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
seethedfrom 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 monsterin various names of god,and to the
carcass of a factitious race known for morbid things…
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.
Logic has failed to
surmount my urban politics, 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 cerebralcatalysts 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.
Under this whiplash
protocol, restless breeders they label our mothers; gross and casual sexual-imprudence
is the metaphor in theses 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 some twenty years of freedom’s hollow body.
And my mother was mauled by dogswhile 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 ought
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,
Into stagnant pools…
Like electric
tentacles into the cracks of arid concrete slabs.
It’shim and the wall
for graffiti and other assaults…
Him and the wall.
Rockshin 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 recyclethe
fangled leftovers of the desolate sons of this mannequin city.
He was that straightjacket
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’ll be wringing
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 and other
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 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.
Rockshin is the name,
and he came cuffed to the hounds of his junk-appetite.
It was him and the
walls…him and the walls with graffiti and other 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 oiled throats with stale delicacies
Of narcotic incomprehension and parasites.
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,
Usthe 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
slurpof thinning air,
Resounding from
eternities lucidly like the cries of our mothers?
Ramshackle 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 our 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,
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…NOOTHERFORMOFSOCIALTHERAPY,
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.
(First published by PINESLOPE PUBLISHING)
