Sainted night. Pablo’s streets are wise to the cold. Awake to the lights that stalk our shadows. Not a soul to sell. Peepers shut up shop too. I made merry with the easy lay of Death’s past. We jumped over jargon. Word weary on the dry eye. Trouble likes to talk. Leg of lamb awaits the victor. Laid down in your head for a little while. Tried to find you. Pull your straps up, when your done eating the remains of the day. It might be for Balletic fools gold, that the poor courier tarrys long. Easy going as you lay your head on the pillow of song that is cast out of her like the gloom. Night in shining armour, you’ll tempt the morning out of her when she sees you. Hands free. Wired up to Heaven.
She bends her head to turn your neck. She bows before the less words said.
She knows the room number to your heart but they don’t make keys to open the locked up masters of men.
Swivel, drivel, jab step to the plexus. She mastered men but her heart won’t set her free. She serves three gods who kill her lovers with religious guilt. Butter wouldn’t melt on the little Petal’s tongue. Water knows best so she just stays there. Waiting to die again.
She says living is easy, just let her die where her tears won’t be as long as lonely. Let that Water drink her up. Water knows best.
These are mournful layers, meandering into a continuum of hopelessness. Its every slight. Every jibe. Every set of twin babies and Albinos murdered by mysticism’s goons. Its every lynching. Its every invisible scream on mute that longs to be rid of the melanated skin that drinks in the light of condemnation. Staccato strings speak on it. Of it. Through it. Every ancient utterance that put the hex on the embryonic slave with umbilical manacles that blood follows into the blue lit world. Its the three fifths unamended. Its the pretension of belonging. Its the vacant eyes after the bullet has rested in the hell of the black bodied horror of existence that is burdened by the kick drum of a haunted heart beat. Its the past, present and future damnation. Its the complicity of spirits at the table of human systems with monolithic consequences.
Bring in the Garrison and hold down the fort. Hold that thought while McCoy takes flight. John knows his way in through the back door, and Elvin’s cooking soul food ’round midnight. Anchor the heart that beats in time, the rage of mad men who curve the line, five four, who mend the wings of broken dreams, not gods or monsters, but sacred sinners who swing five for love between the marrow.
Angles. Vantage points. Optics. Optical illusions. Stories. Long and short. Novelistic. Masochistic pity party. Earnest idealism. Somebody know’s best and yet everybody lies. Everybody. Lies. Sooth sayers. Truth tellers. Solutionless roar. Mouth feeder’s biting hands that shut mouths without hearing the scream of liberty. Indigenous indignity. Smothers. Murdafunker. Tricksy. Precious. Made up words like love. And Multi-furious. How evol it can be when spelt forwards and spoken like you didn’t know it’s power of posession. To be owned by words. A privilege. A curse like tradition. The village idiot knew better too. The palm wine drunkard was a cleaner version of cultural propaganda. Hypocrisy is a chameleon and I ride her like the Horse charging through a river of bullsweat. Heads up. Dethroned. Decapitated populas peepers. Mass confusion constructions. Sturdy bed with long legs. Voluptuous dreams sleep on the bottom bunk. Overpopulated.
Like daylight on wings, a year has passed. Facebook didn’t bake me a Cake but its cool. A lot of small deaths have happened since that day. Usually the face stays the same but I find that the neck changes. Oh and I’ve discovered more strands of grey amidst new faces and adopted words. There have been a lot of changes in relative terms and even my own eyes have concealed pertinent things from me when its been necessary to do so. The main thing about the passing year is where I find myself in my ongoing story. I’m happy to say that after a year, a deep wound has healed. The dressing is finally off, and the emotional scar matches the one on my forehead. Its distinctive but not too big. I can’t say for sure that time rubbed the salt in it. Time and I don’t have that type of relationship. Its hands off and head up. I’d say living has a lot to do with the choice one makes to dig a grave or dig the foundation on which to rebuild after the fire which has all but consumed the life behind the projected image that is perceived by everything that leans against it. Long sentences be damned and sentenced to death but not so easily. Death is as passionate as life, but its not as picky. The meat and potatoes of life is first you do what you must to survive. Then once that mountain has been conquered, you do what you must to protect your heart (your love). Then you live forward. By limp, or by crawl. If the back is bent, and that hump is conspiring to keep you down, then you find something to hold you up and steady. Then you walk. In time you may run again, and flying isn’t as far gone an idea if you can pick up speed. Love is a kind of regal audacity. The lighter the load on the heart, the heavier the love. I’d like to believe that I still have the capacity for the heavy love that knew no boundaries. Once was. To see. Once again. To be.
Track 9 sounds like trauma passed down Atlantic waters, translated in generations (deep waters are shallow too) by the ignoble scribe. Sounds like holocaust left overs compressed into psychic muscle memory. And the denial is also in the DNA. It sounds like guilt and complicity, because when you suffer long enough you forget that you were once innocent, until you pass by the time that passes by the mind’s eye and come to find that you were never so pure. Holy water flushes your insatiable appetite’s indulgence down to sewage glamour. Survival tastes good when your hungry to exist. The years have had you fooled in the fix of first impressions and belly butterflies. You were born old. You harbour generations (shallow waters hold secrets just as full as fear’s skeletal bones). It’s the itch you can’t scratch off your skin that seemingly condemns you in the reflected gaze of the beholder that holds your imagination captive. Now if only you were born young….Maybe the hump wouldn’t sound so steep. And generations of blood forced out of flesh, left without the host of a body to call their own, might take refuge in the agony and misery and pain projected and regurgitated, in your walking vegitated, agitated, itching, scratching, sloganeering, facade of pride, you are still a conversion in progress. A baptism of unspeakable things. A revolting revolution of ideas. You are upside down and inside out obviously. And you are not on a road or a river. You areally a floating gestation, gesticulating in the clumsy circus act of the affairs of the heart. Traumatic as hoarded desires. What you want might free you. It might kill you too if you weren’t already dead as the night. Black as the opposite. Night as the brightness of attractive opposites. Repeating words like mistakes, like lives repeating, mistakes like words that oppose what is being said, meaning and metre, timbre and diction, tonality and terror, black as light hidden in misread signals, come hither, black knight as white as right that rides a pale horse into the dark night, homeless night, lonesome night, thoughtful fears of what that night could be for us on the otherside of mourning.
“The paradox of education is precisely this – that as one begins to become conscious, one begins to examine the society in which he is being educated.”
– James Baldwin
Get the picture? Which one? The image projected? A thousand words have tried where pictures stayed silent. Lips have been sealed for the greater ‘good’. Sir Truth and his unaltered ego is a serial killer. A knight of the relm, for sure. If agendas were as conservative as esoteric knowledge, would you be as equiliberal as Apathy desires? Or impure as tradition on its hands and knees? Cleaning your rented body with the dirt of the soiled soul. Begging to differ (I beg you not to defer). And would I be walking words in riddles? Wondering how loud must a picture speak to gain the attention of our indoctrinated subconscious? A fast learner. And how violently must silence scream to escape our hash tags imprisoned in the moment, like puppies to be hushed, sucked up suckers, straw men drawn up to be quatered when the revolution falls off its white Horse? Hung long as the tree that holds up the neck by the rope. Long as the distance between the horizon and haughty eyes yet to awaken and wink. Long as black death and wide as blue Ocean before its tides turn the honey Moon. Death has a name too, but we don’t know it yet. Long as yesterday when the shorts fit. Almost as long as today, and the toil between the moods of the Sun. Love labours in the vein of what you think you know and how little you have learnt in your textbooks on contexture. Thats not a word, and yet it is the home of every word abandoned in the ramble of questions. Homeless. Stateless patriots for the cult of I. Confounded. Who finds it.
Void can not be filled by roid. Ster…stare at the distant Star as he fades from your expectations and hopes of one more. Brute strength can’t confine beauty to the baseline. Move in. Half volley. Or invent. Create tomorrow right now. Create eternity. Then when you are tired, go as you came to us, with love received as was given.
Fumbling treasures, we are wreckless, wild, word to the wicked. But if a child is a father of the man, there is hope of mouth to heart resuscitation. Cross words, quized and crossed out of bridges built and belted out of the mouth of babies.
Love on the hope lines drawn on calloused hands. And no Island is a man. Womb for rent. Love for sale. For free? Hate off the scale. Weighed. Expensive cake. We’ll eat it too.
Dingling. Dangle. When you choose to. When you unlearn to love. When you see how you kill your child everytime you kill me. Unborn. Unknown. When you see. And no man is an Island but he is seed to be planted. Where will your hate plant me so that I might flourish and grow down and strong enough to eat your children’s children? Dead or alive. Unlearn to love you. So deeply. That I might find you. Embrace you. Twist you. Turn you. Stir your eyes to acknowledge my death as I stare at the prize. Blood cries out. Abel holds the cain now. The dead are hungry too.