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.

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.

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.

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

Day Twenty...

In Soweto

I arrive early from Fochville, and would have to call people for a place to crash. I call the head chef, but he has some engagements to attend to. We meet in town for key exchange and I head for a solitary at his room… I am tired and sleepy. I think time out is essential for this first nothing I will endeavor in this township. The chorale melancholy of ghetto streets hums in the rain… echoes of a gamble with life resounds, not entirely bordered by swamps of friends, the greeting and queries about my whereabouts. I am at a piety of will. It is the twentieth day of my departures… the rains drizzles coldly, it’s whispers curling abound my spine in chills before I decide to go rest. Later a tease of hail on the roof; what a joy reading John Donne when thoughts are stars in my soul.

“Drowned the whole world, us two…” I read and recall our two chaoses that were in love with a lesser sun. Inside, a racked carcass, the moist clime of summer’s storm rousing still, a killing love. I awake an hour later, feeling cloistral - heavy with the thought that I might have aged rashly to love’s chaos- with a vain hope for revenge than with due caution. I need to purity my aging Adam, with a virtue that would dwell in me as I pursue the sun’s route.

A poet is one who is (ready) prepared for death, for no sin’s mortal.

Day Nineteen...

Love has reversed the normal process of alchemy by working to produce more intense degrees of negativeness, so as to arrive at an elixir of death or of nothing.

Day Eighteen...

Love’s Diet

The diet of love is a dying man’s concern,

- a sigh beguiling
- her eyes light’s life.
- sleep’s weak flashes and dropsically a thirst…
- balm from a dying body drained from his back;
- Life squibs that sap via feet of his bed.

And stars that store gunpowder for nocturnal trivia;
Stars not by the sun enlarged, but shown.

Day Seventeen...

When weather-beaten I come back; my hand
Perhaps with rude oars torn, or sun-beams tanned,
My face and breast of haircloth, and my head
With care’s rash sudden hoariness o’erspread,
My body a sack of bones, broken within,
And powder’s blue stains scattered on my skin;
If rival fools tax thee to have loved a man,
So foul, and coarse, as oh, I may seem then,
This shall say what I was: and thou shall say,
Do his hurts reach me? Doth my worth decay?
Or do they reach his judging mind, that he
Should now love less, what he did love to see?
That which in him was fair and delicate,
Was but the milk, which in love’s childish state
Did nurse it; who now is grown strong enough
To feed on that, which to disused tastes seem tough.

John Donne – Elegy 5

Day Sixteen

His Picture

Here take my picture, though I bid farewell;
Thine in my heart, where my soul dwells, shall dwell.
'Tis like me now, but I dead, 'twill be more
When we are shadows both, than 'twas before.

Day Fifteen...

Day Fourteen...