kagablog

Lesson 1.

‘You see, new age feminism is a space-dust religion…’Bishop severs the thread of thought I floated with.
‘It’s a religion of wenches steeped in piety seeking superiority.’
‘It is a religion of an outraged under-class… a parcel of machine-gender we slay for their straddled devices – wombs…a labor-breed who can lave monsters with the worth of homage.’

We approached a wall and leaned thereupon to un-nerve the sibilance of his churning skull.

‘It’s a tactic, I say.’ He bellows courageously.
‘A tactic designed for splitting revolutionaries among sects of Black Marys and Afrocentric mannequins.’
‘Our muses in a scientific attraction – freaks on platforms of exhibition…bare-breasted in wrenches of an outlawed race.’
‘It is mass de-womanization masquerading behind panels of uterine cult languages; billboard verbatim used by false romanticists in a consumerist rite…since SEX is a consumer item in the metro-sexual environment.’
‘I tell you, young blood – feminism has always been a reverse chauvinism, symptomic of widows’ grave-digging for fleeces in vacancies that resemble bullet-holes or knife-holes.’
‘It’s a feeble attempt at defacing phallic impunity and other totems of man’s bravado in relics…overrating masculine tongues to decipher their codes and counterfeit the metal force of their labor routines.’

I notice how age had moled into this man’s face furrows that glare as sufficient proof that his truth was his awe, gained through innocence.
‘I say fuck all the women who have the bravery of swines…’
He says this to relinquish the remnant defenses of reason I could not muster; jesting pragmatically about disciplines of woman-kind we so contend with.
‘We made them loath child-bearing, thus our daughters have become accidental sex-toys and sirens used for war ransom.’
Oh seer of subverted concerns…Bishop, how he slunk beside this youth, demeaning all posterities of life. He simmers in noon-sun under a suspicious shade worn in luminescence of smoke-laces awhirl. His eyes bugged by strings of his studded tipped cancer-worm. They amble past candy boxes disguised for drug-stalls, skillfully among hideous solicitous characters at war with hunger. The growling police summon, stuffy drains filling dumps where transporters of human utility align. The poet seems embarrassed to be seen with this shocked pot-head in the ray’s unconsoled smites.
All seemed to adjust to this drained atmosphere – devoid of color. As they reach scanty regions of their residences, less populated, among metal fabrics…frozen buildings…the cowardly poet realizes he needs Bishop more, even after eruption of markets filled with clicking voices of bakers and tripe-chefs.

‘Bishop, you were speaking still.’ The poet sensing dejection felt from his companion begs for more derelict lectures. Or rather, he was the one dejected.
A strange man this Bishop, he kept thinking…it seemed he had at least once nested with wolves who offered their breasts.

‘I was telling you still…about the cheat on my girl. Emphasis on MY GIRL.’ He continues solemnly.
‘The knock…abrupt yes…and this other girl with me freezes. I concealed the stumping of judgment in me…I knew it was her. True that as I opened the door.’
‘She must have possessed some intimate dexterity for occasioning shame. My shame. Perhaps hers as well. And her timing? What amazing penchant for the accusory.’
This narrative was deceptive from the onset… I could tell by lengthy intervals of silence. He seemed to replenish his vault of secrets with other sweeter ones.
‘I mean, there she hermitly stood right aroused to a certain curiosity from my visible stupor…the contrast of will emitted by my brows.
Fuck, in the self-same cage I rented I let her in, the hall empty. The incident awareness of another woman…then, that’s when hail filled marrows.’

‘How violently I watched trembling fabrics of twined womanhood in sanctity of this dream – photographs woven to my staring walls; mist of smoke – thoughts brewing. Was I to cast them both outside…into the night’s brace sheepishly panting in celebrations? I recall it being the day of bridal exhibitions – a women’s night in hammers of my fists. I could well shiver knees hugged for I recalled how I had rescued them now carpeted with relief.’
The riders lonely wade a desert of hearts, dried pits and tempestuous eyes… riders still fused to the back of their horse’s posture.
‘Ride away’ he thought, seeming to darken in plea for a grasp of rapture. Bishop tugs again into his swamp of cigarette buds concealed in a bank-pack zip-sealed with weed… fumes raging through slits and wools of a jacket in tatters; doped greens frothing in odor of cheap half-puffed tobacco.

What other in-between investigations was he spading out of his junk-brain for this poet? Was his fright for this young skull too?

Fingers numbed, slacked folding over cancer phallus, he rasps a query in the midst of coughs and phlegm ingestions: ‘Is this a way to live, man?’ Pointing at the phallus suckled on. ‘This is no way to live I say…dead men don’t live’ He blackens lips dead.
‘I heard that when you are dead…you like, don’t know you’re dead. It’s when only dying – that moment or moments culminating to that fateful occurrence…those are the moments we are aware of. After the fall…I think nobody really knows.’ He rumbles through the plastic hive scattered in pockets. He draws a thought. ‘Would you agree with that?’
‘I heard that you first have like an out of body experience – where you are aware beyond measure the extend of your situation.
Like you die before dying. Not the flesh. Just hovering over yourself outside yourself. Not like sleep though – a death-trance of its own kind in that great modicum of possible deaths.’
‘Like you think you are dreaming, only to find out you can’t return to the space-suite?’

“ Surely there was life and death, or flying was like falling or gripping the winds
when earth sprung forth
by the sun’s loins,
caverns filled with vultures and seeds of longing…”

‘No. No, the question should be, does this imply that suicide amended flaws of living? Does death come as the sole noose towards true freedom? Tasting death out of self?
‘Do you mean death is an experience not for the mineral-physical? That it’s clueless either way?’
‘Would you therefore bear any unspeakable of pain; ransom to commitments of life?’
As we bellowed these normative assumptions of transience in thought, we realized that sorrow can be a function of time…such as the awareness of death is. A function of time perceived through memory. ‘But, isn’t sorrow the sole truth – proof of any freedom gained?’ Bishops further asks.

When did I acquaint myself with such an absurdity of a human; a lobotomized cranium line-faced with pimpled grotesqueness in adult rotundity. Violent misery in his glistening oil skin; bulgy taut with injections of nose-milk, unreflective eyes earthward pinned – a tartly scourge insipidly sapping my brain of its reservoirs… Who was this madness with dulled menace cringed behind digital skeleton’s break?

Figured him an ugling with an unrepentant girl-fear, a swine’s breed…yet he follows them everywhere; a moribund sheep-look at their get togethers sketched upon his face like vomit stains.
He follows their throng, he’s their medicating fool, a mirror of theirs to pity – a transcript of their unspeakable shame. They drag him along to anywhere through the anti-nature of the city’s sweeping radiance, and with his volumes of damp words folded wet, we let our minds taste the lure for drowsy excursions through limitless avenues with more amorous songs deserted through broken womanhood filling log-heads of dance-freaks with perturbed warmth ambiguities of joy and sadness. We trotted on, abound us some strange pangs of excitement seizing…
Shrouded in an insatiable hunger for conversations contrary to his own mind’s spill, he kept on talking – spotting a deranged grin when uncertain of wonders he saw…life pounding.
As he daringly tested his face with some contorted virility, he looked rather dejected but willfully managing his pantomimes to his over-ripe whores with sex-charged airs. He kept his walk in dread of arriving to nowhere, dead and ending. A seriously twisted lip concealing inner breaking of a man with a pledge for company. Down fiery sidewalks sloped towards paralysis’ song on dusk’s witness – a nation was whispering anathema’s basement smiles in shocked decadence. Enormous sins slinked from their lowered brows – a sour night in its pitied mid-hour.
Ornate buzzes in abyss of waste - childless wombs pouring oils of sorrow on bars and ashen trays. Cane-legged others shit snorting wildness of dark beats.
Ragged flap of boots on glitter-floors – lust trotted blunt. Gloom rolled-up in dime-squabbles after dark spring-bales of heated air sends hallucinogens to amputated senses. He was an animal fitted for this mood; other villains sunken in neon-couches, surrogate souls in rants of chilly thrills. Cannons of utility stirring this blanket of sour air – revolution maggots on T-Shirts and other brain-news calling locked freedom to the grail. Night-town peopled discordantly – he rubs his eyes – sloppy boned poke into stuffed sockets… a bashful calm tickling. Solid dark outdoors nuzzled in corners fugitive to stars – dull blue-lit avenues of adventures excused.
Low risen pressures froze in figures of wind’s temperament.
Accolades of blunt lies shapelessly writhing in the basement. All vessels were shaken in this room. Sleazy crates and butt-holed seat foams…we were all initiates often vengeful – a politicized dance stamped on murder’s bridges.

And when morning slew a milky-nail suspended like a new-born horn above raucous hedonics, Bishop faced night behind, voices’ satanic remorse and jubilation.
He became that ornament of rage once again, in moody dream of abandonment.
Once he arrives at his gutter, he will think profusely about thighs…sirens wailing about other disasters in prison of alley-ways. Beneath dawn’s shadow’s bleak hues rousing a loathing for all days… he will whine alone… ripples of dispossessed calm vagrant in chaste lustiness. Sprawled over card-boards and festooned plastic roofing he will contemplate tar in mind.
But yes, prophet of the lost had bestowed a small map to his residence unto this fool. I had long asked for it – repeatedly without his acquiescence. It was a place to come – he said. That notion charged the depths of my curiosity. I had to be there, imposed against his hospitality or less thereof. But before going towards those tired frontiers of life’s adventures, I trapped with age my fears of places unknown. Like any common coward I decided to view his bravery for brevity of his freed wisdom.
That I never failed to register even at all slight of ease his sorrow - there was that stern seriousness that cloaked his face often times – inconceivably dark and that enigma of a smile glowering through… a disheveled smile of an unkempt man.
That intimacy in an obstinate stare akin to of a shameless, starving dog.
Directness of pride, unfaltering – new; a little sane albeit the timidity caused by need. Soon I was navigating the street reach doodled on the map. Closer and baffled, concealing alarm without pretence of accurate knowledge of my whereabouts… I was there.
I entered his room – meager and junk-cluttered; in utter delirium and dark fear…I assumed he’d feign some degree of surprise, but NO. Instead, he peered silently as though adjusting his eyes’ light. Then he declaims: ‘What did the poet realize, I mean make real of his journey here?’
I was dumb-founded, afflicted by a sudden feeling of being alone – uselessly on a trail to no mind, ragged rage seething in ears. As though reading my brutal reaction, he continues: ‘I am the light. I am a seer who cherishes whilst rejecting; beckoning while in scorn, baffled.’
How I hated his vigor at times, those ravenous eyes creasing my face – swarmed by flaming blue smoke of a bud dangling from his lip. The silence we controlled with our childlike dumbness returning, sudden and abhorable.
I would have hurled curses at him right then – insults of a spiritual effect; I hated his mind broken still. And upon that razored moment, Bishop drawled insolently about how: privilege incapacitates. He said this hurriedly squeezing his words out of an occupied mouth. There was always this special curiosity still; that which is often and seldom aroused by his ingeniousness. Feigning simple-mindedness, he seemed jovial among crowds, yes. The poet marveled secretly at this appellation of friendship for this man. The shabby clothes, like mine now, ceremoniously endowing him this artisan look in spite of all cares I surmised without mention.
But rage; rage persisted unshed, even after the long night with dreams, and foliage of young he raked with his brain. He was worshipped for his rage. He never shook off those wings, the scent of eyes he swallowed with all his anguish. He called us – the youth; The Dying Young…

Of women who spill their wombs in deep-sleep; death’s blood-clad men shaking hands with compatriots of doom, that’s was the design humming rags of young through serrated mansion of spirits’ cold-blinds. He watched us in regret of our unlamented wounds. The poet finds no means to appease this fear beckoning his promises for fights with phantom futures beating his inner hide.

He decided to leave the vagabond in his stupor, intoxicated and bright, starved for biblical traces of whoredom among Pharisees, mowing bones of past mortars of religious instincts and vacant crimes.
On a cobbled bench beneath a dreamy halo of a dead neon-sign, he littered the street and now this vigil. Shifty ghosts in slacky pants green, dreary coat hung on shoulders.

His sludgy voyage from Bishop forgot none; it had to come to this grinded halt – sighs of tired engines reminding him of bridges crossed with women-souls, those whom love carved into vessels of its journey among mortals. Tortured packs looking sandwiched by penile walls and choking streets filled with narrowing traffic after luncheons.
The city cold and hollow at its root; where rancid floods of blood boil. That other girl he recalls had fared the distance of her rear; him in grime of tyre-splashed wells of fesses. He misses her for what seems eternal; clouds rolled behinds towers of gas, noon having bleached masonry of prides. For her he sheds a consolatory tear balled in a tensile throat; acidic recollections of truly intimate moments… two beings that trotted the lifeless expanse of life’s chapters mind in hand – tragically destined to parting. These surgical contemplations about their hells catch him looking like an impression of country terror – rural awe at pain; beat in anxiety of feigned affection’s wounded smiles.
When we looked at each other with remnants of varied pasts, love’s gonads afloat wayward the sea of calm, we reached some elemental prime in dream…
cherishing each selfness in the charming eyes of an intelligent pet…an un-bounded heart playing miser with my sores.
The sunset soon looms laced in sliced sky hovering ridicule over mankind, shadowing plains – sunset melting glazed eyes of fathers, mothers wheeled tired. Queues to cages of their oblivions; here he was given something to remember. Desperation in little smiles – questioning grins cremate poised by the patronizing pleading supplications thereupon affixed; time groaning gruesome space between the populaces’ shelved lives.

How somber he might have seemed, that only now he’d feel embarrassed by enormous heads lurking unhinged to their burly postures. They are my fathers, mothers and others rogue as slums. He would have thought then that love was like a building ceased or forgiven, its fluids drained from cement-bones – a labyrinths of self-neglectful.

‘Sorry. Sorry for the pain…’ he moans beneath a raised collar of a dog-fur coat.

‘I am a ball of words, which lack fleecing – sorry I am unto thy perilous and scorned swing.’ This to her said in absence, he could never repent.