A Proverb Is Not A Promise

Oh but Confucius was wrong. Life is not simple and we did not make it complicated. We as in the debtors of this world and the situation we found ourselves in on arrival. Almost everything is chance and timing. An unearned providence. The will of the free is the slave of choice. A long hope is the length of a day times the width of perspective. Some will wait untill the mouth of reason yearns to feed that stretched out and guilty hand of reality. And breathe out the future we rolled the dice to inherit, when their nose of indifference has swallowed up the fragrance of time to drown out the noise of our silent tears stretched across the canvas of our fate. Such violence was born of light returned to sender and unclaimed. Crown your eyes with the love of priceless things and count the cost backwards.

 

 

Two Years

A tower on fire burning lung after the flames were put out and the blood cries out. No Cain at the site of the murder. No justice. Just us. Souls taken up higher than the smoke, fly down to watch the mourners arise to a new day with their heads held up by rage and despair, and hearts bowed down and bowled over by the agony and incredulity of what happened. What really did happen?

We who knew the dead watched the conversation turn to the custody of the truth and the enquiry about the meaning of an event that forever changed the world of those who were loved and unloved in life, death and the afterlife. An afterthought in the aftermath, is the price of life that is haggled in the courtroom. Payment for the life of the dead, is a future for the children of Grenfell. But is it money? Or is it the mercy of confession? A courtroom of lies still engulfs the air, we share breathing space in the now. Two years dead and burried, yet the living have not the forecast of rest. And God be judge of the classified red ink on white papers.

 

Remnant

Broadcast news: Woolworths survives in the lined pages of an unwilling Tree that was killed without ceremony, and awaits the trespassing rivers of ink which carry the translated language of the invisible world to tell us something we already know but do not yet recognise.

Brands die. Words live the virtuous lie of fictional truth and tell the tale. Brands lie. Words live the truth of satirical life, more familiar than what we ought to know.

Prostrated swine spreads apart from fortune’s pearls of favour. Belly hanging low. Back facing up to the submissive Sun, teasing the promise of the kill.

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I Never Killed Time

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.fb_img_1480804813952

Begging To Differ

“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.

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20 Minds Late

Past, pretense and future hindsight dares you to pontificate on your escape, they’ll point if she caters to your fate, and ask whose burying the next round, and when do you return from delusion to find that you are twenty minds late? But you ask as if the answer lies in the knowing, when love lives in the dying, yet still you are young in the grey of years past to believe that your vision and my survival are dependent on each other, like a Teller bound to a story unfolding with the falling and rising of eye lids, opening revelations and shutting down imagination’s excesses, banished to the kingdom of Sleep, unchartered chapters of mystical and mortal men’s premature strides, running like percussion through dark forrest into the cycle of death, birth and bastardisation, where beginners and old masters are disowned and abandoned by the twisted night to be discovered by the creased morning of wall scaling daylight dreams, pressed into purposeful and pleasurable copulation, the greatest sex they ever had felt like dying and being born at the same time, and yet she never touched him, fifteen minds before he fell from her grace into your bed and out of my heart, transfigured into the maroon shadow that haunts our love’s memory.
We were merely the reflection of consequences put into place, tall before our eyes first met, unmatched in the first desire of seductive impression, and ten minds before I drank in the light of her archaic beauty, and with mine eyes seeing the glory, and ceasing the moment, painted her on the fragile canvas of my soul, I stole a solitary glance and whisper of her breath from the air we shared, inhaled deep into hungry lungs that devoured it like a secret to hide from evil relatives, the envious paws of strutting organs that sought her for themselves. What the heart wants, when the liver needs, her beauty and my kidneys tangled, tussled up, cries of triumphant oratory for down strokes that reach further than vocabulary allows, vying for her attention, detained by my intent. Everything is in her, and everything that she exudes raises the stakes and cuts through the drift that my thoughts float on, my impulse finds itself in a maze with courage and it’s stomach locked out with fear of what awaits above the trenches, outside of first and second skin, the surgical dissection of my emotions turn from blood to the colour purple, and my hand reaches out again to be met with indifference and a smile worn back to front, five minds before she stood infront of me without a face, to be written into existence and drawn with experience, who she never was, to be, yet to be, lost loved, a travelling mystery through time on the grand tour of life, her hair long as eternity with strands swept off her head by the wind onto her shoulders, and further up to the ground beneath my clay feet of hope that she would find my unwritten face, and tell my fast, tense and determined future in her sight….

Point To The Blank

Barbed wired thoughts flash by brawling eyes, lashed out of corners where peripheral visions can’t square. Looking at you watching me out of the window of your curiosity, didn’t change my perception of us. How strange it is to be unfamiliar in full view of the fixed gaze that found you on the doorstep of my desperation. I couldn’t let you in without letting me out. The fear holds the key, and yet you are the lock that masters the men of big ideas in persecuted ink. Pages worn as they are written,
hung as they are drawn turn to resentment on crowned heads, brow beaten, broken tongue, lick shot of truth slivers out, the saliva trail from mouth to mouth, resuscitates the hopeful bird of song you were, refined in denial, relief in the miles of love lost in an unkissed moment. A subliminal crime of passion parades on the front cover of your second face, a masked conceit blinds like the light of darkness, when the shades that hid your cool, collide into your assurance, slide the glint out of its tinted lens, into the haze, the fog, the drift, the cold of London and the inevitable. Change the key. Or break the lock.

Words Dance