kagablog

He reads: theorem 1

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 cold stares of spark-wreathed oceans coagulated abound me. I paste and ink 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…’

And thus seethed from 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 monster in various names of god. And to the carcass of a factitious race known for morbid things, eye says … eye shun your 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 a pedophiles and long files for social grants.

For pure mathematics has failed to surmount enzymatic control over my urban politicism, 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 this 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 cerebral catalysts 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.
In the corners…

Under this whiplash protocol, restless breeders they label our mothers; gross and casual sexual-imprudence is metaphor in thesis 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 ten years of freedom’s hollow body.
And my mother was mauled by dogs while 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 aught 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 are 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… with their contrived orchestra from cracked chests behind 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… and 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?

Unfazed, I watched sandy eyes – necromantic poets salvaging putrid book-poisons…pillars of celebrated crimes giving into lewd norms of exposed women and their humping tantric jubilation in poetic bastardization.
How they lean on any shoulder word-filled, bulged crania bleeding through wet-teeth of serpentine smiles.

I watched them, a sterile soul, tainted gold in the gleam of tungsten, mannequins with feather rears and candle thighs. The violence of their foiled dreams gulping the words, dreams of being a poet’s muse rent to shreds.
False heels wrecking loins of these slum incubators, heavy within black flesh-sacks choked by rations of brews designed for slaves. I knew when blizzards of neon dazes illuminate their cotton brains finally, when night losses its youth; only then would the poet claim that shame art a monster insatiable. ‘And you felt your poem not worth an ear…’ He casts another glance, though filled with grace this time, the mirage of seriousness aside.
The poet stood mesmerized for a while after the recitation, on that platform of vigils with other malignant hopes.
He wondered if he’d die again from the beginning. The words – roaches that spied his blood-clots- were they worth inflicting on these virginal minds? He awaited his alarm, silence laced on all lips; their reveries shrunken, acidly expired into ramparts of expressed hammer-rage. Staged air of intellect, deviations fashioned – genital toxins painting chair streets reptilian.

He felt bled words from his palm carved with some uterine supplication unto the misogynous generation… a digital generation; no schooling necessary here.
They were force-fed ideas in summarized rations over webs trapping story-less books. Lost infants crawling over no lines towards an exodus of minds – masses marching, hording diseased stock… all flaring the vacuum of his chest.
For a while, he was a profligate – responsive to inertia of his beast-lung… a sprout mud-skinned, mocked by sights of possible revelations impending for his final bow in this lime-light. Drooped faces afforded sudden commentaries over his stutters, his new-fangled words desiring deprivations from others… psalms of old rags betokening friendliness from their sorrows. A heraldic misanthrope with an ignominious heart – sunken in nausea of life’s inabilities and death’s acquaintances with joys in life; he beckoned their abysmal attention and they sympathized.
He ceremoniously followed suit, affirming an allegiance to that which he loathed most, this comedy of sorrows sinly plastered on graven lips; their spells and lies divinely incapable of true pain.

He was still at this horridly pretentious scene of the discordant and dejected, word-swords racked on hearts’ walls in blabbers’ debates.

In a climatic room wailed wide the transparent neurosis self-willed, the poet loitered for a short while afterwards… chastised by rage as to why he listened to Lazar. An insatiable gulf his breast had fashioned between him and his peers widened, their sudden laughter reeling within the mood entangled with tragic spells. Their uniform privileges rewarded with hunger poetics paraded for supervening revolution.

Rays of their cowardice ascending with a roaring glee of automobiles. He decides it time to depart this raucous gathering of end and beginnings… collecting his gait ego mechanically towards other streets, those that lead homewards. Looking old as dirt among others from whom he decocted an escape, the poet knew his words had fallen on rocks.

Outside, the poet slows to struts suited for the pelting rains’ blows. He wished to wash stares of all; wishing to be like the stranger he saw twisted by drink staggering into the ballet of cars… traffic towards a possible death.

He recalls that such spectacles are a symptom of gained freedom for most; stupor held away now attained.