kagablog

‘In the land before sunrise, rumbles a cord. Youth vanished like a medieval dream that can haunt even heads that rise to touch foliage on dazzled branches.’

The body. The Self. Projection.
The thoughts raced to kiss his mind.
“The man. He seemed to have been listening in on my thoughts prior to his dramatic entrance.”
Awaking from sleep.
“I must take the body with.” He thought hard and even considered teleporting the whole molecular structure to the winter upside.
The pallid arena was still as he recalled, vast and coldly un-minding of its vain size.
There is glitch in the flow. Any human mind is believed to transmit and receive data, stimuli almost simultaneously; this he was taught once.
But his carrier seemed to only transmit an echo of what he fed without generating any internal response.
A cold silence of a corpse.
The bloated insides calling back with its walls and muscle.
His brain was being sucked out.
Psychic lobotomy.
”The savages and the lengths they would go to for victory.”

In thought-speed he’d returned to the body, jerking it up from the table and thrashing its anaesthetized bones to the cold floor. Eyes shot open and shadowy light increased the urgency in the carrier. Khah knew that interface cables would be stuck to the skull, and prepared for the severance pinch and scarring pain.
He held the carrier’s hand behind the occiput and pulled whatever imaginary cable injected into custom data ports every clone had implanted in the heydays of memory enhancement techniques.
The field of vision began to morph, and he felt faint but kept courage.
The pallid arena and its fluorescent mirage faded like smoke before his eyes.
He was standing clothed in black rubber combat suit, strapped to a ruggedly tattered chair which would pass for a couch in happier times.
Monitors glared at him, pallid men nervously punching digits into buttons.
He was himself again, he felt it. A warrior.
As rage seethed like bile through his throat, the colossal arms of a menial wrestler tore the straps from their hinges. His feet rummaged the console tightened around his ankle.
Khah rose frantically before security personnel could secure an attack with electrocution rods.
He was human built for brawls. Brown skinned with brawn and brain now intact.
Monstrous events followed what he perceived to be seconds, finding his acumen for molecular disintegration as prescribed by the combat attire.
He shot through equipments, monitors splattering on steel floors with wires sizzling in the after-heat of his light-speed motion.
Phantom warrior dismantled the place.
But as soon as he took a breath outside the cage bolted door to the experimentation laboratory, he became furiously confused.
It was pitch black. Ghastly winds summoned ash towards his gaping mouth, coal dust from scotched forests and grass-lands lain waste by sulphur of molten blazes - a Venusian clime of burning shadows.
He hammered about rowdily with the electrode rod he confiscated from the assailants, leather cloak symbiotically folding about the crevices of his terse figure - and found that there was nothing.
Poking behind him, he felt a hard surface that clanked to the impact of the rod.
Upon running his palm on the surface, he made it out be a wall.
A colossal wall; a wall of a fortress.
He was free.
“This was, or must be the Panopticon.”
Rushes of memory flickered inside, horrible recollections of imprisonment, countering the eminent realization of the danger of his imminent surroundings.
And it was soon that he realized a pair of flame red eyes approaching from a distance, shrouded in the blanket of blinding darkness.
Another pair loomed from behind the first, then a multitude waltzed rhythmically towards Khah.
They must have stood no more than his knee height.
They were Plutonian.
“Tok!” Khah screamed in the direction of the advancing mob of crimson eyes.
“It is us Master Khah,” said the Plutonians in chorale unison, sending a belch of relief through Khah’s taut belly.
“We have come to take you to The Highlands.” Tok spoke alone.
“The highlands? But, I thought they were still unsafe. How is Master Motk?”
“He’s well, sending regards to you. And beckoning you return god-speed.” Tok responded.
One of the members of the throng handed Khah a pair of infrared spectacles for better vision, which he clumsily accepted.
The spectacles had been designed by the Plutonians, excruciatingly modeled after their own eyes.
They had no difficulty navigating any kind of darkness.
Tok always boasted that there is not darkness like his days - telepathically that is.
“We have seen the copper sky, Master Khah.”
Khah was aghast.
That would mean the storm-clouds were letting through sun rays.
Illumination.
This meant yet another struggle for adaptation and survival. No-one knew what remaining resources still lay among the ruins of a collapsed civilization.
And it meant the first expedition would have to be his clan’s.
He was content with the knowledge of the danger time would usher forth, but he felt much relieved that the eternal night had ceased.
He had never gone silently into this night, and now was his opportunity to defeat its scepter.

keep reading here

Chapter 1
The Golden Age

In a fluorescently pallid room, a naked Afronoid man lies on a metal examination table.
“That must be him,” Khah numbly thought. Or rather felt, as he could detect his self voiceless; somewhat nauseatingly alone without himself in tow.
The warehouse-size arena is windowless, that he could sense… computing the stimuli beyond the perceptual capacity of the incapacitated body he inspects from a bird’s eye-view - the third eye.
He must return to the body at once.
This he ponders whilst motioning his assemblage point towards the chest cavity of the man.
There would of course be the initial phases of merging which normally disorients most humanoid bodies, considering that Astral projection was still a new technology for the palate of a rather psychically conservative species.
There had being a motley collage of intrusive and obscuration experiments performed at individual levels by throngs of dissident entities, most of whom gained prominence after The Third World War as reverent sorcerers.
This was a stature espoused through various exploitation of the worship instinct as was fully developed in the human population of Earth.
But, the fully fledged faculty could only be accessed by a specifically designed body capable of handling excessive inflow of sensory-based and non-sensory stimuli.
By design, his society had deemed assisting nature a birth right, therefore biology as whole, ruling out all ‘unnecessary potentialities’ encoded in the sterile coding of the genetic compounds and focusing on those suitable for an ‘Original Man’.
The story as told by mystics of his age had alluded to a time, soon after The Nuclear Winter of 2055, during that epoch the search for obscuration of present human consciousness reached a pivot, whence the remaining population of humans had escaped underground to hide away from infections bred by radiation-charred landscapes.
The winter was a virulent consequence of a scuffle that broke between the animus hemispheric government systems, then battled out scientifically in the 21st century.
The consequences were dire for a population that wasn’t immune to various viral infections emitted by biological warfare and terrorism.
Earth was severed and rationed between two dominant ethnic derivatives of the human gene pool as deciphered through misconstructions of the Genome Project Library Data of 1997.
This was the first barbaric “bi-partisan consensus”, whence The Northern Hemisphere, being territory of The League of Caucasia (which later produced the Eurocoid population of the remaining portion of the Human Species) and the Southern Hemisphere controlled by the dark skinned genetic descendant of the then named Continent of Africa (later named Alkhebulan), become the sole powers that ruled upon Earth’s ‘New World Order System’.
A cauldron of socio-cultural and political tensions had been brewing between the Super-states for a number of decades, mainly over access to Earth’s scares resources and other territorial imperatives.
Nevertheless, even after intense negotiations had lapsed, as was customary for any sentient entity to indulge in the arts of debate; war began.
And in a period of merely 18 days, Earth’s atmosphere was bombarded by great deluges of poisonous gases, radioactive dust, and the eventual 270 day long night.
That was 2036, when a wound was torn in the sky and black blood blotted out the sun.
Those who escaped underground grew accustomed to their new environment; thanks to newer medical leaps in the science of cryogenics, cosmetic enhancement, and overall genetic engineering that eliminated the non-essential components of human adaptability to environment. Melanin replacement surgeries were the initial medical exercises taken by the Eurocoids.

***

These were just recollective exercises he did with his carrier, when returning after suspension and separation.
The integration process was inevitably as chaotic as the dis-integratory phase, but dream control - as mystics called it, was the true test for an ‘Original Human’.
Khah forced open his eyes.
A shard of white dust was strewn onto his dry pupils.
That’s the initial sensation he registered.
And the brain suddenly computed a query: Where am I?
That was a natural instinct inquiry to construct, but just before he could jerk his body over the table-side a voice roared through the arena.

“ITEM 19790825, hold your position!”
He felt his pulse thrust him nearly out of the chest cavity once more, yet he kept still. Heeding his breath to a plausible rate, he turned his inner eyes about the room.
A dangerous endeavor for untrained projectionists, when you imagine someone’s inner head turned towards the side and the mineral physical still facing forward.

“ITEM 197908…” the senility of the voice continued.
A door knob was heard turning and door swung on oiled hinges.
It slammed shut, non-threateningly though caution registering.
But, why the need for caution?
He suddenly pulverized his fear with an utterance he could not have delivered if he had time to think it over.
Pre-meditation is still a form of psychic castration of activity without ration, since it leaves a mind crouched in inner safe-cages of the person-cell.
“Where am I?” he bellowed, in a voice strained as though by a cold.
While clearing his throat to inquire again, with more vigor and foulness, the voice of the entity in the room answers.
“With your Self.”
“Self?”
“Yes. You.”
“How?” he forces open his eyes without turning the inner head, the metal table beginning to moisten under the adrenalin induced paranoia now reeking from his pores.
“How? Who are you ITEM 197908…”
“255399… who the hell am I then, beside the number you allocated my carrier?”
“Carrier?”
He pushes his upper body up and stealthily balances by reflex on the uninjured arm, muscular and scarred in several places.
“Yes. Carrier. Body.” He mutters in exasperated disbelief.
“What is going on? Where am I?” the voice’s ringing echo flooding his cranium.
“Which I, may we ask then are you referring to Self?” the entity finally queries after remaining silent during this barrage of questions.

A strange sight indeed.
The near translucent being wearing medical attire, a silvery fabric covered the entire body with bony hue.
Insulation technology robe comprised of fabric cells charged by human electrical discharge, indestructible so as to not be contaminated or otherwise contract whatever it was that could endanger the occupant’s mineral-physical well-being.
The eyes, he could see though.
Rancid hue of a deep blue beyond any imagination, with no pupil.
And these piercing eyes protruded sacked in an enclosure of glacial white skin, which he sensed to be the entire body’s covering epidermis tone.

“The SELF,” he hisses through clenched teeth, disbelieving the insanity of the response in relation to the correlative situation of there obviously being another being in front of him.
The entity slightly moves his hand over his face, and the fabric cell is removed partially to reveal a sullen, old, pale face.
The eyes, though bladed with telepathic insinuation, bear a grim shadow of a life beyond the means of the present.
Tired, of life if not living at all.
The being could be well over 80 Earth Years, but maintained a youthfully upright posture, direct inquisition and brutal inquiry written all over his demeanor as he fingers the air about the room in a method of one playing an invisible piano. Holographic projections appear in thin air, upon a stroke of a phalange; whence a detailed physiognomy of a human body is seen.
While he proceeds with his orchestra, without looking at Khah,
“So, Self, hey?” a satanic jest tingling his tone,
“What is Self? What do you think you are now to be where you are?”
Khah hesitates for a few seconds which disguised an eternity, yet finally utters,
“I am… here”
“Oh, I… isn’t it?” the man inquires while stealing a glance inquisitively.
“Yes.”
“Then, did you initially want to know whom is meant to say: Who is Self?
“Yes.”
“Would I then be mistaken in assuming that Self is ultimately dependent on ‘Perception’ as comparative analysis in a poll of variable ‘Perceptions of the Self through You’?”
“I am not certain.” Khah felt deviously perplexed by the man’s insinuations.
He fumbles with his inner mind to conjure up some control of the situation.
He feels his mental faculties under strain from a force he could not divulge, but felt.
The stench of heavy clogging in his soul, sneered him cold, like he was in dream where an unknown creature’s shadow was suffocating him.
“I, again. Who is I then?” the man continues,
“You of course, whom I asked Who Self is?”

***

The nano-technological advances that humans have achieved since their desolation decades have since proven quite efficient for all human necessity. Internal cell-based robotic agents that can replicate independently while functioning within a singular program; small doctors and creationists.
Cancers have been healed; even in the aftermath of depopulation caused by the scourge of HI -Virus, the planet could now have been disease-free.
If only…
“Was it the Greeks who named that perceptive entity – THE EGO?” the man miserly interrupts his train of thought as though he knew precisely what Khah was cogitating.
“You mean I. As in the I in I am.”
“Yes. But ultimately you would prefer being evasive of the true reason why You are asking the question again. Is it because there is something more you seek to find out?”
“Such as…?”
“Such as, Who is this being asking you question after question in a pale room without windows. A somewhat familiar phenomenon of awareness that bears rudiments of alteration as would ensue with the ingestion of a hallucinogenic?”
“Are you suggesting this is a chemically induces mental probe or interrogation?”
“Would that session be qualified to bear the title: I investigated?”
“Look, I need to get out of here. I don’t know where I am that is certain. Maybe that is how you can torment me for my unknowing. But please… who are you? What am I doing here?”
Khah was beginning the sequential reconstruction of disarming an enemy through forlorn inquiry.
These are basic whines that project desperation, but which often get laughed at by the presumed recipient targets.
“ITEM1979082553099, you are at The Golden Gate.” The loudspeaker blurted again.
Khah watched with iron bleeding eyes the man as he fumbled with his gadgets hovering in thin air. An ember marking began to pulse in the thorax region of the human replica glazed on a film of a misty white surface.
“You are a member of the so-called Clones. Afronoid of origin, yes. But a Clone. I am Ethiw. Your captor.”
“But. But, I am …”
“I, again. You think you are an Original Human? How foolish indeed of you. Quite expected still, but do believe me, you are not.”
“I am a warrior, descended from an African gene pool… I demand some respect.”
“What sudden vigor. Instinctual I suppose, but it would serve you best to listen and be calm. I need to conduct some more tests on you…”
Khah found a hold of strength to leap from the table onto his feet.
And as he does, knees folded into a pulp and he wobbled onto the floor.
“No boy, you were one of the first Spiritual Machines that we issued in the early 21st century, Poetic Programming for a cyborg’s brain. Your body is organic, yes. But you are not human at all. If by definition the brain’s presence qualifies one to be called human.” He hears the man, while adjusting the pulse to move and expand across the chest cavity space on the monitor, speaking in a monotone whine that brought his eyes to slip.
“What’s this? Am I paralyzed? What’s happening?”Khah mutters in grave anxiety, all reason fading from his mind in a sudden sweep of some sensation in his body.
“You are entering The Golden Age now, my boy.”
It was then that Khah collapsed in fetal position.

***

When humanity awoke from its wintry slumber, an undisclosed number of its surviving 100 000 odd ‘Original Humans’ had undergone extreme bio-physical changes and chemically induced mutations.
Vast portion of the human Gene pool had already being contaminated by various hazardous chemical agents ingested through food stuffs, polluted air and water systems that characterized the shift towards the Capitalist New World Order.
Terminator technologies saw land go to waste under butcher institutions – human organs had begun to be harvested for the perfect breeds.
But, ultimately the cult of over-sexualized social dynamics which bred inter-marriages played a much under-estimated role in the obliteration of physical differentiation attributes within great sections of genetic inclination and heredity of the human species.
Some ethnic groups were inadvertently becoming extinct.

The president order, under guises of convening all of human resources and knowledge towards venturing into a ‘Space Age’, augured a vast proliferation of nuclear material such as Uranium and Plutonium in regions with political and economic instabilities.
Many nationalities dissolved from the planetary map as individual states simply through civil wars, disease epidemics, poverty, and a plethora of factors exasperated by the consequences of Global Warming.
Entire lakes dissolved in the 20th century under strain of wanton industrialism which promised the then developing nations towards sectors that required fossil fuel based technologies to survive.
Steel was mined, landslides increased.
Tropical rain Forests vanished and skyscrapers hovered through the skies like mundane phalluses.
A newer, contrived chauvinism ensued through all spheres of human inventions and expression.
Architecture raped the land, consumerism piled junk-yards with imperishable refuse and diseases roamed the sea shores and air-traffic terminals.
Then, something went divergently wrong.
Rudiments of biological-warfare technologies became primary terrorist commodities.
Their trade boomed like pharmacies when a new test virus had been sent airborne over a demarcated area for experimental purposes.
Most of the tests were themselves untested, unrecorded and extra-legal to certain state agencies that enjoyed global anonymity.
Humanity’s trait of ignoring that which it saw as unmonitored experiments took place of military warfare.
Sections of poor populations were subjected to various covert exploratory studies.
More viruses spread at a maximum pace.
Children died.
Pests increased by numbers.
Life expectancy decreased by a factor of five for some continents, violence triggered by psychological experiments warranted even counter-intuitive personality complexes to the development of a species’ other faculties of mind.
These were the root days of artificial Intelligence, nano-Technology and cloning. Human adaptability to rapid change forced many over boundaries of psychological integrity.
Death by thought became rampant, and diviners mushroomed over the dead tree stumps of the Amazon.
A new age of psychological warfare began, and until now, the fight goes without abating, even in the blackest of night humanity has ever traversed.

***

These were the microbes of negative feedback towards what they were doing to his Original Mind.
His brain’s capacitance shield was leaking.
He vowed not to give in.
He would fight it from the exterior of the carrier, which was his first move that would allow observation of all about his incapacitated body.
The pallid room seemed dimmer after ejecting from the chest cavity.
He decided not to server the umbilical assemblage chord with the body, in as to keep it alive even under siege of foreign chemical agents which could cause fatal damage to volatile genetic combination which seemed to being reprogrammed by a newer yet intelligent binary code unknown to his ‘Original Human’ carrier.
A thought kept nagging him through his identity-formation fatigue in the Astral Plane hovered over his carrier:
“Why me?”
That, he could not answer while cooped up outside his carrier.
He had to reintegrate, to fight and pursue survival until the next unknown.
He was a warrior and only the strong know the pain of surrender.
Only the brave know the bitterness of failure.

The ritual had become too mechanical for him by now.
He had been a novice at the underground enclave of Lord Motk, a sorcerer by terms of the now mystified culture of underground dwellers.
But then, the winter was at its brazen; he was still a child and wind charred with a freeze that any molecule that constructed the chemical composition of the entire biosphere was dead.
Perhaps, un-evolving.
Lord Motk, having faced battle all his life after the Nuclear War, his blatant mockery of non-logic could often be mistaken for selfishness, not alacrity.
It is rumored that he’d fasted for 200 of the 270 days of night, and had achieved himself the mysterious noumetic talents and psychic powers he was endowed with.
After a stint as a rebel leader in the enclave of his initial habitation underground, he and an army of seven managed to pulverize their way through a mountain, discovering yet more safe havens which were still deemed non-safe by security reports from various habitations.
But, telepathic sensitivity, automotive suggestion, astral travel and other entirely mystical dexterities seemed to rise within him with every kilometer ascended into the unknown belly of a giant mountain somewhere below what was called Alkhebulan.

“Out, dear soul. Out.”
This is a mantra unto the resurrecting veil of mist tailing from the chest, mouth and perhaps all orifices on the human body.
Khah calls the body, a carrier.
His mind had always convinced him that all humans are asleep and the body is a mere digital projection of a mind in an eternal dream.
He was human then.
Or the ‘Original’ him.
He was not certain anymore. The dreaded self-reflective analysis was taking toll.
It was detrimental for one to self—analyze.
He had to think of a way out of here.
But with the body as well.
“Awake, SOUL.” He murmured.

keep reading here

A brief treatment for an expression

A man awakes to pestering sounds of early birds, from white sheets that conceal another figure assumed to be a woman. She tosses and turns under covers as he slides out to begin the pedantic morning rituals. Upon closing the door after unhooking the gown we see him staggering through a wobbling corridor, super-imposed on the (real corridor he stares through. In the bath room, he stares at himself through the mirror, shaves and showers with reluctance akin to that of a child who wished not for school on Monday. The woman is also embroiled in an alternate reality of dreaming herself being the one awake, smoking while moaning about the man in bed with her. Then, he soon cordially exits the residence calmly and in silence, leaving a portrait of abandon in the bedroom, an image of a solitary woman left to untangle her night’s dream threads without an endearing company.

He is an ardent walker as evinced by the waltz through suburban boulevards, aligned on both sides by sublime trees and kept shrubs. He wades many routes, the early dawn mist abound the city’s scrapers calling him nigh, like all the other consensual slaves moribund amidst the phallus monuments signifying what is called The CBD. Sales talk carouse his ears from all directions, pedestrian traffic marring the catwalks with feet sent to travels away from other dream spaces. Mothers begin their menial chores, tin-drum fires carried on robust heads for early tripe meals for men and other louts consecrated by the city’s belly. He seems a tad agitated here, having had to adjust to the humming brawl of the machine building, siren serenades and hooter operetta wailing with other screams of activity.

The walk merges into a dream-scape of tall standing pines, hovering over his now rising eyes and solemnly quietening inner-ears. In the midst of twigs and thorny spikes he paces towards a destination known only to him, until he reaches a clearing, a circle of trees in serene greenery and contrasted appearance to his own. A black tuxedo, white shirt and a tie – he approaches what we see as a desk, an antique telephone atop the oak finish, and a chair appropriately behind the anomalous furnishing in the forest. This is the office. He sits awhile in a meditative trance of one in search of what to do… until the phone rings.

The clamor of a rung phone in a silent forest rouses birds, insects and many animals to a rush that sounds like a tempest approaching in tremendous speeds. He picks up the receiver and yells HELLO, but it seems no one is on the other line. This process happens for a duration that seems eternal, until he starts crouching over the telephone, climbing on the desk, pulling wires until he pulls an axe from his drawer and starts hacking the table.

Then, seated behind the same table, intact… there’s a TV monitor projecting various dream sequences he was involved in, the nauseated waltz through the corridor with a typewriter at the other end commences.

Some sequences

Please note that each sentence depicts a shot or shots preferred for the purposes of aesthetic abstraction and poetry for the treatment. Each shot has its origins in a symbolism which can be elaborated upon.

Getting out of Bed – First Sequence

• A woman’s exposed neck turns – pillow underneath.
• 3 shots are angled to pull away from her eyes until her full face.
• A man’s face sunken in sheet opens eyes.
• Unfocused vision of the window letting in morning rays.
• The curtain is out of focus and so are the entire movements of his point of view.
• Windows open at will, animated into an opening and closing dance.
• Feet slide into slippers lying next to magazines and books.
• A half-naked man’s seated on the edge of the mattress, a figure at his rear.
• He stands towards the door, wading sleepishly.
• A night gown is pulled from a hook behind the white door.
• In seventeen stills the robe is worn.
• The man wades towards a shower room we assume – a figure still slightly tossing in bed.
• From behind her face, her vantage includes the man entering the shower room – POV panning with the man.
• Then, she’s seen sitting and smoking while the man lies half naked under the white sheets. (Portrait of Boredom – Dream element in camera snail movement towards the woman and her audible thoughts in voice over technique)

To follow are:

• The woman’s dream sequence
• The walk through suburbia
• The walk through sales talk of the inner city
• Entering the forest
• The office in the forest
• The violence of machines ( the phone ring sequence)
• Watching one self through a tube – tabled in dream sequence

This Day

How did the lush of youth fly past those moons of our discontent? There we were, moribund, messed up with charred rhythms in our souls, assailing the stuff of life. We were twenty then, candle minds raped by the last twin decades shunned in the blessing bloom of this sabbatical. This proved that we are simple and made of stone, the mystery of life we could handle with a bard of torture’s personalities. When they had come the last time, we had shoved small memories in boxes which we later chased. This was how our world reeled, breaking window eyes, commiserating a mood of television excess complications. We were here, two special friends and I, a rocket soul mauling lust’s avenues; a splintered cranium spewing vague tutorials of rage, pacing the mansion penitentiary of suburbia.

Waltzing our common dark of age… wayward the later phases of this dream, the maw that imbibes promises, before the culling… at this subtle hour of the sun’s trot into the earth’s underbelly, we thought of the bulging sky’s chest tearing… in words of adornment mashed for nirvana’s brew. He chokes, genuflecting spine of hearty poses, twisting a roaring laughter, actual mess marooning coiled hair… fleas in tripe buzzing a melody at his eyes’ choice. He had to record the events in spirit, a slight float in ransom of some ancient thoughts – a dog vomiting from fresh grass; the dances and jazz blown sparks impressed to memory’s chorale.

Locked gazes, bass flowing with a girl carrying a silver coated glass of ale; engulfed in notes glowing purple and green, orange with the night’s hideous infestations. Crimson petals hang like glitter-balls from earlobes, arms flung like oak branches on shoulders of louts – old sights and voices saying:
‘I don’t know what it is you’re on… but what it is is possible.’
A table is mapped by beverage spills, jabbed - slim elbows moving with travel of sounds, murmurs of delight pulsating toe taps in slouchy muddied sneakers.

And he says to the woman in a mink coat: ‘I know Frederich Nietzsche.’
‘Oooh wow…’ she exclaims with an indifferent expression of surprise. ‘And what does he have to do with the note you passed me earlier?’
‘Hedonisius instincts…’ he confers. ‘A pathless journey some say, where the journey is the destination.’
‘Hug me then.’ She demands, ‘write that down,’ another says; the thought missing a link to the piecing potency of a past referral.
‘Always spontaneous, I see… a joyful release of a soul in need of play,’ miles in her words - a cataclysm so wined up in terror.
‘And then the rooms like fill with balloons and other unbranded delicacies…’ he jesters,
‘Yes.’ A faint smile twists a broken halo on her face, and he wells up fatigued.

The sunset was on our war – peril of youth’s claws causing jitters on brows… Jews flocking the loo – darkies flabbergasted by joy’s smoke. Horn psalmody was awhirl in a cauldron of bitter-sweet gestures; lulling diesel morbidity bending towards the slots of our owned hypocrisies. Yet we were here, at Niki’s Oasis, freeloaders miserly lifting in nihilistic tonality. No after-life for the melody. I sit in its mist of wanton calm, syllables of hatred hugged to my loin, knees and lips blazing rings. And the common lament – jazz - skeletal rears posing – eco-enlightened women in a pale trend, pointing fingers in raw wails for attention and sex.

‘Beauty. Who defines, feels.’ I overhear a sublime epithet blown into thin air, an effeminate voice, charged with song.
‘I love these friends,’ he hunkers and staggers to the beat, ‘strangers who have become inspired friends. Ah, life is beautiful.’ A cloudy sigh.
‘But – hello sunflower.’ He ambiently utters another sibilant noose unto the figure, ‘my name is The Fat Tenant.’

I sit and ponder shafts of lights between thighs with wet near closed eyes. Psychic abandon was a prudent move I thought. I had been sleeping massacred by drink nightly for twelve moons now, the exploits of a weak mind slopping into slaughterhouses of funk. Skinned sunken eye sacks I implore not to surrender me to torpor. I feel toxic, yellowed teeth cringing, eyes crying for a draft in August’s dust. Another day will soon rise behind these eyelids – weeping blots of a maddened orange in the frenzy of the sun’s art. Unshorn chin, a template of queer negation of self - a wincher with empty palms – an incorruptible aim chained to bony shoulders. All antique demons I have orphaned were rising, moaning – thunderous and searing like a tin drum inside.

Recalling the evenings when this man-child whined under Shiva’s trample – is like seeing myself reflected in a dog’s eyes and never had I seen myself like that in any human eyes. I was to floor amid maidens who loathed wombs – heads glossed with bladed perfumes of masculine oratory, but wearing cool eyes – entreating gazes. There were suggested plans for a train trip down south I hear about, over weeks of creamy dialogues with these women of no moral regard… bliss, and debauchery’s nightmare over steel tracks towards a journey that was the destination. We would cross over open dead lands, given to a fear of open spaces.
The common disease of city image-bound catwalks would until then leer its nauseated tongue and puke at natural splendor vinyl-slide crawling outside stained TV style panes. But uncertainty was the great nemesis to premeditated hedonism as I would have to later deal with the trip in the story of this wretched company.

Creaking doors whispered among the noises of smokers some forlorn wail stinking with time’s rust. Posters glowed heavenly with moguls of sound poised and waiting still. On this night miserly faces spoke in cultured tones, brews of assortments like a hospital dispensary cabinet gurgling froth over lips of glasses.

The eve wailed rowdy with lusty informal deities and eternal puzzlement that settled when there was talk about witchcraft, how relatives have hidden hairs and nails in pot-plants for alchemies beyond youth’s common gaze. The wild resonance of their fears when living an age that exterminated such mystical séances, I found unnerving. A generation born beyond the whims of tradition’s intransigence, cosmopolitan sycophants with skins peeled over their head, how dimensional shifts affect them – harm their blue ignorant souls? That which relegated their ancestry to oblivion seemed too invincible for their challenge, and they had failed for a while… I see it everyday in faces of those who live with ghost tenants and possessed legions of the cursed. I sit and ponder the electronic age shamans and sorcerers amidst the bile forming in my throat – ales labeled black slick on buds, watching my friends, one a charm’s peril and the other a soul muscle lynched with souls akin mine. They have always managed to arouse the alchemist in me every noon under covers of delirium.

Earlier clouds of hail pour outside the venue of disgust’s revenge unfit for re-birth’s awe; babes rushing among droplets, serpentine waltzes unto the morale of bar chorus.
‘Lovely art thou,’ I murmur, chasing with wrecking ball eyes, sighing that they have saved me from in-birth and its wallowing maw ground beneath my lopsided rear. Now and again they fairy a tale at me, about their grilled destinations and choir souls who wish for their company – whom I might leave somber if they happened to indulge in conversation.
‘Just keep close,’ they’d warn amiably, languid fellows lounged braced by metal whilst the grass was dappled with droplets of sky’s spit. Some faces peeped strewn with melancholy still – old men at play when jilted by anathema’s shames. Stooped at mad portraiture poses, their guffaws bellowed as they watched their fears through me, a foolhardy sleuth – grey boned, and a ball of unkempt hair.

I saw stars, a moon halo over curse’s embrace piled with love for truth – leather thighs and pinched lip-gluttons parading hell’s make-over. I sneer initially, self-possessed – flaunting my drudgery and catching bait traded by demon pulchritude. A beast I had become once again, culling my jaws in wonder; a rained out night tasting stale flowers wired on lightning strikes. My saints watch and smile indifferently, caressing foods to sewer their bellies. Loved were they, all – as sinned out for no sin to churn my hell. The in and never out jockey steering on, wide – chest heaving of sound, bearing flowers like nightly wizards on his brow. It’s a friend’s aging day – they said, her face colored in young pain surrendered to inebriation, and so were we of these dying young – at life’s bazaar without exits.
There were no specified entries either, with moist lips charring my chin at intervals wasting sentimentalities; I figured my hands dirtied by chores of this theatre.

‘What detergent was suited for these crucified gadgets raging for hugs and polite holds?’ an inner self queries desperately within the stupor of gin and juice.
A kiss on the forehead – a saintly shock to black martyrdom it gave. As we shuffle the dark wept by strange corners later that eve, pierced by walls; we speak of how the sound was bursting suns in our ears.

I live with these vagabonds, twirled journeys with bloated knuckles, saying still memories are for an after-life and a life of before. Now was for mere remembrance or rather the membering of all dis-membered terrains of our travails. Suddenly a succulent poke into my ear raptures my senses. Past other boozing rooms of mystery staggeringly, dj brooding over decked signals of a generation’s wail. Women brawled uterine gossip at their postcard gents – lustily, them who goggled at this chaos sorely needed in their prim lives. I felt at the prime of a monstrous orgy, light footed as grass blades danced dewed waltzes under toes of hobos. Chest folded charred with efforts for air, nicotine blockage bubbling like an infernal comet twitching with my voices phlegm. Cameras flashed, shuttering stout prayers for visuals of my collapse… I was done for, the floor calling.

At her home of parties, gold glowered on the rubber pool – silent youths in pig-tail charms blazing hopes for fun. My twin saints carried me here, slump sack of bones, caressing my hair with bold fingers. A woman buzzes a strut past the stricken eye and I stare, a sweet visage on a dawn’s glory. She bows to name me: ‘The sun’s pose,’ mingled with ‘Brother loved.’

Hail storm was sizzling in guts, the whole world seeming drunk with bright breaths. South Africa – me seeing all, now you being nothing, a rand’s ransom, quarry fever reeling in your bones. But all was well with me.

‘How’s he doing?’ mutters concerned pink and rosed lips.
‘I am divine.’ I say.
‘And the smile?’ they giggle, womanly red windows spewing marvel in laughter.
‘My dear… please just give more floral chatter to this ball of slurs, around his mad buzz,’ I lie still saintly impugning, no rude face necessary. I bask face up looking at those who pass over me, feeling elated despicably. Then the street fight’s motion graces the lapa filed with mannequin fellows, enraged by ill-luck in sex slums… weakness compensated with jeers.

There was however one trait of these saints that throttled many here – good food, sung with knives among choruses of coal god’s throats. I blazed at the crested surf over these souls impaired by pride – when shame’s call wasn’t akin nudity, but souls merely nudely darkened within shards of exploded moons. And tonight groans with infinity, heralding red confessions in coffers of the miserly. I recoil into sleep, my craned out assemblage stretched over the cooing and flight of the crowd’s tongues.
Pillars of air we trotted through with women of strengths lost, at my virtue’s desolation – slipping past swift dreams, warning and sultry with the draft mounting their thighs wayward a bright room awhirl with night’s echoes.
Whence the culling of memory burst acid mucus showing stale need, how fooled I felt. But no love – that progeny of futile youth gnashing its jaw – reversed to a beyond – matriarchal curse for the unborn. A cackle of mockery assails my skull; profaned efforts of all my love slumped when a grizzled heroine called earlier that night demanding I cease to contact her. I was ashen, inner ravine gone putrid with marsh as I blacked out, blanket tailed between bony knees – paralyzed.

Had a nightmare that nap, amid this eve’s discord, whence I dreamt of L for some reason having paid a visit. I am a teacher at a school held beneath industrial chimneys. An age that seemed locked in a future’s death, boys and girls abound. A suffocated nose keeps rousing me for attention, am I at school to teach? A huge ditch runs along the playground, clogged with muddy storm water from which I see her ascend. Water is crashing violently with sounds of break time’s resonance as the dream shift to interior a maze of a depressed warehouse shelter. Those fatally normal shifts of space careened as unpredictable as the fall of an avalanche. And spooned with the overture outside, we caress like old frozen covers, her touching face clear as well water.
Then suddenly a mirage of my grandfather swells in my eyes, him looking away; rear against mother squirming under a floral plastic rag clad kitchen table, blood soaking her skirt from that crimson crevice of my exit from that life to this afterlife. I wonder why; for it was my birth I was seeing.

Her pimpled nose milkly kissed; a metropolitan setting crowding the dream, an unknown fall behind – only to see her sharing a brace with a stranger, a man dreamily black and dreadlocked. I pass them nonchalantly, with a sea of doubt preserving scars, bile of disgust for the familiar ridicule I have endured on love’s trials. Another change in eye’s dream folds a face in car, seated with an elderly woman, in her seventies I guess. A mother she seems from an initial enquiry, walking still among patches of dying grass as she climbs into the backseat lowering herself for a nap. The strange fellow follows into the seat, crawling and sliding to penetrate her from behind a vividly raised skirt. Then lucidly in boiled presence of this calm mother companion, they fuck raucously.

A while of moans and orgasmic fervor creams ears of passerby girls, eyes saddened for me as though this was a fatal blow unto my charred chest. She looks my way in shame’s coolness; waltzing out the wagon of her displeasure’s expose… flaunting the scent of a newly flogged maiden, wet, sweet sweat seeped into creased fabric. I shuddered, really trying to make talk, clouded by revulsion, sexual wizardry amok a primitive craving.

The car drives away with the twin occupants – mother and son – as she approaches me, inner voices muttering how shameless all needed to be, petting the welling pain as clarity vanishes from bleak dream-eyes.
How vile is that a dream can last minutes yet feel as though eternal? Damn, my soul is still stuck in the city for sure; I figure the window a place to chill. By its myth’s pane I loose the pain and smile in denial… beauty bashing shards from all sights raped in the dark flow of dawn in mind, but - was the heart there? Weed was on my mind, meetings at the night’s square creeping some more in the face I saw swearing the might I never sold for a dirty note. I wanted to dream with her again, but she went away - I had to forget about the deeds I said were ok. I saw soil stuck in her locked hair, and I could not best it that any more. How has the universe been treating her soul-manure?
Was her soul-book for the after life filled with awe or mirth?
Had the tree’s love cornered her in its shade?
Did peace exist in the certainty of a frail life?

*********************

There was talk of musicals about dead kings at midnight’s cry; we were here, our palms grasping their heartlessness for the first time. Curses going on with clapping hands; and so wet were eyes, getting on with someone’s birth date. You could shake the silence but never disappear. They tore my name out the window and I found it difficult to get to myself and the forces of loss. I was happy, wrapped in the robe my mind made up.
And here they step into the room looking like in-between nightmares… ruined city towers hovering in the distance. The rut of terror in my throat still thinking that it was prophetic of occurrences to become of her visit. But why such clarity of color that I’d even recognize the skirt’s silken fabric in glossed pinkish orange daubed embroidery? I had hoped to awake and sing to her instead, a greeting:
‘Molo Ntokazi Entsundu…
Ngaz’ba uluhle lwe’ndalo lisa khanya nga’mehlo wakho na?’
Hoping to share a breath through fingers and sigh…in awe of the beauty she etched in my MUD.
And yet so brilliantly divine, I took pride to have known a sister who could do that with dignity, without making my unsealed being feel loathable. Anyhow, still admitting that it would be futile for me to claim I will stop yearning…and besides, that would prove me a liar, may he who art loved in the depth of her heart be content…as I have noticed the contentment in her face about the present engagement. Love is impersonal and may it be that which binds all souls in the union of a celestial copulation.

****************

Feeling lost in that school of reveries, I recall a sudden slap by the greenery blotched for a forest thick – walking weighed down a winding stretch of a path cut by paddlers. My placid twin saints were there with me through sense not sight, perhaps dancing around my sunken head as I lay there in torpor.

I meet uncles drooling and familial friends who died with youth’s dark clime, clouds of plastic lives floating over the puddles dried by feet. We chat, glittering faces blossoming with rouge freedoms. Along sleek bends we reach a house - a cool stroke of ease filling our breasts. A joint is lit in this dream, intoxicant even to in-life’s eyes. It seems one who fucked the girl is here, my face flushing with glacial rage. A bony and tattered van speeds past and we swallow its mutinous fumes, gone hidden over-head upon that road of our descent. We wound around shrubs that concealed monsters of our star-lipped whispers, and it keeps flowing, raging, blue lights flashing on its roof like a demon at bliss with wind in its hair.
It pulls up rapidly in front of our shack in the bushes; dust specks rising as the car’s door sways open.
A bulgy policeman with impervious eyes begins a sly silent inspection of our coiling smokes and dusty puffs cloaking tree-tops, and says: ‘You are under arrest,’ tearing my white plastic sack to reveal my measly tattered belongings. He ties one of the saint’s wrists in metal cuffs and calls us to bend over.

I wake up tired and in tears, head rushed with what shame I had withheld for this pen’s death; radical cells running amok in poisonous trails across my skull – combined with the sour after-taste of an immortal dream land’s deathly air. Serpentine were those rays of thought that posed in my woken stupor, acid in girdle twisted around my belly. Much of the dream contents were for deciphering in further mystery spaces. But I was here still at this lovely place full of drunks, genuine threats pinned across faces of bored vagabonds and their queers. I felt irate, entangled in gloom though among the jubilant, chatter feeling like a gnash of teeth, toneless hissing of a delayed lung burning in my chest. My shriveled palms were feeling ghostly since the previous dusk and now the final glasses were being gulped with stale vigor on sleepy brows.

*********************

‘How are we doing this morning?’, comes a voice piercing the bubble in my head, sickle arms stretched to my yawn, sword face flashing duly before I could strike a response to my throat.
‘Dumbfounded my friend,’ I say with tears blistering my eyelids.
‘What’s wrong?’ a saint stammers bending over my face disheveled by pain. Twisting his hands and hair poked sincerely in this morning light dolefully climbing creased curtains, my poor breath blasts like tar smog from a warmly drained nasal cavity - a scalding heat swimming through an open window. The saint rubs off sweat dribbles from my forehead, mingled with droplets from blindly stingy balled sockets.

I awake with ghost dull aroma of dawn sullying other overheard snores bound to each breath’s horizon. Church thoughts being lighted in mirages holy as art us of piety’s burden. I was dumb struck with a gnawing pain. Saw two birds peaked in a duel over a worm. I fluttered inside with shamed pity, love smitten and fouled.
‘Is there a fucking drink in this house?’ I enquire in loose death breathing its demand for relief. The saints tear a thimble, lips parted by heaves twiddling in my bosom. Froth ascends at the scarcity of a numbing drink, and then awkwardly joints grease to a forlorn brace for strength. They hug me, bravely and brazen with comments of courage. I heave putridly, moans leprous upon their soaked shoulders, plumes of misfortune intermitting with rage exuding from love’s hatred.
Thoughts frittered away my machismo as we stood, beard bristles daubed with spittle and mucus; brimming silent curses at love.
‘We should visit father, I say’, the other suggests in a warring dare, ‘for brews they will never muster… to avenge the poisons injected in us.’

*******************

Why the concept?

The idea actually came to life embryonically in a restaurant downtown
Jozi, at Niki’s Oasis in Newtown to be precise. Embryonic because it was
an infantile conversation that sprung it to my attention, more so
intrigued by the conversation’s inherent innocence, hence the comical
approach to debating the topic of xenophobia. Everyone was inebriated of
course, more so when you could comprehend the extend of the zeal that
fueled that binge session we congregated at, after shooting a play
directed by Ms. Warona Seane – For Colored Girls Who Have Considered
Suicide by the American playwright and poet Ntozake Shange. The Alexandra
Township Horror dimension was the main focal point of the discussion
incidentally, with many of the acquaintances attempting to rationalize the
consequences by dealing with some purported causes to the pandemic – like
unemployment, poverty, allowing a visitor to carry your crops back to
their homesteads because of some revolutionary allegiance and many other
sexuality oriented causes and effects. There were tiresome philosophical
discourses exuded by many at the table; talk about some reinvention of
Orientalism versus Occidentalism – the vision of otherness, even some
brushed up with antique thoughts about the construction of EGO and its
self-awareness being molded out of an awareness of the other and vise
versa.

The sublime momentum of the conversation fascinated me, the comprehension
of minute details around the foundation of myths constructed by what most
call a colonial syndrome, making a transparent figure through whom the
naiveties could take true gravity – I could then extract ideas of
sexuality based xenophobic responses through dialogues like: Once you go
Black you can’t go back; economical xenophobia as pronounced by low wage
exploitation of foreigners, and the subsequent neglect of local labor
forces in need of capacity by the informal labor sector and most commonly
the myths constructed by notion of beauty as characterized by western
convention – that THEY are too black, THEY smell, even that THEY use BLACK
magic, etc. It became evident that the issue of Xenophobia should then
require to be dealt with from the minor and not congratulatory
perspective, which would border naïve innocence in order to unearth the
deeply entrenched misconceptions, even those that seem unrelated to such a
form of hatred but still prevalent within our collective social psychic
construct.

So, the idea was there, intriguing and dense; requiring extensive analysis
and scrutiny for a proper execution that would reach the intended
objective in the psyche of the audience envisaged.
I had minor production experience since film school (which I dropped out
of when during the second year), so the vision had first to be drafted
into dialogue patterns that would allow for my mind to function around the
narrative esthetic of the final vision. I am poet by inclination, and it
is thus that most of my colleagues felt that when I write out events for
scenarios – I tend to rigidly condense the treatment so that even they
would feel rather excluded from the entire creative process and
conception. This pent up inner scourge I have truly come to exorcise as a
film practitioner who is well versed on the collaborative nature of
filmmaking, hence it was necessary to call upon Ms. Neo Masekwameng to
handle the management of this vehicle. We then together with Mr. Desmond
Mthembu, Mr. S’fiso Khanyile and Mr. Sam Mmutle devised a strategy that
would involve a vast number of other under-resourced filmmakers, friends
for cast and other interested entities enticed to partake in what was
termed A COLLECTIVE SHOWREEL. The envisaged show-reel would therefore be
every participants’ personally owned intellectual property that they would
utilize how ever they deem necessary for their careers, be it as portfolio
of works and even as debut art-works for first time directors, producers,
DOP’s and other creative talent involved in the birth and growth of this
concept.

The method behind the madness

What are the common misconceptions entailed in various social expressions,
be they verbal, which could emphatically be labeled as xenophobic? This
was the first question we asked ourselves at the beginning of the initial
phase of concept development. Ideas started rolling on the table, streams
of thought unleashed on the vast landscapes of creativity, and the next
thing after a week; we had seven concretely crafted scenarios which
tempered with various textures of myth surrounding the exegesis of
xenophobia as an ideology. It was therefore essential that we decipher:
How xenophobia permeates and evolves within social norms and moral
constructs, how it affects those ignorant about themselves most, how it
devastates economic goals and aspiration, and how it breeds hatred that
eventually becomes expressed in brutal and aggravating ways on those
deemed as OTHERS.

Ok, this is getting too tautological I realize and too long for an e-mail
about a project I want to shoot like late December and early January, so
perhaps Sam Mmutle my colleague would write a bit about further
developments that we had to inspire within the overall strategy for the
production of this short film. I mean there is a number of us who have
been fully working on the concept, sourcing funds and just doing the
Research and development of the project… I need some of your help… anyhow…
just to get shit out of my head. Just finished cutting a dance piece and
would like to do more…

Let’s keep chatting…

Nommo

The Rut.

Having been burned with the crucifix of hearts I left behind…the trail of loathers churned further my ashen instincts of a self-executer. The day began the mincing of anticipations…when all that which entailed a year at work would cease.
Worn-out workers were scheming for a rest in reposes of their own yearning. Dreams about excursion to far off friends…then, the clamor of the bilious guffaws in the mist of befriended colleagues. There was no going back on their vows for binges. Wheels were oiled in sheens of lusts gone wired… and when the coward’s love showed a bit after the applauses…
t’was like the mesmeric effect of a final act somewhere in the world. She wore black of a rapturous weaving motion, subtle fabric on the chin of my rowdy stomach, and the coward shriveled with agitated mirth of bones. A light glowing in his lungs, and that moon in her breast boiled his eyes for a death of a blissful kind.
He, after raucous farewells and winged-hugs for their souls…the twine love anomalies bungled into her hearse.
This vagabond she hitched found sleep an option, beckoning to lay for while in her tomb, on her sheets whitened perhaps for tears.

She left him for dreams…, storms in his belly calmed by sweeter water.
The kisses and his found color in grey mood. But, all had a price betokened their worth…he was awakened for yet another celebration later that eve. The shallow root of a desensitized hedonist agreed for him, and forth they traveled to his will’s end. Met with her blood and their autumn queens, a clan of known compatriots… in cold seclusions of a venue enhancing mysteries woven on each face. He was wrecked with graceful delights, child-like in his laughter and gestulation of fun. He cracked jokes over those implied upon him…the coward poetic in naïve romance of a company he never could afford. And night drew a knife… bladed moon hovering over rivers of tar at midnight.
He could not even climb into her high-raised automobile…they suggested he catch a ride from a lower wheeled other.
It is said that’s when a moaning wolf loomed from welters of his heart, he couldn’t tell birds from his lashes, eyes bubbled in rage intended for those he blamed.
How blame finds refuge in stupor of inebriation.
He was meant for this reckoning with his fate. Then, the poet was beat to shit.

Electric blood gushed from a split marked on the corner of his mouth. Tantric convulsions rose in him as the car’s door swayed ajar, taking hold of his fall…his colossal defeat slumped on cobbled paving. The woman’s vehicle shone headlights on his cowardice…weakly rising with mundane swings at his assailant. The sober brother of lover rains thick blows on his insults. Hooked fists jabbed on his rib-cage and phony struggle not steadied enough for impact. He swallows another backhand with black of blood dried by hot steam from his coaled skin.
‘I’ll kill you all…fucking freaks. You all are hitting me when drunk?’

‘You were not drunk when you insulted the blood who milked with me…she left the womb for me…you fucking downcast motherfucker. Loser…swine’
‘I’ll kill you…all, fuck you,’ the coward bellows as she stumbles over his crushed face. He reaches to reprimand her compassion, it hurts her…
‘Your fucking brother’s fucking me like this…you set him on me like a hound…fuck you wench.’
Brother hears further insults harangued at her, he charges to defend with death the revealed wounds traced on her brow.
She’s beckoning for an explanation… whilst
the coward howled in a method so beastly that neighbors were roused.
Blows unto his sagging head…the left shattering on stones, ring of swirling blood in cell debris. Helpless - now with a fear that was murder fuel…a fear for truth of his inanity. They pushed him on, sister still shielding his life with her breast. Ruined ear puffed in grape hue, disgusted eye ripened by blows that also choked his lung with asthmatic contractions. There he is, matter of insolent caste among the high-bloods who will never render to debasement. He recalls later that she towered over his bleeding face in copulative intent. She mounted this dying young and washed her tacit innards with semen infected with bile. He still cries murder at her…somehow, and incidentally that’s the story he passed out. Yes, he was…
Of martyrs and the dying young;
Callous wrecks on the dunes of dung…
Morgue-lips lisping in narratives betrayed,
And ogling the soul-manure decayed.

The cold garb sunders in these pails;
Eyes of moist utterances flayed with the un-gay…
Fluted ramblings quake innards, and
Streams of peril wade the wake he spent.
At this final seizure of thought, the petulant seer glances back upon his face parlor with juvenile confusion – intent on further mendacious reasons for exhibiting tendencies of self-excommunication from all that art him (be that in patricide – a perfidy towards his birth.)

The Myth.

Then, the myth evolves thus – that Blacker Mary could have laid belly thickly flat and eyes rounded in golden horror, when man-bearer is ruthlessly raping her for 270 days to then offer her for ransom to demons who keep his legs (therefore what’s between them) free. Nervous break-throughs and obscurations of brain work – and that which follows moons of succumbing to her most pedant tools – these called him to seeking all pale graves in reverse sexual war protocol.

‘She will ravenously crawl and claw, re-ingesting all lost secretions this male counterpart’s incompletion let through her worn pockets.’ This, the coward figures as the pedant rogue of revenge.

Yet the android coal man still possesses keys to her chastity belt, he thinks. He will keep her as thus, in search of that virginal orgasm initiated upon the rise of her abduction. She will glorify her Black Man, bending further for his creditors to skin rewards for sins she has no clue about. He would have perished by then, lonesome and love-lost.

There on raucous decks, on desks antiquated by legacies of bloodletting…there, vultures will clan along for blood-trails – hers; pent on relieving their own penury for high-blood. And there, she will lay legs agape and waiting masses of ants to reap the rot left in her valves - toxic, abiding with her punishment…cranially maladroit for any final soul-germination.

The Man she dreamt waiting like a soldier without aim, she will return homeward… only for ceaseless ingratitude, un-whole and wonder-eyed from flesh-pools she would have waded. Penile violence dripping down her marvelous thighs… tyranny of fate ravaging her will for life without love. This was that which the coward prayed, the clamor of purgatory brought forth for her sole venture. This would be his vindication from shame’s losses. He thought…

The Rites.

The poet wakes to the bone-walled stare of reality…solid pain gnawing failures out of pores. Crimson pillow, seeming daubed in an amateur’s stroke…creased into a portrait.
He rambles out of sheets to relieve morning’s bladder and that’s when the monster stared back through the mirror. Disproportionate features bloated on his jaw line… ear at mercy of air. Left eye sealed with mucus blots, the sting of dry skin gashed with impunity. He wonders a while what happened? Where is the woman who housed his bruises?

He walks about in search…she’s nowhere to filter some confusion out his marrow, to disarm his-self. The inharmonious nature of his furies and thought-leaps keeping him in monologue.
He says: ‘The way of the procreators.’
Vessel of speech is frightened, recounting his selfish orientation – pussy plunder. Be this reactionary or existential, the malady exposed here incarcerated his sense of guilt…for whence the mind is gripped by such waves of an inimical darkness, no law can judge the misogynous monuments he will erect in his chest.
He asks: ‘Would this be…how mother exchanged my sister’s womanliness to me?
Was it set sole to provoke further alchemy?’
The bloated mirror-twin speaks in lisps unto the coward’s steady glimpse - beggar messiah with a seed forgotten in eyes of far-removed martyrs. Veins like tubes of steel, he was tested on raving boulevards wasted and equipped for any self-ingesting menial. He felt a ruin collapse in him and soon recoils to thoughts of her. Her contaminants. There was that identity of interest she exhumed. His expanse thirsted for a storm, ragged with dim tadpoles that would mock her cherished head.
Heavy drill of night was teasing this wretch…his palm seeping stains of her strength – her cups of denial. The stench of thought-ridden twin mirror beings – acidic, odors of gloom tugged in rancid waking after copulating with a beast. Razor root spreading wall-paper whores on his charmed skull, poetic slurs shoveled with sweet debris riding his spine.

After lapses of perceived time had bent his knees dry…tired and somber he walks home – graven images cut into aging cracks in his face. Above all, he asks how he’d let this humiliation take toll?
Could it be that the bile of misty tears and the sting had reviled nostalgia weaved with dazzling stars that creep up his window?
He was one who knew too much of the beyond – land of his cravings misconstrued in flesh’s clime. He recalled that burdensome Elysium she called home…how his terror peeled the gold of her rims. Perchance she fenced herself therein, like a tormented incarnate to assist in his burial.

She must have had the benevolence of a chivalrous love to query the valid he displayed, the rule of this angelic rescue blind in the sizzling balls of her maturity.
How could he misunderstand that secrets don’t exist?
How’d he love in a method known solely to his-self?

He came trudged to the city’s clutch, air choking the raging hobo’s momentary vigils at crossings – ambiguous odors fogging routes of tarmac. Breath struggling, puffs of sheets coldly rising to embrace the nearing noon. Work-mates joined the waltz of order, flocking to near-by taverns and side-shops.
The many avenues of departures rigged with plain black visages… menials always in queues.
Wading stung balls through acid smoke, melanin coliseums founded on legislative poison fillings, square holes of residence; there he grinds his knuckles on roughly plastered entry-bends. Cabs whiz past serenading noises into oblivions, half-blinking moon staring with contempt at serpentine eyes. He blends with the crowd…fat faced wreck seeming broken in tin-drums.

The face high lit by fierce inner-sun, rays aglow for his shame…whisper from stray gossip mongrels. The shell of his welling covers his identity…this he finds comforting. ‘They can’t recall a broken face…’ he swindles a retort based on the notion of neutrality and anonymity among his kind – the Negro cloak of invisibility. The shell awaits this exhausted lout… air preying on him through the jacket smeared with dried black blood. He sulks innards, defense of his aging is in the aching teeth. He reacted to sidewalks with such automatic response that one would think him home among these who night often to catch the moon’s sweat up the sky’s lace in chase of mid-night.
The poet walked his sobriety to wounds, among streets and rusty grins of glass brains, aim of a somnambulist was written at his heels. He was trembling still, rage and blob left-side of portrait selling him to strange laughter.
He became a bleak shade on tar, as white stripes of neutrality that led him here.
Black sacks bulging with elements of nuclear-families’ refuse, waste consumed from radioactive intestines and butt-holes not so laconic. One is slit underneath, oozing glue-yellow glistening.
He bends to finger the point, from where he doodles the smeared mess…montages of hallucinogenic bites spinning abound his twin tombs. Cotton brain soon runs his mood in chase of calm.
The chase toward his vacancy breezed through erect masonries and stalled automobiles… a town with its lone ghost named MAN’S. He figures the absurdity of all this and halts. On those tracks he raises his head – there in sight still, strapped at its mouth – yet another sack, black with mystery. He fondles the plastic make with a stick he picked up lying next to the anomalous object and rips pressure out.
Contents are gut cut-offs, interesting mingles of bile-sour seeds burst over gonads of a dead thinking animal.
With each poke, each stretching of intestines therein, antiquity floods his brow.

Maps and star-maps of anatomies beyond flesh’s design plunge at him as if into a calm pond. Sages of hidden tribes gather in his blind eye…his dark; and thenceforth solace was only in departure.
Dull chill of late winter bleaching his skin, hairy and ugly as he slides a palm into his mouth – magically grabbing hold of his right leg.
Uncomfortable as that show had become (even to him) – he resolves to drag his entire skeletal posture out if the naught and turns himself inside out. Bundle of shifty slime – bloodied and washed in gall looking at him.
He knew himself…rapid projectile spark of life flexing through an inverted skin sack. Foggy burps emitted a stream of an exposed soul…naked before his claim for composure. He felt leprous now – the breeze milking his strength.

Growl of worms in tripe, exasperated sugar-hungry intoxicants – he would pass out soon - throat chapped for words of begging.
How dumb could a servant be to think work causes not hunger?
What hunger is this which the hypothalamus cannot torch on pages?
His white matter sloshes into sewers puking drained ideas.
Had he strayed from the target view of that window cut in his chest?
‘Had I?’ He petitioned among other whispers.
‘I hurled stones at my own panes; yet, do I remember?’
‘Did I disregard the mystery of her face to that which I can’t see?’
‘Do I resign all might for the mockery of my ancestors’ cruel silence?’
‘Why does terror bring out charm of most men?’

These queries exhorted the poet against his gay ideals fathomed about sex and its proponents. The progressive demon vexed on the hobo… chest filling with many dead vagrants of his making.

Bishop.

Bishop pulls a stale cigarette bud and scratches a light on murky wall. The poet recalling disgraces crouched in his towers… how she paged through option of escape. This was it, her reprieve. A sickly lover pinioned by fear of his skin. His rage forwarded to years in their return…that mission of hers. He calms towards joy…an un-dulled kind of happiness.
Catwalks brimming with marching of man-hooves sandwiched by browns of stone and car-cells.
His face pacing the lick of sheets embroidered with aborted jewels, cold beauty of the poor in folly of attempts at riches. He deflects his will to the base of his fears…this indelicate brace of a harsh life. Affirmation of all his composed inadequacies comes as in these words, haunted and bustling with a need to outline his imagined and frivolous reality.
He insisted, often times on subverting his vagueness with regards to life’s experiments; but as with all polished neurosis and sex-hunger, only a face obsessed with admirations showed in his words.

Yes, he admired the ones who coiled his breath with copper…suffocation of passion, how it bred lusts for mineral pillage. His.
He could explain his reticence towards all emotion, because he hadn’t felt the mature trickle of true morbidity. He knew no sorrow, yet. He thought in anticipation of worst to befall. This was the moaning dissipated off an ambiguous rabid soul. Bishop noticed this through his insolent silence. The volumes jarred in his rasped, coil-canopied skull. Thence, Bishop tore the cigarette from his lip and suddenly frightened this pond of still-water with flurried lessons in misogyny.

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.

The Creature Woman.

Her sun was physically a cube of magic at its spirit. An Isis factor by name that conjured an oddity of minds with silvery streaks and print rings spun about her rock loin. Like earth’s sister, with an ant-colony off Saturn’s moons, rocky breasts heaving fumes of plant exhalations banded in clouds. Could the poet regret a cause of riddled will? Never… for it hadn’t been by urges to avenge his untimely loss of a womb-donor that first codified love, but solely courage in gazing into another of beauty’s faces. Perhaps he could never bring quit the quest for patricide; or the strangling of the woman-man dug into him.
To stare at the many faces of love, she said, after ingesting minions of posthumous intelligence from which wisdom could have been cleaved: is not love-hunger which behooves senses with axioms of infatuations and a torturing need for permanence in attachments, but an effort to find oneself through those eyes.’ She spoke of love unhindered by cages affiliated with persuasion’s bosom. It might be a journey devised from fury against loss but all fugitive pain should first know a dismissal ordained by time.
She was not of swanky maids initiated nightly by force armored phalluses of brain pimps posing learned, those that merely peel their walks to ogling glances – demeanors conned for buttock-ransom battered for mansions.
She was too proud, which noosed me towards her madness – an enclosure with sensible abstracts she bore for thoughts. She was with mine intact, fleshly minded and clothed in slouch rags, the pace, skirted by sorrow of her age – denim youth in a figure of salty gazes.
We walked her towards the station that afternoon in April – at the platform – there, no friends, just lovers who know love for its motions – a gulf for departures’ entry into desert of emotions’ beckoning. How they’d met weighed by notions of probable lightness against oblique mediations on that frozen hour… time preserved for their sail saturated with chewed-up feelings.
Both plagued by rubbles of inner-junk, fetishes and totems for charm when traversing lakes of love’s dream, we were snarling disobedience at this novel dance into black wills of negation.
Refusing severance, she hugged, bedded upon shafts of my void’s chance – wishing for ingratiation, persecuted by memorial connections to eternity…ours. In crystal reclining shadows of night’s approach, we brace and cry. Then’ with midget strides brisked towards metal exits…his discarding method of a soldier to war takes toll; she waving surrender to the moment’s sour acceptance of a stone heart devouring its hopes.
It was well in that dirt museum bided, markings of departure in collaged sweet stains, and those who were to stay behind in the grit of a purple mist city retreated.
He was an over-ripe corpse arrested in this mutating vault, bile terror rasping and love celebrating his dejection. The poet sugar-boned goes homeward, a fathomless destination for those who failed to leave. Head sunken, he swallows scents of hungry eyes, lean men with heavy goggles celebrating the dirty catwalk tales – the cowardly kind, who can’t bear the swell of Bree Street’s violence. Tunes baked puddles with their sound sewer hums; all to shelters of rage.
The poet decides home a sarcophagus bred for avoidance; he tilts his views towards a place of rhymes, session-orgies on lyric scuffles looking for other skeletal masks adulterated.
At the venue he will find only demonic attentiveness sprawled across calcium-chest scaffoldings, breast-less in de-sensed rude clasps on tits after punch-lines would touch only spongy sags. For this play he lumbered forward, for his fears and grief…for a cleared atmosphere without physical healing. A lulled apocryphal black surfing the sun into a sack of metal and hunched streets – soon the crackling freeze would pack with dizzy commuters into convents of automobile vigils.

Blind windows laced dreams plastered on dead mural-sex-shops pose braving blizzard traffic with blindness. Snout of night’s breathing demon seeking out the deranged to torture with orgasmic musicals – he cries foul, night planned his fate with a grin.

Numbly and stunted by despair streaking from his palms, he faces an invisible stroll down slant curves of the plaza glistening with dead pictures.
Salt-sore wail of the wind’s music soaring in the maze of water colored masonries, muddled humming bonnets to the quite of an alley cat’s starless slumber. Silent wax carnivores leap over iced-tears on tarmac, over squatting walls coroneted by blood of statues – stone men who watch their paws ponderously. A drunkard-fucked-asleep girl tumbles in hold of a bandaged fool calling at filaments aligning catwalks to reveal her demise in a silent language.
Huddled and leaning in chatter slipping from her fried gut are slurs directed at her assailants…all masculinity who ordained hatred for wombs of their making.

Soon, some juveniles speed up the tar’s roll – intolerant of those who choose to drown in sleep with the city’s exhaust-pipes’ operas – some jolted awake every seven minutes of sleep, either by bored police louts or whorey art pimps starved for nicotine in the mouth of Satan’s town. A bandit poet’s heart dragging blind sewers of theatre avenues with other camouflaged beat commuters; he will face the blue of dusk he swears… night’s blisters he will lick.
He wished to turn his soul automaton unto headlights showing the back of his head – her – that life night risen in time for his soul-split.
So much was yet in dying; this he basked with crippled talk of one who believes not their own lies, stripped of all belief in temptations.
He chases a brief turn, bends with edges of ant city avenues – glass panes derelict with a fowl image they reflected. A hideous monstrosity glows in the mirror together with the brigade of other cowered souls ebbing towards haste’s concerns. Nudged aside with slurry contempt filled with commands of passer-by’s flurry… hurricanes were strewn along with what was left of the tottering skeleton; the poet’s mirth at life’s dream looming on a contorted face wistfully.
Mourners and other adjuncts to religiosity’s instincts found disgust a suited response – yes – rightly bestowed this sopped felon gnashed by jaws of traps laid in joy’s range. He dared look again into the mirror-wall; a twin-soul aging seconds adrift in stale mood he dares carry further. Boiling other incantations unto his crippled birth; he names his-self a ghost predestined a gown of earth’s dung. He decrees that vinegar in his lung will subside within the coffin of exposures.
The poet decides, yes; to go forth and bear the brunt of eyes; ant-city grinding its towers’ furnaces on windows and doors. Lures of boredom sent him after bridges, stalking Wanderer’s Mothers lapping the spectacle of a son who could be their own. Whistle-marked within whines outliving silence’s ears, he needed to find a friend.
Eyes itching, puss-laced tongue over blood-ash teeth salivates a lick on chapped lips. The poet swallows crusts with other inner mouth bites running a scabby nail over bloated ear’s relentless buzz – still, framed windows on machine coffins cast an audience of tattered eyes of melanin terror poses coping with purgatory’s clime.

How the whole world seemed pained to a man celebrating sores? How he could disbelieve everything else – that boy buying an egg for his pocket; roasting nuts and cosmetic echoes of thick shoes kissed by June’s land? How we fuddled our misgivings for rituals of our twisted morale?
How we die each day, without trying… the slight of rage at confusion of our times?

At The word-bazaar.

It was some certainties that brought the poet to discard the habit of speech; that is, among all other functionaries of pious orgies still self-ingesting. But the integuments, between which he was stretched-drawn back into the womb, stank of earth’s mouth dug-out ruthlessly by acids of mortal breaths. The jowl before him was decreed by birth, yes; that sin of truth ever unvarnished. Like a phallus spent, all his prior endearments were seeding in regret. He’d transmuted through zealous perversity of poison common on faces he identified in his. Was he pretending sorrow? He asks his other seer.
Did he fail an obligation to mourning and ministrations of his insecurity? He was suckling at the honest margin toward solitude and world-hatred.
He felt all nobility hewn treacherously out his soul-modicum; left in a heap guilt that whirled with unabating tempests of multiple selves.
Those agonies of street-dependence endured thus far, all transitions to this painted clime, all reveries of dispirited minions; he could finally simplify into myths of his fulminated mud.
Poems tremulous innards, others spilt over admirations staged commonly in back-alley platforms sponsored by patrons.
This night, perhaps a gathering scheduled for workaholic breeds whose listings of priorities had time for an enemy… was a night of breathing his pain out, too. They scheduled their rage… yet he couldn’t, laboratory base earth hadn’t freed him; it all felt his suicide’s last attempt – a gauntly respite after those paralyzing soul-strides.
That was where I met Lazar; at this cabal of infamy, he dispassionately sat the drag along… beer in front his posture leant over the oval table. Hordes clattering around his indifferent pose… it was hours of the sun’s last leap through the horizon. He seemed the type who spent longer time asleep, but now… he was locked in labyrinths of obsequious demeanors and disorienting occurrences with all the dying young.
I sit opposite him, unable to restrain the urge to encounter his mind – he nonchalantly adjusts in my presence and other rude cliques. And beneath a gloom-ridden breath some unruffled whine bursts…something like
‘Isn’t birth a divine right to die?’ I imagine he said that.
The cursed language which fosters multiple meanings; why such an introduction? “You don’t believe me. Anyway, belief is never sure.” What… I think. “Lou Reed.” I love him, I say. A brief introduction entwines us and soon as he beckons me to lean over with a wag with his seemingly boneless lower arm.

Smoke-puffs cling nebulously unto his face – leaping ceremoniously towards the ceiling, shading hues seeping among eaters of machine-food as we watch others’ arrivals. Permanent residents and spenders of energies; more resonant transfusions of words… from smiths gloating over kitchen odors and factory diets. The scourge of language being a necessary evil, here – kept afloat tongues of idealists. Poetic disorientations booked theatres without ghosts, filled with Bibles of ornate verbiage yielding reversed curses and somber assaults in tedium.
Fictional losses and ambivalent literary orgasm roared as marketers of soul-marrows buried yet more evidence of a nation’s molten bones.
Lazar watched this spectacle notoriously, obscurations of thought-realities to pedantic ridicule; word-machines with further abscesses of hearts modified into stone-weights. Begrudged women – word victims loving the mess. Dogs laying eggs for fragility’s test, poetic hounds apart from the rest of campaigner of blindness.
And suddenly Lazar spoke a whisper of a defeated expectant: “You should be up there.” Like a poet he meant. “Otherwise die with tattooed wings of truths’ corpse – in your mind.”

He jabbed a thumb at my skull “A poet unheeded? That until age moles furrows into thine face?” This he said black-eyed akin a death gaze of a dream monster.
“Don’t be a hypocrite.” Those words scarred me in view of the frenzy of juvenile ranting – demonic jubilations at pleasure’s station called Freedom.

The poet begins to sweat names – tonight’s day solemn, metallic crafts in a blinded cafeteria. Telling beads of his wrath shadow drawing over this museum of lost laments; into vacant ears seethes like a cure the bites of his tongue streaming lines of paralyzed sparks.

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.

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…

Theorem 3

DONE-IT-AGAIN was at it again…
missed his pregnant mama with a bullet. Then police swarmed the streets, and they were all confused, stranded on those bullet avenues with other overseers of his plastic biology…like officer friendly, with his robot uniform.

And DONE-IT-AGAIN was cheering his desperate perfume, he done narrowly survived. He was hailed a bootlicker – at that clearing on the edge of a tangled city rock, at the edge of a world in a glass. He became that new nigger, elfish and bowlegged, hopping on a busted leg. His mother was a slave-breeding muse and his father rusted his bones on troubles.

DONE-IT-AGAIN staggered and said: ‘ask me about teenage suicides and other unspoken genocides…
Like how nations are killed with pesticides and how a hero’s birthday is celebrated with massacres of infants’.

He traveled widely among pocket bureaucrats, among charity museums, among imprisoned leaders and peasants on truck-loads of fire, noosing his neck like a stick on a coward’s arm. He huddled a hit and run pistol, his shadow hollowing in sounds of his wheel-burrow bosom filled with revenge. He remembered; He touched down, all crushed and craving death. DEATH waited at an intersection where ordered soldiers decapitated him; his head displayed on postcards sent back home to sweethearts allowed a love who supported shackles. He touched down, crushed and beat…and death was black in the veins of this feature fool; an option-less fellow…yielding to nothing in the heat-blizzards of straight-jacket individualism. He lay on a wall paging through a Martian bible…we later discovered that he was massacred through the stomach and through other scourges of the black holocaust, like destitution, suicidal family systems, the immobility of the ghetto and the present-day death-count inflicted by aids.

Picks and spades redefined this new nigger…like DONE-IT-AGAIN cursing clans of proselytes lamenting jesus’ anthems in frail hope of flameless sleep. He sensed their fear of dreams, of death or the dying aims of life.

He was a new
nigger.…
He
put
on
a
steel-make
smile
and
kept
on
the
ground,
with
his
skin
stretched
over
his
palms.
He was the new nigger, as that past did augur a monstrous future gnawing into his soul-fire its waxes that sizzled a fear of sights to come. His dreams without future - the rent armor of joy wrinkled with crusted wounds – the brow and a lost heart that knew what it thought it wanted. He recalls writhes of belly after that night’s amnesia; having seen friends one way or another.
Past valentines he shunned a cold gaze at piles of arms lovingly traveling within his moon song.
It was the square for some, but future’s street
he’ll leave behind soon, he thought. Along, flying the broken neck of person-lifeless but at pleasure’s torpor…
Stars kept twinkling in blizzards of whores
chained to losses; he too knew gravely the future’s blinded eye – brow bled.
Winding spirals about trees grew into his lid; he calls at faces of jubilee’s seeds.

He loved and cared for momentary lies
contused about their cold bitten bosoms.
The moon blinked, shoving sending petitions of their souls afloat, over this wake of shackles being left behind.

Sachets of clots – hemorrhaged patella
Lumbering with sweet bells of
Skies lush and loud.

What future’s night is this?
While buzzed adorations hurricanes
From these children’s aims?

That was war – Perhaps;
As the cradle for beast children stood
On speakers blurting out slurs of a repulsed populace.

Revolted coffer of punitive gain
Seen for bile it tastes like; called this:
Blue mood.

A short heart signaled towards stars in supplication; to gods of gore – a voweled mouth in rude ranting of noise-infested-skull in defect mode.
He sang loud, louder then, a muffled echo paled with the lid he was peeling.

Stars sang out loud in him; coughing blood, ulcers on palate gone loosened by wine.
Crimson spat on shoulders of white-collars;
murmurs of the vigilant say that he should cease or he’ll sleep on concrete under foot of vibe’s commuters.

They straddled him up, an ooze of skeleton
having vacated skin. He sings out loud,
newly lithe louder squeals of a mauled animal.

Foxes skinned alive in his song;
The moon song stronger on the scar,
The square’s avenues brimmed with intoxicated bare feet.

Vagrants sleep scattered in every distance;
Struck brightly and then dim, then panic installations through the final gulp from a vase akin to the devils.

Foil glass moribund reverse curse at puritan instincts, He swallows the last of the sack impregnated into his belly…The burning years of his birth. He tarnished the angelic façade about him in many, demon blade in eyes – blood rage and teeth slits.
Behind his chest nothing kept barren and calm;
He wanted to suffer from bitter wine –
Singing loud…
Louder until the picture was a sacrilege to pleasure,
Colliding with disappointments and
The whine of waning sorrows… HIS.
Behind the door shut at his rear, a girl cordially snakes in to blend with the mood of his jail. He met her at the scene of infamy, the street passion’s war. All visits thus far had unwrapped what was said to be love, blinded by beauty’s youth, yes. In her box of fetish lusts, brows winked, laid combed to rest by sometimes merriment. He was hell to abide with, a monster treating her welcoming coal-pussy with raw disdain, she had often felt.
Scrambled thoughts often whisked passed her eyes, me; engraved therein like a silvery silhouette. The blankets that Adam had splattered with stars and diamonds shattered during cracks of dawns, for those would violently reveal no shrived gifts unto her. Coldly still, he knew colors of rage un-powdered with love she yearned. There within art anchored weights no water would wash; she seemed to have crossed this broken melody with other unscathed mannequins fallen into pure smoke of his charms.
Her purity’s scar in nude contest with other stray love-seekers, she would cry tearlessly. But did she know the ruined roads he had sailed? How shaved skinless by sweet blades of truth this poet was? His life’s chances exchanged with strangers? Did he conceal his bed more? Did his cold trousers foil cravings for fresh lips, the mush of news about fly sirens tugged between sepulcher thighs? Was this storm solely to abate flames acquired through familiar coals? Was this negation of compassion a mere tattoo of greed or one-eyed scaling of time’s predations?
And as ghosts bury their past with all its unhidden promises, the poet stares as the moon gets milky blind. The mood of barbed incarceration with a spider queen ensues.
He thinks of fleeting dreams of creased manhood worth hurling curses of broken rods upon, wolves which could not be carried away by tides of memory.
Yet, he always finds himself clinging among those feeds, stranded at every tune perfected by episodes of longing. Her gaiety with teases he marvels at. Could these lovers be restrained by their blue-eyed fears conned from blistering heat-waves of genital never-minds? The poisons needled through rays, orgasmic skins; the poet now knows he was sent here - to this wrecking yard of riddles.
He stays calm strangely, in sheets with rage.
Indiscretion is uncalled for in this bed; but how long will luck’s child-age lock horns with sexual bartering gone wrong?
The lump of concerns over her diseased footsteps – he was yet to be aroused as the steams of tempests kept the crawl innards.
He watched elements of her naivety laying beside him in dreams; sacrificial upon his pillow of damning lust… yet he had to control.
Morning was nearing as chain-tongue sky slanted over skin-town and he hadn’t dreamt. Nameless roars were starting their sibilant hum through the anorexic tripe of a sleepy city. Torrents of dream-starvation assailed his brain. Mental liberty felt dilapidated watching orange-bright melancholy of machine dawn poking through stained windows.

At the
Fowl remains of his life’s poem
Fleshless and head-spun
by whirling pillars of waking…

Mountains reclined within the rampart stupor of birth, whence treasures wrung their vowels around rays of the twin-sun.
He salvaged poison from the brain of a drunk, faceless monkey battling a drift into a dead-man’s dream. The dead-man was I, whence I’d recaptured my skull-wood and shaped it gain to reconcile myself with the longing for the wild loops of mechanical absurdity. Sweeping beneath the dragon of our flight, we touched down to hug the ground after finding our pain too tame to inflict on others. Concerned solely with threats of a second-death, we wasted no time on digging for golden ruins or storing blunt-ended pencils and other ammunition. We instead were trafficking with dreams and blue-prints of revolt. With ancient vapors tearing ether like wails from Gillespie, the idea was our id from these ghetto laboratories of social detoxification.

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?

Theorem 4

Now
Synthetic flakes,
Gift-wrapped…
Across hatched fields
Of water,
Occupied
A fear of dreams
To end death.

He sleeps sweetly
In these safe-wings of tosses.
In the colonnade,
All doors suddenly swung open.

The wall bears a glare of ghastly wounds,
In these rooms of age –
An un-forgiven dawn poses for land and
Bites a chunk of the forest.

Yet
In his room
Light never steps outside.

This is him… derelict and sour. Sorrow’s calls piling his ears stale, soul broken with money fever; winter chill cursing cheeks with a bitter vulturous pang.
A brisk shower at dawn waking city acquaintances to common churches of supplications bolsters a rage at waking for servitude. Fucking consensual servitude! … All awhile, his face dismantles salty pores with hideous concerns. The grave wonder of fatherhood he wears near the brow.

He prays an Ode to Recycled Breaths,

Dawning within the din of roars;
City bile churned in frozen bust of a cruel queen…

What of the city of the dying young; stooped
Towards ransacked glories terror-bred?

Would their nights conquer the un-knowables,
Cloaked in the mist of your charms paling with moon?

Did the fall encounter thine rise, whence you’d
Learn the dust’s kiss as brace of maturity’s travail?

When blue bright crept over the shield of dark,
The clamor of sweet colours peering innards…

The maimed soul soars still, above the war-zones…

Of minds untimely wake – when death’s trance folds for day…

Today, bent on marble outside a prison of his wits benumbed, a defect in days stands in the form of a friend. Startled, he yells a salute mirrored with a loudening fear for others.
I watch his enquiring gaze, his brace on my arm chapped with frozen dead wax-cells. We speak in murmurs for a while until a burst of guffaw tears the silent chatter into bolts of vile comments.
He was calmer then, an aura’s stain that remained. Perhaps a maternal alchemy by design, or sporadic vigils in phantom rooms that creased his soul to its present becoming. Both closer to birth then, I called him Bakunin, anarchic in thought and ever jostling wits with politicized ideas moistening my brain with doubts about machine-life. Frequent cries of other mongrels harass him as well.
He curses and spits the old of life thus perhaps those new in dying. Truth’s Raider pales in talk of aims festooned upon his shoulder, about sores crusted in lands who knew not his name – mother being there.
A bevy of debts he managed to fend off for a while fuels talk about a man’s willed procession towards the stake lust-erect.
He castrated the poet’s myth of grandeur quite early in their acquaintance, wisely for both. I speak – we speak. A pastoral depth to his utterances, only disabled by a Cassandra syndrome he knew too well. The walk is not appeased by those sirens either.

A stout pedestrial pestilence of street-feet at dawn’s might we wade; man-murk in a precarious rhythm. Bakunin knows all false dead-ends. Coaxing the morning towards a stillness – we fan noises that annoy us and waltz. He speaks – we speak. Crushing lungs with intermittent guffaws. Why us? We ask of each other. Are we facing suicide’s door?
We name time in methods defeated by banal validations for our hedonism. At a nation’s cider castration sessions lorded with accolades divine ordained… we laugh about black-outs and the poetics of perils cost-bound.
Unveiling multi-verses in dunes scrapped innards – I hold a breath at stars on his brow. He’s divine. Messianic sacrilege in intercourse with hell’s brides. He faces God in me – a machine puffs against its past, with all else raging cold beneath a winter’s blue. Towers condition air for plastic gardens as maids brace stairs, yet a soul-craft still awaits us whence we’d hugged finally for this day.
I see many a plea in him, yet should wait his courage’s patience. We exchange bows of offense unto my coin mangler towards whom I should steed.

He walks away somberly and I also broken in repeat death nick. He will ask for help though he says help is conditional.

Theorem 5

At the lips of a well
Where
Fertile cross-roads disperse
Into a forest thick…

A hunter is crowned
With sticks.

And children come forth
Into a shelter of vultures,
Like birds who fed on stones
To be scotched, bitterly
By fires devouring the rocks.

In the frailty of hatred,
The hunter heads out,
Leaving ravages
Behind his rear
Toward a shrub density of that
Thick up ahead.

With that magic grip folded shut behind its walls of frozen time,
Mute-hood swung;
Stroking bitterly,
With dangling tongues…
Tongues caged
In toothless carcasses of a goat-head…
Trailing in blood,
The hunter,
His rear is wrapped
in the shroud of the forest.

Soul-mind paralysis as feather anatomy caves in cremated by dismay and swimming out of ego’s equations slurring a hatred of failures unto his self. How I killed my marrow rot for no gold-dust. Yet my son’s faces glow - a monarch chariot spirit returned for my millionth blow at life’s paths. The black book of thoughts continues unabated. No lies therein. The poet looks martyred, one of the dying young in landscapes of insobriety.

The vein spread forth
into a tree,
so above and so the root,
that crystals of birth
could linger in sands
voicing their wait for a re-birth.

Theorem 6

A dead man can’t brave no longer the adverse hell of no flame.

When the dream of imageries antique slide into oblivious man-groves, would mystery be our flawed method at self-ingestion ever so apostolical?

We are here with others in the fall,
they claim scars of joy and pestilence, yet
in time’s scrolls nursed are pusses,
like a rung arm, the burn is wild.

When the mind shook,
With pity for a past upon its helms,
How can the self
Be worth more
Than to die
Even by own hand?

Theorem 7

Why blink in these waters?
Selling wands of mud
To still-births,
loveless?

Headless drummers
With
Voices hidden
In wood,
Why pet destiny
In leprosy of your charms?

Why the rattled bones?
Black dust rising,
For the hanging of hunters…
The ribald and unruly clamor of their concealed tenants.

Flickers of ambers and
Sparks of edgeless fires
From long ago
Froze in a night,
Sky poisonously creeping on
your blurred fall - thee
a wavered leaf.

Sirens belch out windows; leaves spiral back up trees as eyes lie that light is leaving the outside. Darkly winter thoughts mine the skull for flowers; Truth’s Raider still on my mind. I call him about a lover’s return. Which? He asks. The thrice smitten heart that foiled mine. It’s a chilly afternoon and the bubble of anticipated calm shapes the mood as rain stench from afar blossoms stale city breezes.

At rope’s end, Truth’s raider finally calls destitute. With no worth’s weight on the day of his eviction, he decides to ask. The necromancy with dead landlords caught up with him, since they could reach from their graves for black sweat’s coinage. The need vies courage to ask me to action. He’ll be over tonight, despite knowing of the woman’s uninvited presence predicted. He sounds edgy again, steadfastly hateful of his father. I wonder why? Another note in my macabre discoveries of suspicion’s buffet. I recall what he’d bore openly, secrets I bestowed with bandages in terror’s seat of his mind. Purgatory graphics on Bakunin’s brow stuffed with wits in tatters. He loathed life’s stake out at rope’s end… now he was to find mine hanging in the slim shape of a woman.

Then, Mud recalls the immediate inclemency of monetary dependence. ‘I am at work still, for lepers’ sakes…’ He paces pretentiously towards the lavatory to steal a reflection of an impersonal child-face he has screwed over his own initial mask. Feeling atrociously wounded by perversions internalized with hypocritical smiles, he looked calm and erased of all torment’s scars. Slippery notions hunted him out, forbidding and accusing – ideas of black waters from a staunch woman - fish smell that clouds his nostrils with a fix that chisels from the hips.

The strain upon his thoughtless rigid face wore a raw derogation he felt in the very essence of all pseudo- patriarchal victory. He could claim.
He should have been marveling at having conquered a woman’s insatiate bowels spilt at his ill feet. So obligingly does he have like a baffled pet dance to customary dreams concocted with that irritable routine every woman can endure - when they’d show up uninvited, speaking of love while the snarling man visibly dejects the rude interference and invasion-technique so loved by them. While he was attempting to dislodge his bones from the clutch of aversions, he decided on selling himself further lowly. Things after that short while of awe at each other’s verbal wet-dream did become distasteful even before secret pains had not been popped. How they often gallantly fore-sell their consent; bearing all manner of vicious viral ramblings when clashes of slurs rattle vermilion in their minds’ midst.

He walks back to settle his table and leave, not alert enough to notice that Truth’s Raider had arrived. He fumbles with material customs breaking strings his poverty’s surgical murder bred in mind and spliced vacuum eye locked. And the saga hooves over a mound glowering its profane heel’s sparkles. He looks dejected, airy egg-skull calling to itself some rays lost among skyscrapers.

Dark face and eyes violently blinking, Mud feels all senses wane… starting to loath talk, a bastardized faculty when among the inane. Truth’s Raider is a joy to converse with but not with what is menticide to the poet’s void. I signal we should leave. Outside, the chill gnaws ears, and eyes begin watering moist fog. The poet draws his spectacles restlessly and rogue…dark mood over his brow. We wait for a bus. The crackling engine whizzing its song arrives, and inside crowded decks a history of a nation’s scraps of hopes painted on morbid faces. With early morning’s jubilant chatters having given way to immense contemplations, each were sensing god’s abominations knotted about their souls.
The poet feels in an incorrect body too, expelling oneself with questions buried with the outside.

Upon this paralytic parable stands a mirage of this man with a future not seeing itself. I had chorused his name and more had occurred that I had called him friend. The motions shimmering in his soul; stolen verses of our identical yearn for death wrung about fingers duly mingled with work for gold.
I recall his posture about the skyline of his birth-city when oozing rages of myths which founded his maturity.
He had seen a man kill three in a landscape strewn with silent witnesses to death… commuters on excrement’s routes in pretense of sobriety… in the midst implied evil in days married with rainbows of their shadows. He reminded me that I was once young, Truth’s Raider I had come to label him. He’d ventured into this dream during an annoying phase with a woman, a woman who named herself mine. The length of our acquaintance still was indefinite, now when looking back. We’d walked a day’s noon after stale lunch munches, with a penile curse glued to our brains. Matricide and Patricide… as for the mothers chaired by slurs of time’s wheeling cruelty.
Then, we’d speak of aims we saw the patriarchy having bred into the contemporary cauldron of our misgivings. The poet would have said that …the ultimate goal was the eradication of the female part of the species.
How? Truth’s Raider would enquire ruefully. ‘Men, having conjured a totemic ideal in their image - the masculine god utilized to subvert the female role in the scheme of things; sought methods to further reverse the rites of nature. First, off the dichotomic perception engendered through antique misconceptions that male and female sexes art independent of each other; saw us men cleave a diabolical promise of grandeur as necessary’. He’d let me mumble my inner blurs and proceeds his analysis of me as he’d come to think of it.

‘The feminine,’ I’d recall raging with zeal of half cooked ideas, ‘… being of a creative force stratum, had thus to be balanced with an opposing yet necessary imperative for destruction so innate in the masculine counter-twin whom Gaia had birthed. When man knew of his birth’s well as the crimson wound lodged between her thighs, he raged at the truth-bush of his stray from the unborn’.

Mud suddenly remembers that it had then been three weeks since he had been in Truth’s raider’s company, and the pastoral dignity had seemingly contaminated him as well. Archangel tones reeling from his creased lungs felt akin a blaze devouring veins with warm weight of dismay. ‘Those who birthed thus had mates of their un-births crawl from the shafts of their mystery’s dream.’

He recollects remnant ideas that he entertained then, that man thought of copulation as means to his undoing from the realm of this cowardice - his present; and thus found the alchemy of his unmaking. For he loathed his self, wished man not to create yet another horde of soul-servants unto his maternal dream. How he loved a woman whose hatred for wombs’ toils greased toxic balm unto his ears. Hell-bound on returning to the womb; he demon-fucked, raped, aborted and amputated genitalia in that orgiastic regaining of his limit’.

But there being a norm of boredom to hatred for talk of the uncommon; be it about who dared be born lame of eyes - paralyzed in mind – we thought about politics a lot.

This day, we waltzed the melancholic stench of city vomit aside each brow. He calls whores by names, cooks of bile and tripe by surnames respectful of their ancestral charms… sniffing urinal perfumes sleeping in public lavatories, a vagabondage reproduced by illogical urges bred in a labyrinth, he calls the filth of his past nigh.

Having dampened my morale towards his will, the righteous platter banqueted before me delicious for a misanthrope’s psyche spills while I pace hypnotized by his tongue.

An incandescent sun disk falls over an orange speckled blue. Legend sky’s birth of darkness creeping over earth’s palate acidic. Derailed mentor nation in stolen hope-vehicles’ races channeled on steel routes – melanin immaculate… masses restored to peace’s wars at dusk; louder with clanks of mis-creation greased and wheeled with other effects of freedom’s resurrection.
At the corner, we jump off towards our war-zone, mine at least.
At the corner, stagnant time fuses solitary bombs innards men. Bone unions gather at humiliation’s bell.
The poet wishes birds dancing across that sinking eye… darkness raising its brazen gulp towards the moon. Truth’s raider offers a cigarette to break the melancholic sights of men on the corner’s gravel throne. The poet concedes.