into the realm of art-activity the capacity for the unknown – an imperative for change – yet determinate, thus only cultivated minds being those privileged to see/transmit it. Avenues of contemporary mentalism still remain to be shaken by such anarchic alterations of psychologies infused upon societies as normative and thus becoming imperatives of specialized kinds. Censorship can become an individualized imperative in that through society’s reluctance towards change, it would homogenize responses to the unknown, thus also heightening the phenomenon of self-censoring societies and individuals.

The risks are further enhanced by the historical dependence of expression on institutions who had in the earlier parts of the past century entrenched ideas like industry, system, commodity, trade and so forth, and thus placing vulnerability on originality. The same structures which formulated classes into markets with homogenized value systems can be those same structures controlling language developments; for their homogeneity is sustained by language (commonly English) which somehow fails to grow with the exponential rate of change introducing newer imaginative truths into the collective world-mind. If therefore the artists are charged with individually confronting such stagnation, how will society still manage to elude the vices of mono-culturalism?

This analysis I will provide in relation to another phenomenon – egalitarianism as expressed and impressed through art-activities under the age of globalization and commodification of art as for trade-item. First before providing alternative answers to questions posed, I will attempt to refer to other sources and texts of significant abstractions which might serve to verify the hypothesis I will henceforth offer.

Art in South Africa:
Through the Colonial Prism

I believe it would suffice to say that the South African political climate of the earlier 1900’s had become and remained a volatile one for varied sectors of society. Many disparities which characterized the colonial culture since then, evolved through that epoch having gained further appurtenances towards segregation. Ideas which today filter into present political ideals can still find root at these and other phases of the South African experience. The iron claw of white supremacy saw African cultural expression banished to barbarism, and the impending consequences of cultural extinction took toll. The separated-ness of class systems in the country insidiously introduced charters essential for cultural segregation and castration for many; culture stood forth as an entity which revealed a Cosmo-demonic side of its mirrored face. Other ethnicities’ knowledge systems were thus vanquished with vile disregard – labeled as “uncultured”, therefore revealing another meaning assimilated into the word since its inception.

When Steve Biko highlighted the capability of culture as propellant of collective minds towards an appreciation of its past, he also identified other facets instrumental in this transformative process; the by-products of culture (art, music, poetry and literature in any form), these become subject to the entire and absolute awareness of self in present temporality. This impressed upon the artists the responsibility of being truth-mirror standing in relation to other interacting complexities abound. The atmosphere which throughout history had exemplified an atmosphere for art’s perfect germination had been those of strife, contaminations and other virulent epochs of hardship in human history. These selfsame epochs had also made platforms for a realistic approach towards cultural anarchy – a phenomenon characteristic of one class’s cultural norms taking excess acknowledgment over others.

Through such nepotistic majority validations of a single cultural system, we still see the advent of banishment loom as other subaltern cultures are repressed as to not infect an entire system created through class-centered values.
Any opposition of such a thought-system is then what I call the root of cultural resistance/revolution/struggle against the aforementioned mono-culture.
Art as a weapon:
Towards Regaining Freedom...

Wednesday, April 1, 2009

Day Twenty-Nine...

A sibilant hiss of a petal falling from a branch;
Strung leaves glowing a bold green…
The person-cell squatting again,
Behind the lavatory.
Chairman Mao’s death was calm as a soiled page of prosody heaven-bound.

I ask this still with self-hate brewing the memory of my brother in prison:

I haven’t visited you lately, quite a while. I remember me asking:

Brother, why do men die alone in war?

And he’d said: Because they chicken out.
But,
Did we ask that of our fathers;
About that god’s bleeding asshole…
About how it’s churning
Slave-beacons without souls…
Who traverse thorn planes, like
Soldiers exiting a sinister game?
Asking of mothers:
Does birth rub off the shame…

Day Twenty-Eight...

Death of a futurist


We died my friend
The other day…
The future’s dying
Everyday…
Begged of mother
Put a scepter in our veins…
We gazed at stars
Vaginas were killed…
We lie, I die
Without befuddled aims…
Stealing love’s gowns
Wailing with clowns…
We tear our friends
We found in losses…
We say we love
We say we’ll die…
We name ourselves
Claiming heaven our own…
With other’s promise
Scaling blind for scores …
We’ve come undone, yes
The blessed in debt the young…

Gods shutting ears
With sales of fire…
We dreamt our life beyond the womb
Inside his leaky lair…
Ghostly trances being our wound…
Never here together and cold
Can’t claim bonds of the soul…
We are all daughters
Bulging Sudan shitting wells…
Summer pays the gunman
With gold teething heirs…
Skeletons of fables badged in motley flags…
Applauding blood in stables of luck’s mutants.

Day Twenty-Seven

What is it this art thingy? I awake sad, and I read a bit about Chairman Mao Zedong... still asking what could art do for any social revolution? Indeed, having paid much notice to contemporary phrases such as Cultural Activism, Cultural Practitioners and among some of these skills and specializations being that of Artists, especially when addressing what Arts and Culture as discourses essential for social change; I find it of essence that I outline perhaps my Understanding of Culture and Art first as words, and then as phenomena in social dynamics which has been used in attempts to collectively assimilate the human experience.

For convenience’s sake let us outline the methodology of the thoughts running in my skull, by which I wish to unravel my response to the first portion of question 1. I will attempt to define my understanding the words from the perspective that these two phenomena have commonalities with growth and change, secondly; by giving brief historical views and perspectives, I will venture into ways the words have evolved new meanings and contexts within society’s use of language.

Change in life and thought can also refer to change in language, thus perhaps I needed to set straight some ideas around how these changes effect changes in vocabulary and the meanings. An artist by the name of Zwelethu Mthethwa once interviewed had mentioned how he felt that: Everyone is a latent Artist. From this Para-phrased expression I wish to commence my analysis. Culture can by definition be generalized as compendium of ‘tendencies of natural growth within a group centered around common experiences and needs’, but to say this without tracing some history as I have come to know of the antique metamorphosis the words had undergone, it would be detrimental to an overall understanding of the perspective assumed here.

The word culture has changed meaning over a myriad of periods in human development; be it since Greco-Roman times, the more recent renaissance periods that are often attributed an Eurocentric origin; and during revolutions that are documented throughout the globe such of the holocaust of slavery – the French, Spanish, the industrial revolution and so forth. These changes should first be attributed to the human conditions which espoused necessity for such radical transformation of normative structures and societal systems. Initially I mentioned the tendencies of human growth; now imagine the analogy transmitting plasticity in time through processes of human training with regard to the new-fangled specializations that arise with the evolution of art-ideas and cultural thought metamorphosis.


By human, I am still at that microcosmic veil of the collective transformation, meaning the general state of individual mind prior to its awareness of partaking in the general state of intellectual development in a society as a whole – to use Raymond Williams’ precedent of cultural evolution.
But soon arises that ever inherent defect of rationality as experienced through the ghost of logic, which transmutes itself with every new consensus reached – the spiraling implications of the word onto its source-words – art, democracy, class and all other isms which are often romanticism, some pseudo-naturalism of elitist mobs constrained by their feudalistic origins and contradictions.

Suddenly I find culture faced with these inherent contradictions of its being a mere abstraction thus allowing practical separations of certain moral activities (intellectual or otherwise) from the impetus of society itself. An abstraction yes, but it also should still allow for the ‘court of human appeals’. Each individual finds virtue in the knowledge of representation within the collective.

But with certain rudimentary emergence of political collective-ideas in the earlier part of history as a character in this evolution, we find culture being faced with other demises such as banishment to some obscurity, usually reasoned against the art-practitioners who dared disregard common society sense. This advent also forced culture as a compendium of art-thoughts/ideas further back to areas of personalized and private experiences. Perhaps there is much I have missed – ART, what is its relation to all this culture talk? Ok, ART as a word seems to have a remarkably similar pattern of change as culture to me. Maybe I should have stayed with a structured analysis of the topic, not the lateral method I seem to be following.

From its original sense of being a skill, art had to come to some kind of institutionalization. Art had began to be signified with a particular group of skills – artisan. But that also changed, whereby art in the personalized banishment state became a sphere of imaginative truths cleaved directly from an observation of social changes; this happening at that microcosmic level of the individual. From that characteristic disposition of romantic analyst-syndrome inherited from ancient moral habits – we see art being distinguished by other words like GENIUS, Aesthetic and other exalted distinctions from society as whole. Thus we find art now becoming a tool for cultural records of nearly all important continuing reactions to changes in social, economic and political lives – a map for exploring the nature of the changes within a continuum.

With this creation of a special kind of person because of an imaginative capability to record tendencies of human growth also was created a body of moral and intellectual activities which officially took to a certain scale of integrity – a mode of interpreting all common experiences thus also beginning to change those. This new person after finding out this new theory of a superior reality says: ‘I’m relating – I actually have a function.’ This is like what Karl Gietl had once impugned in an interview.
The new entity finds a conception of the same society in its crude indifference a kind of substantial sphere of natural beauty and personalized objectivities related and not opposed to the beauty of a political life.

When conclusions about personal feelings become conclusions about society - an observation of any beauty can carry moral reference to the unified life of a society. Christopher Okigbo was at war when he wrote out his Labyrinths, other pamphlet paddling poets were incarcerated – Wole Soyinka, Dennis Brutus, Wally Serote – Niyi Osundare and many others whose activities were not merely incidental but essentially related to a larger experience. It should be noted therefore that culture as expressed by the Artist is soon impressed upon society, thus the qualification bestowed artists as purveyors of the embodied human spirit even when often in opposition to the same society’s factitious value-systems.

Artists can thus mirror a society which in turn can replenish the image self-reflected through the art-activity of these special persons as a means towards revolutionizing truths. So this pivotal role the artists play should and can relate to struggles for change in societies. Art is a freedom in itself, but when art is banished to un-freedom… it can serve to mold and amend all commonalities in human value-systems.

Is not art a professional protest against stagnant social norms, thus simultaneously inaugurating alternative grounds for change? Does the artist plot the pillars of culture’s evolution? All these questions can be answered in the following attempt at redressing the art-idea as impetus for art-activity.

Tuesday, March 31, 2009

Day Twenty-Five...

This morning I wake up thinking about how egalitarianism is now the card-board religious advent prevalent in contemporary ideological discourses, more especially when considering that it - how as a phantom moral platform for those who suffer the neo-liberal guilt, it serves the sinister espouse towards an equality character banner voicing tongues flaking towards collectively sharing servitude in hunger. This I now labeled ‘The maternal group-centered deathblows’ with which most minds are ensconced mentally. By proselytizing to the hordes of humans so castrated mentally, ideals of ‘a common good’...this political brigade follows that you/any entity (the individual) can be designed and re-designed for purpose of promulgating ideals as they see fit - the superior puppeteers and psycho-surgeons of the many user devices (MUD). If they can design a common bad separated by an inner gnosis, thus forming vaults within which they can capture and abort your instinct of worship with the aid of hegemonies and deifications through symbolic totems synthesized, then it follows that your will and freedom will lay hostage to their fate-concoctions. The in-bred obligation to obey in exchange for protection within the collective slave-camp will further ensure the consistence of this character of self-condemnation – the subjugation of self-will, leaving the individual demonstrating his disdain for absolute freedom.

Karl Popper mentioned the idea of a CHOSEN RACE who will fashion themselves as the craftsmen of a mono-culture – this being the new mentalism of a collective uniformity…sustained by the effects of racism and subjugation as a weapons the imperialists used first to inflate individualism, then finally to abolish the individual through a misconception of the self as a creation of class systems. Through physical control of the individual’s parameters of needs, a class reluctant to condemn itself will be born against those considered classless by the former. Genome compatibility and other attributes which can be used by geniocrats will soon be intuited as a psychological norm and necessity for progress, towards the ever amorphous goal of the super-ego. Extreme individualism transplanted in new forms, I mean profanities like technocracy, geniocracy, even theocracy rendering humanoids so morally cloned and trimmed that in time they would be an army of psychic soldiers awaiting command from anyone entity who can tap into these hypnotized crania in a self-sustaining vegetative mental state.

Now having so dumb-founded an entire cross-section of the world populace - egalitarianism will give way for its exergual source. THE SELF-INGESTING organism of totalitarianism. The so-called equality complex professed by self-righteous egalitarians is a mere noose to a greater rot of collective servitude while disguised as the sedative epitaph - 'good for the rest of man'. This also fuels what I call the vulgarization of that awareness of self...and therefore an extreme totem-ego prevailing as a result of that zealous admiration and observance of SELF. This same selfishness is the first symptom of the impending totalitarian mono-person the entire world will become.

There, we will be non-entities beside the greater persona of a machine-dead phallus civilization, ass-fucked by ideas of utility and a worth determined by how much you can wrench out of your youth and flesh-might - wrists trudged on concrete bread - the cornerstone of totalitarian population control.

The collective avows that each individual’s needs are similar therefore un-profound, by implication of their priority. For instance…looking at Communism, I find it interesting that it as an ideology can concoct a sense of individualism – actually re-constructing it from the rubble of past morality-subversion; then turn around saying look : There are others like you with the same needs and aims and actual loyalties. This reticence to the common plight forces the individual to neglect past strife/desolation in the name of a forthcoming resolution, allowing an insidious vulgarization of true experiences – we can call this the repairing of the past’s brutalities.

With all the disparities of advances,
Who shall be there for geniocrats’ victory?
The eugenics of a black slave-herd…
Being re-engineered for the sole purposes of future misdeeds?

Feeling rounded by slovenly sacred spirits…
All need sundered with blood pooled in a hole;
I slaughtered and the warm crimson caused storms of company…
Not alone with oppressed gene-cloves.

Monday, March 30, 2009

Day Twenty-Four...

Comatose on a bowl at dawn – racing with ants through cracks in abstracted waltzes over landscapes only their feet can trample… I wonder:
Aren’t perhaps the most stupid of ways of living the essence of a life well-lived?

A shabby township morning, dragging itself out of sleep. Bile scarred throat refusing even spit. The mirror crumbles its unkempt face and stony hands. But a lilting of song lifts above the hiss, and I once again rupture my chest with an appreciation of an entire generation cursed with melody. A wave of song – a mystic infecting an entire storm.

A vermillion knot swells in my belly. I am in a perpetual state of inebriation, drugged by phone calls from hell’s operators. I feel toxic.

- Later today I write to the enemy of me:
- As an adventure capitalist, questioning this suicide gene
- Of a terminator technology that profits racketeers and economic mercenaries.

Life forms as invention of industry – tyrannical lust and created wants; the philosophy of futility.

Death of birth, and perceptions being managed. I am in contempt of all laws of being. My sole mission will be to crash all bonds to my true freedoms. True, man has a right to do with their minds as he pleases… even the right to obscure one’s own consciousness.

Monday, March 23, 2009

Day Twenty-Two...

Wet brained upon a sloppy Monday;
pollen in my hair as I squat behind the toilet for my joint.
Watching flies dance on a shovel
and
a minor forest growing beneath the drain pipe.

Saturday, March 21, 2009

Day Twenty-One...

Day Twenty One…

My life suddenly feels a ceremonial journey, an anniversary of burning skies imparting lessons that boil in my throat. I am calmer and mellowed by tears that were tainted by fear, as I watch patterns of that dead body’s bled shame in a bowl of water before me – morning’s wash off final friends – a queer anatomy of tears that she had heaven forebear.
In town after an slight hour in a death mobile, with other commuters to a straddled city, I battle a burning bladder. Pay a Rand’s worth for piss in amidst slime and greased floors, a murky urinal glistening sordid gold – a stench of defecation peering, then slithering through barred windows without panes. A dodgy cashier with a canopy pf reddened locks has browned eyes, pupiled with a serene grey circle piercing gently through a ragged pose. There are orange clad women munching on vetkoeks and tea prior to hitting pothole of a wretched landscape. A wreck museum of derelict Hillbrow buildings bathing under the blue sky calls me nigh. I venture to preside over dead ore of rusted masonry, person-cell unawares of still webs weaved to catch his shoulder… then I decide:
Unapparel flesh’s limitations poet,
Crash into other shadows of fun – a dream you had somewhere shiny under a dark shield.

Then a hypothesis arises:
Perhaps the nature of this God is a circle of which the centre is everywhere and the circumference nowhere…

It is then that I return once again to the gates of a hedonisiuos colony, and sit at a table where it all began for me…

At Niki’s