kagablog

DIARY WITH THE WILD TOMATOES

Mud’s cultivation of detachment from this nature – the objective - rendered most symbols of nature inherently as too banal for its observation and scrutiny. This exaggerated its disdain for any means of finding Truth in this coded dung called Human. But memory, being nectar for souls, Eye weighed the scales of terrains traversed upon pages and bladed mind-dead according to paralysis of language - The scourge, the impulsion towards sorrow of truth becoming his sole purpose for transmitting all in rightful accordance to metaphors conned for faintly eyes of common-sensitivities.

Those consigned final sighs
Weaved in fateful
Actions of piety,
Art long refutable
For a self-torture,
Like a graven image
Cut into my palms.

They talk my dreams to shreds,
Darkly against the sun
That in death
I’d return to wage my war against a life of not living.

Mud wiggled a dance past a bright and waded tripping in magic armor of his dream-machine, and the millionth star-side hungry for a scene waits, for He will mundanely cower thereto, resonantly the silence humming along with the dirge for his soul.
A prophet sprung from the self-same experimental user device he wore… which was the worst curse he would re-die or re-kill extracting verses from milky walls…piled mind’s gallows putrid with human sweat and peeled nails scavenging city-microbes.

They pleaded with me
To carry that coffin.
Caged there-within, carrion of spider-queens
Awaiting reposes
To own
And candidate.
How long
Longer too
I need two so hours.
Instead
Of handling them back.

He chorales a mess of instincts wrought in him through slave nurture, fears of enclosures like plantations… perhaps the eventual homosexualization of the black male. After tropes of years in emasculation’s chambers, how he’d find solace among those for whom he lost manhood? How was he to father sons lost with ashes and smoke of freedom’s war brigade?

I recall how most of my initial friends were fathering siblings when mothers were held up in toils for vain masters’ dawning guilt. The liberal kind who’d allow for stolen cups of sugar and stale bread… weaned out cakes for our birthdays… clothed in stench of white fart. Mother’s jaws ever taut in shame of how we saw her absences and less of the fathers’ who yeasted our brew into life. Mother became that muse of his fetished womanhood; and many seek still for her kind, others loathe her repellent dismay for their well-loved fathers. Men…men who saw matricide as method of atoning patriarchal sins un-judged by raging eyes of oedipal seeds. Women who sought patricide’s palms to avenge death blows gnashing their bellies. The hatred we versed towards them, our women – baked with jaded memoirs of childhood having found target; a peace salvaged in blame extolled from guilt… guilt for less wealth, and menial travails of tenure in fields of pain’s unhindered pleasures. It was that which blazed in their gazes too well to shame us.
She had borne him unto a birth in a household of women, an anomaly born for scorn. The growl of tripe with every step wrings guts, acid bile cloak on throats’ silk; we watch mothers coal swine hide on sizzling logs and see suffrage’s goal-automaton crania in reprisal mode.
Hordes of hunger strikers merchandising with all assortments of gore, blue manes on whores starched into horrors of tries; children mazed in by legs in chase of will’s home slipping over washed-out blood oiled on puddles of city urinals glistening on corrugated zinc walls. He spits out the smell brawled in his mouth and excuses the act with a fatuitous wave of a despondent arm. He suffers a taste of dreams’ death, ever corpses mounting with buds’ lick on hell’s crotch - a dead crotch for a manhood with surplus demands.

The poet recalls his mother herding at nineteen that winter of freedom’s first birth child. Minions were said to have died. Some fatherless, some mothered by wolves and daughters with howling lusts for shimmering objects born with twinkling eyes.

Mother.

She dreams
She is sickly
And alone.

She’s mother
To grief’s children.

She yearns
To erode sand
From her palms.

Like shores carving patterns of retreat…

With waves of tear-bagged mist; what of her chapped lips
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…

He wants to die… but first, when death born crippled unto life approaches the divine and asks: Why hath thee made me?
(In the fashions of mortal birth?).
Says the omniscient: That Eye’d cease to be – in this unbearable immensity of Being.
And death was confused. He thus asked keenly: How doeth Eye end that which birthed itself?