kagablog

Theorem 2

A body harvests through rain-sticks – soberly.
Beards hooked with tadpoles spasmodic with every strut and others thrown under,
Unto the pool…
Like electric tentacles into cracks of arid concrete slabs.
Then, it’s him and the wall
for graffiti(e) assaults…
Him and the wall.

ROCK-ACTION WAS THE NAME,
He came cuffed to hounds of his junk-appetite;
His return from word prison-rites was harsh, like that congestive fix of pure marijuana charring dread-filled lungs, weaning 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 recycle fangled leftovers of desolate sons of this mannequin city.

He was that straight-jacket 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 poisons 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 of defiance and sprayed mental stamina -
THAT HE’S THE SLUM.

HE BE WRINGING BARBED 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 drowned wails of blue-faces, sacked literature lay 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(e) 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 ruins for coal inventions.
And as his night prolongs the jam on that bridge to both ways; neon-pleasure breathing a fetid cloud against smiles of his adventures.
ROCK-ACTION is the name, and he came cuffed to the hounds of his junk-appetite.
It was him and the wall…him and the wall of graffiti(e) 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,
silvery kitchen slaves were being 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.

IT’S HIM AND THE WALL
ROCK-ACTION WAS THE NAME, he came cuffed to hounds of his junk-appetite.

He was returned, he was returned to recycle the fangled leftovers of 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 me.

The myriad outside had gathered balls and friendly legs chained to some social contracts their fathers bandaged as gifts. Rains deterred none, sense mattered not in rooms of vile gnomes… yes, freedom attained through suffrage sufficed for them.

Their awareness of freedom depended on a pail of rights; this, their mothers having raised serpents for fathers thumping metal in mysterious absences dug earth-ward.
Over brown mother’s murky wash on an ulcer, he wades fanning blades of night-air; roots of its lights bent within walls and corners crashing official. Mysterious names ran amok exacting origins of roads – the streets – oblivious to destinations. Holy lands unknown to his heels waited patiently for all, brimmed with baggage on aimless slopes – looking sparkled with hellish stars taken eyes.
The poets there, at a zenith of their pestilential squalor, beardless mendicants they were, who drilled into their eyes an effusion of brotherly melancholy. An appalling effervescence fermented in slums of literature-crowns… men who spawned courage against insolent blizzards and assassinated mate-graves. Stunted scents of waste are oozing from these trenchermen with militant palms noosing rabid pens. Mirages in oncoming lights; wanton drivers on pale roads among industrial warehouses… the poet is opposing a capricious nag of wear – perfectly watching his strides with the flogging storm deflating his ego. He thinks wet thoughts, bracing for the face new in his son… aglow in his, regulating his breath to heaves flattened by a swelling heart.
The woman he scraped for womb donations tending after his – my wan son no-one would show the divine; he recalls and celebrates.
Paradoxical though it was that they would never raise a child together, he held the sky’s hope on this… that one day the child would find a father.
He walks slowly… thinks into balls numb ideas of freedom. He’s soaked; pellets of rain whipping his face… the debt of life forcing a charge forward.

He trots beyond the wear on his thighs, inebriation’s strides taken weight upon his soles dust-kissed.
And yes, he was being buried as he spoke with his insides coaxing deliberations on his earth-journey. All valid rescues he assumed abound him were those that blinded him.

He waits the choke of city air awhile, ranges for peril’s reside standing erect still. Ambiguous odors fogging routes of head-lit automobiles. Tarmac’s breath struggling in mist injections, puffs of sheets coldly rising to embrace the coming. Rancid work-mates join queues toward nearby veins of departures… menial slunk heads studying the concrete’s eternal dream. There, he suddenly grinds his eyes on another of the street’s lessons…