kagablog

work is the memory of survival
now remember to remember..

so here i am in the middle way having spent fire and brimstone toiling to bring these here images culled from my own unconscious consciousness
a journey into my own heart of darkness.. joy inside my own tears. i have written and remixed my histories making them beautiful. never finding my way, but lay waiting, the falling down down, like drums and tinkling symbols.
you who sit there now clicking and clicking through the mind so bloated at its onw judgement consequence of energy given in silence, language less than act.. .. miraculously
they said i stood there and watched them slaughter the goat and the bleeting, my god the bleeting, is like the pain and anguish of my own vision.
so now you know god has become cannibal in her giving and taking.. i promise you marvels of the noontime hour bra,

my heart is hurting now as i write these lines
..is my art is gonna save me.
the act so far beyond all forms,all voices,chanting
for safety
read on and see that in my own deep quiet.. my visions are heavy with it, deep with it
sensitive to the heavy burden of going up that hill again..
towards golgotha
the cross burning our privates.. to be all ways hollywood .
revealing again our quiet lynch stories.

“work is the memory of survival
now remember to remember”

i’m gone now.
gone till i caint
go no mo
but where am
i now?
where can
i be?
among shadows
cast coldly
left in the corner
like web
chum
gummed.
indistinct
smudged
obfuscated irony.
plain truth
‘ hindsight’

(voiceover)

..is art gonna
save me
the act so far
beyond all forms,
all voices,
chanting
for safety.
my own deep quiet..
my visions are heavy
with it,
deep with it
sensitive to the heavy burden
of going up that hill
again..
towards
golgotha
the cross burning our privates..
revealing again
lynch stories.

altitude of thought
colliding as image..
time the slip
of simple life
matter is corrupted..
the role mashed
to protein
a sticky discharge

she asks should writing
be beautiful
or raw or subtle.

..it is a lifted thinking
banging silently
in the darkness..

listen..

i fondle
what i find of me
of you..
strumpets of slow
weather

big birds will run off
from their young
if they follow too closely..
and so it was to be,
that she
left me
far behind
doing time
in the common
utopia
of the bush..

dear sweet revolution,
the revelation of your pages
burning up so,
like the predictions of ancients
their persian tongues
lashing their syllables
on your heels
as you run for cover
urban guerillas
screaming allahjah’s
name
we all fall in love
sometime
with change and the passion to labour for change..and i have been working
and writing and drawing and labouring for such said change,
in me
in the universe of my own deep
dreaded metaphor,
yes,
i am as they say
the naive sympathizer
who puts himself
between them
and the socalled us,
aint no mileage in being mean
seen,
god loves us all,
one and all in our niggardly
way
hungering and working
in a savage tribe,
called the human race.
blind struggling
through our days
making sense of our
dis placements.
resentments sneezing bullets
in brown skins
the sins of our dead
gone fathers avenged
like the burning
stench of our own
disquiet compromise.

my own laughter at my heavy hand is heaviest
when i see pictures of your masked face
your own faith for fire and brimstone change
shooting from your eyes..
in a word i wanna be next to you
by you shooting the bazooka of bomb blasted
words
exploding into the empty white pages of the dailies.

..my own heady memory of fire burns
and i see the glory of love
and the ability to heal pain
through child rearing
and being awake..
uncertainty keeps us in the balance
like the way stars fall.
i’m a romantic,
not yet pragmatic,
not yet, turned out,
to be afflicted,
to only gods own glory..
(my god they call it a revolution to feel and understand.
as it goes our vanity
keeps us searching
for this heaven on earth
and our worth
be thy kingdom come..
lets all vibrate
to a higher calling .

beauty is not always about the dainty or about gorgeous or any of that glitter shit. i use beauty as a metaphor.truth can be beautiful,rawness can be beautiful, forced art is not.. forced writing is not, shock, is not i write my truth and speak or write it as best i can. without paying much attention to beauty or rules of beauty..thats just it..without said awareness of those things.
upstarts always believe that writing should come over as other things.. written as other things. why waste time writing if you can pick up the phone and call and say the same thing.
fuck shit and piss are adjectives that speak frankly but i don’t fucking sit around and say shit so it can come over as some piss beautiful piece.. thats not what i want seen. i want to narrate my own story with my own rules.. simple.
i don’t care what writing should be . its what the writer wants, if its beauty then so be it, if its beauty of truth .. so be it.
some of the most beautiful writing i have read have been raw and ugly in truth. but when narrated is beautiful. simple so good writing should have some touch of truth and beauty in it. who wants to see or feel ugliness the real world has enuff a dat shit already.

i buy injury
white
steam
in air
shake and chant
bullied
electric silence
like flame
but hotter

you could say
i was truly
simpleminded,
my face
a constant
trembling rain.

what is beautiful
what is intimate
raw or subtle.
motives empty
the day
of meaning.

i am an animal
in my living
struggling up
that hill of
faeces dust
and dry bones

screaming each new dawn
pushed from gentle lips
shouting from

the loins of history

arrrrrt. murder the purpose,
the nature of silence
in my voice
fixed by words
our nation’s enterprise
blankness and lies
invisible cargo
lines of speed
i buy injury
white steam in air.

so im here in the dark thinking and being quiet like the riot of words in an orgy of laughter..and she slides in to my headphones.. sade “this may come as a surprise’ ..but i miss you . and her voice brings me down the streets lost in time and the taste of all dem loves are sweet.. as god gives and takes and she sings out..
horns..she takes.. is it a crime.. repeat again, that i still want you and i want you to want me too. my love is wider than victoria lake
taller than the empire state..
and then my mind rushes to cross t’s and dot i’s and think of all my loved ones there and say.. surely
is it a crime..laughter erupts in my head as i click click away.. the day is her brithday, my mother that is.

im now alone with my thoughts and im circumspeck and the voice falls quietly in my ears..is it a crime. trying to unweave unwind in time.
here a hug and a kiss and all light.femi

..the pressure
is
a
contract..
an agony
as
now.
the end
of
man
is
his
beauty,
style..
sex.
the measure
of
memory,
rhythm
and blues,
the navigator,
footnote
to a
pretentious book
titled
if into this love
the image
burdens

i hear low strings..

the rise of chords

long and lush.
tears roll down my cheeks

spring and light is light

the heaviness of winter dragging
her face to the open air

remembering

when god was sun,

the moon

man

the earth constellations
and
our own dreaming
made comets
fly against
a darkened universe

i’m here now
down into
the light
of god’s
own light
her manos
wraps me
into
the slow glow
of falling
from a cliff
the swift
downturn
as we crash
against
the earths full grip..
broken in two,
sun and moon.

listen..
i’m falling in my shadow
sleeping like
god’s grace

blacknoise sweet jesus
arms outstretched
to heal
the sick
and the devout
from arse
to head
to mouth
they scream
and shout..
amen amen

when the west was won there were idiots like her rambling across the prairie preaching there said brand of nullification and representation. With anecdotes, and prescriptions. her book may reveal the silly despot she really is, running will nilly in an effort to guise her own personal hurt with her charlatan self. the said somali’s have all left holland for greener pastures .. and have hood winked the
system as she has with her sad sad self..(uncle tom crying like jesus betrayed)..

for she represents no more than a example of someone surviving grave odds, rather than surviving the hysterical horrors of islam and all its practices.

i believe the west is on the one hand practicing the act of brutal judgement while seeking to recruit crude poster girl fantasies of islamist speaking out. she seems giddy for voice and diction and direction, and she is running out of steam.. what better place to be than in america now, where others will see the folly of her holy war.

or better yet prop her up give her a voice.. it was not so long ago she was selling her own sister saying she was not believing that the holocaust happened.. now again selling her family to sell books and prove a point of survival among the so called right. I hope as time ambles on and the right die out that her voice will be hushed among the dark streets of boston and all them other eastern shore boards.. of intellectual reason..

as an immigrant from around the way, one knows that there are similar horror stories and horror stories of simple people.. what sets her apart is this dangerous use of the language of our time.. the roll of our propagandistic media to place blame and lay divide and conquer themes..

holland may not have a civil war, but we had a season of no government following her nightmarish trip into politics.. she had a country divided around her stupidity and they have not recovered..her film submission is a failed attempt at being shocking.. and brute.. and as it goes perhaps homeland security must watch her.. for she more than others has shown how infiltrating she can be..
frankly don’t give two cents for her pain and would not even pay for her book or even merit it with reading .. the infidel is her and her new found agnostics.. still..tell me who snitched on ann frank.