This anthology is dedicated to my son,
who is yet to name his self.
Oh seers of all concerned, man who sunk in the mire, man who plucked an infant from the earth’s dusty nippled breast…
yes, thee;
Sprouts who launched a rape upon her
delicate features, splashing them about in your muddy baths -
Those plagued with pledges of remorse,
those who swallow their solace with rusted fists.
Here at the antechambers to the minds
of my foe, he who lay for me to see the self eye mind, peering fastened to the
walls of my father’s mind; for his inward brutalities in a priestly form, I
say:
‘I so brave these furies frenzied by
his dark and razor speech…
My father like a rock, leaping through
the cold stares of spark-wreathed oceans coagulated abound me.
I paste and ink these dirges suspended
and swelling with each breath…each exploded chest in a 1000 nights of a night,
with each retreat to the blinds of my past, with each ear hung chopped at the
neck and with each echo from my lactating holes…’
theorem
1
And
thus seethed
from
a castled face of a suicidal negro - the urban caveman,
Rippled
sounds wailed wide
Chest
ripped
As
mouth naughts war…
for
them and golem…
the
barren monster
in
various names of god,
and
to the carcass of a factitious race known for morbid things.
And
eye says … eye shun these hardware…
warehouses
and whore-houses with ties to sadistic sex-fairs sponsored by government
officials. Eye shun your acid competitions for toy dynasties resulting in
remedial neighborhoods without tramps or guns where man is gun and childhoods
tamed by pedophiles and long files for social grants.
For
pure mathematics has failed to surmount enzymatic control over my urban
politicism, eye be that anarchist norm gradually eroded by nigger-breakers at
this advent of arrested dissent against our father’s labor purgatories. With
particles of burned sweat lacing his forehead that what pours through these
pores of a speech-machine be tongues of guillotines… eye be proving that my
earth birth be a divine set-up lacking cerebral
catalysts
for an insurrection against gods who cough-up mind storms.
And
perhaps based on the metaphors of our voyage, the entire fuckin’ race has
de-evolved into a state of sacrilege. Man-machine’s in his silent coliseum,
rodent kids fastening necks with charms from potent men of this bone-museum.
In
the corners…
Under
this whiplash protocol, restless breeders they label our mothers; gross and
casual sexual-imprudence is the metaphor in thesis of elitist scrutiny,
describing the docile nature of us, a tortured youth. Our slave-paralytic
fathers bread-thatching are slouching pensioners gagged, hung and roped to a
chair; bewitched by derailed juvenile quests headed for funeral convoys said to
reach a constitutional climax at ten years of freedom’s hollow body.
And
my mother was mauled by dogs while looking for job, before my brother opened a
fruit-stall next to the shopping-mall.
Your
mother was standing in queue, before she gave birth to you and your brother the
globe-trotter who aught to know the order of city debris and war. And our
father is that man who’s battling to feed families who won’t eat fruit smeared
with blood of children, shot on the spot while running hugging a loaf of
iron-bread.
And,
there’re turbulent prayers in jesus’ trust, dispelling syndromes of
perfectionist mind-clones distracted from the source of our mother’s disease –
that dead-burned bible slithering through her black back, peering from a struck
rock, her locks reappearing weaved with fleas of these cells of her tomb, her
womb severed by land-mines and paper-cut presidents of these unconsummated
military states. Now, we be lamenting the final apocalypse of a doomed
capitalism or some new-age romanticism of poverty, or your social loyalty
dished-out in bucket lavatories from white-collar criminal laboratories. Like
schools, regiments and other scout complexes or moral reformatories with
testaments canonized by bishops of these fundamentalist brain-libraries.
Yet
eye says: eye shun your broadcast mirage of a non-existent first-world where
morgues are filling with breathless youths exploding in parking lot kingdoms.
And with their contrived orchestra from cracked chests behind the broken
splints of a squatter sun flickering at the back of the black screen of nigger
talk occupied by white master pity…
Rage
is merely blended in bootlicker politeness… but there’s your brother full of
lead, breathing ghosts and sweet-talking god for bacon.
And
this black boatman says that job said in the land of dark spiral stairs, to the
shadows of dusty-nippled death creeping to the bones burned with heat and the
skin that is black upon us. He hollered: man that is born of a woman, did not
she that made me in the womb make thee, and did not one fashion us in the womb?
Theorem 2
A body harvests through rain-sticks –
soberly.
Beards hooked with tadpoles spasmodic
with every strut and others thrown under,
Unto the pool…
Like electric tentacles into the cracks
of arid concrete slabs.
Then,
it’s him and the wall for graffiti(e)
assaults…
him and the wall.
ROCK-ACTION WAS THE NAME,
he came cuffed to the hounds of his
junk-appetite;
His return from prison-rites was harsh,
like that congestive fix of pure marijuana charring the dread-filled lungs,
weaning the wet scars swelling from beneath his Adam-coat…
Onto his razor-shredded arm,
Onto his blood,
Unto his eyes humbled by rage…
he was returned to recycle the fangled
leftovers of the desolate sons of this mannequin city.
He was that straight-jacket individual,
Flamboyant and expectant of elements
beyond relief of cracked thrills.
He stood at the daze of tagged bricks;
in the midst of overpowering prints and evening lives.
Plastic jazz booths gaped at the mess
of art un-compromised…
Awaiting the poison of the night’s
breed…
their barks of discussion behind panels
of white-collar restaurants stifled by lavatory air.
He be laying slain rays of smudgy
ink-stains
On paved routes…
on arrested slave cubicle walls,
On perpetual labor purgatories with
slim psychologies for wealth assimilation.
He be gathering fetal remains of dead
postures congregated at train stations and other migrant cemeteries…
he be proclaiming in a rigid
vernacular, with a paralyzed fist and defiance and sprayed mental stamina -
THAT HE’S THE SLUM.
HE BE WRINGING BARBED WIRES TO SEWER
LIVES rudely like a denim youth bred of slum cultures and appetites of
milk-faced car guards.
He be fuelling population exchange
between prisons and ghettoes.
While cocktails drown the wails of
blue-faces, sacked literature lies fossilized among self-elected Prophets.
And more mimed verses of blood rage are
whistled by a lone saxophonist, met by the chorus of black gloss-feeders…
Who might be cultured if it weren’t a
joke.
And it’s him and the wall
For graffiti(e) assaults in these
polygamous terrains.
It’s him and the wall…
He was dog once,
now a superhero to informal boards of
cooks who clan along drains and blood fountains struggling on paving stones.
He was a dog once,
now a superhero to butchers of heads
trotting against the traffic.
He was dog once,
now a superhero… to the delightful
recruits scaling the ruins for some coal inventions.
And as his night prolongs the jam on
that bridge to both ways; neon-pleasure breaths a fetid cloud against the
smiles of his adventures.
ROCK-ACTION is the name, and he came
cuffed to the hounds of his junk-appetite.
It was him and the wall…him and the wall
of graffiti(e) assaults. While cans danced across broken glass with cremated
cigarette buds marking a social territory,
sleepy executives were being fed their
last meals by beggar palms of man-property. There,
the silvery kitchen slaves remunerated
with token gratitude in this cosmopolitan engine.
Yet it was him and the wall at these
polygamous terrains.
At this bazaar-
At this sale of winning philosophers
starved for post-culture etherealities, it was him and the wall against their
women – a parcel of slaves cast upon the refuse of a garish hype…
They art central to the catastrophe,
with their skulls weaved with vacancies…
Them thronging about the infamous ones,
feeding their oiled throats with stale
delicacies
of narcotic incomprehension and
parasites.
IT’S HIM AND THE WALL
ROCK-ACTION WAS THE NAME, he came
cuffed to the hounds of his junk-appetite.
He was returned, he was returned to
recycle the fangled leftovers of the desolate sons of this mannequin city.
He was returned… and kept saying shoot
me right here,
Where the heart begins.
Where the pain begins.
Where the tomb is vaulted…’cause a man
who kills me is not free not to kill
Theorem 3
THE LAST FEED BEFORE…
I am filled
Breast-full with the cacophony of
street design.
With the woeful swirling of dark rusted
crumbs,
Upon her visage of stagnation.
The City…
Her vast veins will soon cave-in;
Listless
Like testaments of opulence.
If we be burned
by the warrants of greed,
monkey-wrenched and damp,
us
the slaves
who poison and attack
the stoic erect masonry of walls
stretched hovering over car-cemeteries…
If we be buried with these needles
In blue skins of the expanse
Disinherited, bound by our unborn feet
Howling across dead silent swamps,
Frozen with motorized can-machines...
Would we not
Tear-wrench our hearts from their cage
of plastic ribs
To render our protest at this sacrilege
–
Our womb severed for blood donations?
Would we Not,
resolve to that final slurp
of thinning air,
Resounding from eternities lucidly like
the cries of our mothers?
Ramshackled women with folded faces,
their bodies displayed in a state of torture.
WOULD WE NOT shed our vandalized
liberties, not cowardly die; THE BLACK MARTYRS AND THEIR RAW-BONED WOMEN at the
funeral of a noble cause?
When my father passed away at birth,
faceless and upturned,
Lips contused into a purple shade…
The coffin of his twilight, its wires
rattled in the last spectacle of death
Like mud-fingers pointed with impunity.
In the midst of many a gallery of
shacks;
The toxic army of single children
together with crucified futile black wrists – their eyes bleeding…
Upwards they struggled, chained and
earthbound,
in convoys towards places of lessons.
And, in a litany of tears choking
waste-paper buckets with mind-sores of truth,
They ask: ‘Who is our father?’
Who is our father, at this last feed
before our souls sail into slavery?
Soon, rodent ants crack the earth’s
crust.
Bicycle tyres slosh in shallow murk of
crescent avenues,
Township philosophers mushroom in
suburbia
THE NO CLASS, DROP-OUT TYPES…SPEED
FREAKS.
Mermaids are driven on highways of
psychedelics mesmerized by the design of this industry,
They are turning their needles of smack
on some well-off student activists.
THE TOWNSHIP CROWNS THE CITY…
With faces slashed with lip-stuck
brutal vibes.
Baskets with holes carried by children
cueing for rations of american aid…
And, the city caves in.
Midnight hour strikes the capital.
Motorized carts shut off their engines,
and methanated street prowlers clog the silent throat of city sewers with the
rubble of city sluts…
And the township crowns the city, with
alley slaves –
a 1000 trouble-tossed forms responsible
for garbage migration.
Their scattered wrecks maul the
horizon,
As the city rises out of the slime
Piercing chisels of her inferiority
through to the skies.
An amphibian beast,
Reeking of sweat from them…
The blood-smeared metal skins fangled
for this festival of death-dances.
And tonight rests the last feed before
their souls sail into slavery, and now is never when I say now…
The lone runners soar past the twelve
moon and listen to laments of these wooden people,
Strained by birth to death twice the
sum of all evil.
Responsive to hails of overthrow,
From voices in furrows and catacombs,
castrated,
Like muffles in syringes of longevity
waters from acid reservoirs.
And the lone runner soars past the full
moons
Saying
I
am
specializing
in
revolt…
NO
OTHER
FORM
OF
SOCIAL
THERAPY,
I
AM
SPECIALIZING
IN
REVOLT
NO
OTHER
FORM
OF
SOCIAL
REBIRTH.
Theorem 4
DONE-IT-AGAIN
was at it again…
missed
his pregnant mama with a bullet.
Then
police swarmed the streets, and they were all confused and stranded on those
bullet avenues with other overseers of his plastic biology…like officer
friendly, with his robot uniform.
And
DONE-IT-AGAIN was cheering his desperate perfume, he done narrowly survived. He
was hailed a bootlicker – at that clearing on the edge of a tangled city rock,
at the edge of a world in a glass. He became that new nigger, elfish and
bowlegged, hopping on a busted leg. His mother was a slave-breeding muse and
his father rusted his bones on troubles.
DONE-IT-AGAIN
staggered and said: ‘ask me about teenage suicides and other unspoken
genocides…
Like
how nations are killed with pesticides and how a hero’s birthday is celebrated
with massacres of infants’.
He
traveled widely among them pocket bureaucrats, among charity museums, among
imprisoned leaders and peasants on truck-loads of fire, noosing his neck like a
stick on a coward’s arm…
He
huddled a hit and run pistol, his shadow hollowing in sounds of his
wheel-burrow bosom filled with revenge.
He
remembered; He touched down, all crushed and craving death. DEATH waited at an
intersection where ordered soldiers decapitated him, his head displayed on
postcards sent back home to sweethearts allowed a love who supported shackles.
He
touched down, crushed and beat…and death was black in the veins of this feature
fool; an option-less fellow…yielding to nothing in the heat-blizzards of
straight-jacket individualism.
He
lay on a wall paging through a Martian bible…we later discovered that he was
massacred through the stomach and through other scourges of the black
holocaust, like destitution, suicidal family systems, the immobility of the
ghetto and the present-day death-count inflicted by aids.
Picks
and spades redefined this new nigger…like DONE-IT-AGAIN cursing clans of
proselytes lamenting jesus’ anthems in the frail hope of flameless sleep. He
sensed their fear of dreams, of death or the dying aims of life.
He was a new
nigger.…
He
put
on
a
steel-make
smile
and
kept
on
the
ground,
with
his
skin
stretched
over
his
palms.
DIARY WITH THE WILD TOMATOES
A cast moon
So bulged and cold
Touched the antechamber to my resolve
From this here narrow horizon…
A blaze lingered
Upon its brow –
A simmer of eyes
That art my own.
They pleaded with me
to carry that coffin.
Caged therewith, was the carrion of
spider-queen
Awaiting her repose
To own
And candidate.
How long
Longer too
I need two so hours.
Instead
Of handling them back.
Now
like
Synthetic flakes.
Gift-wrapped.
Across floods -
Hatched fields
Of water,
Who
Occupied
A fear of dreams
to end death.
He sleeps sweetly
In the safe-wing of tosses.
In the colonnade
All doors suddenly swung open.
The wall bears a glare of ghastly
wounds.
In this room of age –
The un-forgiven dusk poses for land and
Bites a chunk of the forest.
In this room
Light never steps outside.
In this blind-fold
I could see through…
the walls weeping,
Till poison started seeping from scabs.
Water mingled with brass rusty looking
floods,
Rising to drown the light
Who should have stepped outside.
And
Man’s desire
To call himself
By the names of things
He made,
How god-like.
He orders
The slaughter
Of fallen boys;
Fitly dealing
Nature‘s analogues
waiting a-tuned.
This consigned final sigh
Weaved in the fateful
Action of piety
Art long refutable
For a self-torture,
Like
A graven image cut into my palms.
It talks my dreams to shreds,
Darkly against the sun
That in death
I’d return
To wage my war against
A life of not living.
Fringes of folded skin
Glaring from behind the skull
I fiddle with the crevices
Warmer than the shadows of any deepest
hide.
I stood
Pleading with this impermanent feature
Saying:
Tomb
Bend to the wind my sob.
And a hung bird
Bickering at the still eyes of an oxbow
Faceless bones that plod on.
Wind-cut flesh.
Of yet another fathomed prey
I was.
With mildly examined terrains of
distemper.
At the lips of a well
Where
Fertile cross-roads disperse
Into a forest thick…
The hunter is crowned
With sticks.
And children come forth
Into that shelter of vultures
Like birds who fed on stones
To be scotched, bitterly
By the fire
Devouring the rocks.
In the frailty of hatred,
The hunter heads out,
Leaving ravages
Behind his rear
Toward a shrub density of that
Thick up ahead.
With that magic grip
Folded shut
Behind its walls
of frozen time,
Mute-hood swung;
Stroking bitterly
With dangling tongues.
Tongues caged
In toothless carcasses of goat-heads.
Then
Trailing in blood,
The hunter,
His rear
Is wrapped in the shroud of the forest.
Surely there is life and death, or
flying is like falling or gripping the winds.
When earth sprung forth
by the sun’s loins,
her caverns filled with vultures
and the seeds of longing.
The vein spread forth
into a tree,
so above and so the root,
that the crystals of birth
could linger in the sand
voicing their wait for a re-birth.
Life is the desire to know death.
A dead man can’t brave no longer the
adverse hell of no flame.
When the mind shook,
With pity for a past upon its helms,
How can the self
Be worth more
Than to die
Even by own hand?
Headless drummers
With
Voices hidden
In the wood,
Rattled bones.
Black dust, and
Rising,
For that hanging of a hunter.
For the ribald and unruly clamor of his
concealed tenants.
Flickers of ambers and
Sparks of edgeless fires
From long ago
Froze in a night,
Sky poisonously creeping on
The blurred fall of a wavered leaf.
She dreams
She is sickly
And alone.
She’s mother
To grief’s children.
She yearns
To erode the sand
From her palm.
Like the shores carving patterns of
their retreat…
With waves of tear-bagged mist; What of
her chapped lip
Boiling with salted sores?
The yearn
To will the most dense sweat to nourish
a stricken belly
From the waist,
Up to the waning breast…
A blind eye
Gasps for silk-light
That is shed upon skeletons proclaiming
a paradise for rootless feet.
With a collection of starved librarian
trends,
Wrapped in mud and the powdered lips of
a night’s wind,
The ghost children
Their radiant faces blush with
intoxication
and the stifling fumes of their
religions.
At that church of bigots,
Medieval breaths were gradually reduced
On a down-hill run…
Lidless eyes offered large expanses;
Stained with commandments
Of a narrow man,
Whose head is filled with parasites.
With octane lips and gleaming fists of
the tar-wand,
The magic machine kept bowing its
deceit
in the immense tragedy of attention.
Theorem 5
At
the
Fowl
remains of my life’s poem
Fleshless
and head-spun
by
the whirling pillars of waking…
Mountains
reclined
Within
the rampart stupor of birth
Whence
treasures wrung their vowels around the rays
of
the twin-sun.
I
salvaged poison from the brain of a drunk, faceless monkey battling a drift
into a dead-man’s dream. The dead-man was I, whence I’d recaptured my
skull-wood and shaped it gain to reconcile myself with the longing for the wild
loops of mechanical absurdity.
Sweeping
beneath the dragon of our flight, we touched down to hug the ground after
finding our pain too tame to inflict on others.
Concerned
solely with the threats of a second-death, we wasted no time on digging for
golden ruins or storing blunt-ended pencils and other ammunition. We, instead
were trafficking with dreams and blue-prints of revolt. With ancient vapors
tearing ether like wails from Gillespie, and the idea was our id from these
ghetto laboratories of social detoxification.
Trudge
on a concrete sea.
Captain
of the sun-ship on the horizon’s blade, tears a cigarette from his ghost-lip….
Thunder’s
renown for rain tearing the gory sea; the storm nigh.
Lazarus
wing-flaps his tongue in archangel tones; commands of caution carousing the
chambers…
Over
the vast pond in silent reflection…
Oarsmen
returning from landscapes of insobriety, as of last night…when the ship had
burned a hole in its belly.
Every
strength held - marbled ligaments unclamping war when he imploded his heart… calling
out to the sea’s pits, unto his son’s sleep, and other bait taken in impeccable
chivalry.
The
murky waves were writhing;
For
they’d swallowed a sarcophagus of other heels…
Those
that treaded the underworld.
This
wreck…now a morgue of dreams, cramped other demon strata wailing at their
innocence…
Glib-
gab before saying goodbye to his tomb, the captain crucifies his deck with
fire…
Snares
with his rear eye unto the maw;
Paradise
was that which he had left for vultures.
Gulls
towering above - the stark band behind the snail waiting patiently
The
hour of death’s birth…
Lazarus
cringing; a stallion and a serpent at horns.
Light
charring his veins – furious lightning in the panic of darkness;
The
waves crashing…
The
sea swallowing more wounds
As
panic snaked in the eyes of those who survived.
Salts
of muscle molten…
The
wash of a rising water cliff;
Panic
for the wounded…
Every
breath wormed out of alarm.
No
light- Just odors of composure
On
the ghost ship, the curtain of souls rent by the rough.
The
ghost ship flirting with disaster…
Zadkiel’s
drowned sarcophagus with deaf faces staring at the scabs leeched on the
captain’s forehead.
He
was blinded by steel blood;
Tyranny
his soul’s immaculate reward.
To
his wife a ballad he hums –
The
sun-ship drowning the wrecked skeletons…
In
the corners of their eyes, the reaches of death’s fright.
This
womb’s night never ceases –
The
work of age calling his children to his fore-brow.
Faith
was hanging on a tree –
He
hummed, as shadows cleaved fangs into the corpse of his oarsmen.
Why
watch this with sulphur in the yes?
Longer
with wet breath writhing in inner currents of hatred – A hatred for the self
Who
loved so that loss would leave a swine’s lick on his blizzard sores.
He
recalls himself skinned out of his mother –
The
seeds he threw into the ocean, and
The
lure of death by water…
He
assassinated his eyes on this platform of the sun-less…
A
heap of rope laying sordid upon a block of wood.
His
monsters cannot sleep,
Under
solemn stars in travail when light was with others…
Descending
through the tempest of his imagining.
And
Lazarus sends records through his pacing eyes – to drowsy lovers and dwarfed
hearts with scum as their ware.
The
stern rising settling the pinnacle hold…
The
sea not listening to the passing of a drone.
Death
tempting the night,
Arms
naughted in harm of seeking air.
Some
fall of wills upon the stormy sea…
The
web over a wreck, thundered as
A
captain folds dying without a love of ends.
Electric
storm whipping the illusive day over the clime of roars…
Tundra
looming as no safe lands,
just
wild, calm confident of any approach.
Passing
time of wretched laments
Bagged
with light he fathomed tunneled ,
A
shaft of turbulence –
Fueled
by soul-struggles to untangle themselves from the metal.
He
whispers love’s final sigh unto an estranged life -
A
leper messiah with bleeding claws at his ankles.
Friends
drank to his death elsewhere,
He
kept the hope…
Devil
Company when stupor would be roused…
A
magician’s ray leaving twinkles on shrubs of his cowered mind.
He
sees light outside his bones
Further
retreating from the speed of a sink…
Time
waiting in the deep; many-tongued despair of
Sea-weed
ghosts camouflaged in the shimmer of other shells…
What
rosy fish in his sockets?
At
worship posture rippling with beads of vapor…
He
was held up in this abyss,
Paddled
with forgotten trunks that dealt with the god of water
In
the burrows of a tirade mystery.
Leaving Now.
The beast found mortality’s claw
Plied with morgue spills, and
Dry slumbers into a rogue breath dearth…
Wall-coffin peels its eye,
Suffocates chance’s wounds, and
Pours ears raw;
Rivers at midnight of widow-flames await
The speed of chewed sweat
Acid-poked sunset cast upon a watery hearse
Playing with shut scriptures of life’s
abyss.
A Letter dated 16 June 1976 (continued)
Tin-corpses freed unto surveillance’s zone
de-mined,
Bony shacks stapled to dung creeds;
Homicidal bravado grails adangle
As red flushed in hurricanes sewer-sloshed.
Wound parade of ashen breeds
Molten at curtained dawn of murder’s seeds,
Withering flesh in death labs;
Masquerading blindness with minced lids –
Butcher-breath stinging
As mutehood blisters throats…
Pigments of the shamed
Tumoured for puss hills.
Rebellion’s route contraflowed
Piles of riot discharged
Sermons excreting cranial libation
Barged towards putrid vaults of memory.
Epistle mirage of polished upheavals
Tegumentally fleecing the Kains;
Coin leeches as education’s brigade
Reconciled with abortives toil born.
Brace of our path’s tentacles
Fossilized strung on our hospitable
cowards;
Panged with steel-toed penitentiary’s
myth,
Unruffled by our throats’ posterity
vanquished.
Birth’s corpse a totem vile victory
Perfumed with poverty nestled in implosive
death’s
Chorale in freedom’s mourning sling-vocals;
Bowels historical in claws of dust
cannibals.
Brain streaks of famine’s zeal
powder-teared,
Entrails on infants soles upon thrones of
shrills;
Fluid bustle of men fashioned of gore,
The pottery of skulls sweetly stewed
bestial.
Tongue-sky slanted over skin-town,
Nameless roars hummed through anorexic
tripes…
Sleepy torrents broken in dreams of
strife’s
Orange-bright machine sunset poking the
concrete bindings of plight.
Inebriation’s theatres brim liberty’s
dilapidated walls,
Brawls hoodwinked past the pinning night;
Age-wells of abandoned moments hurtled for
vengeance…
The dead dictum of our pallid ashen
fathers amitotic.
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