KHAHLISO MATELA

LOVE RITES…

The Rut.

Having been burned with the crucifix of hearts I left behind…the trail of loathers churned the ashen instincts of a self-executer. The day began the mincing of anticipations…when all that which entailed a year at work would cease. All the worn-out workers were scheming for a rest in reposes of their own yearning. Dreams about excursion to far off friends…then, the clamour 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… ’twas 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 in his eyes for a death of a blissful kind. He, after the 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 sheet whitened perhaps for tears. She left him for dreams…yes, the storms in his belly calmed by sweeter water. The kisses, and his found colour 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… cold seclusion of a venue enhancing the 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 the naïve romance of a company he never could afford. The night drew a knife…the bladed moon hovering over the 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 the moaning wolf loomed from the welters of his heart, couldn’t tell birds from his lashes, eyes bubbled in rage intended for those he blamed. How blame finds refuge in the stupor of inebriation. He was meant for this reckoning with his fate. Then, the poet was beat to shit. Electric blood gushed from the split marked on the corner of his mouth. Tantric convulsions rose in him as the car’s door was swayed ajar, taking hold of his fall…his colossal defeat slumped on the 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 the 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… the coward howling in a method so beastly that neighbors were roused. The blows unto his sagging head…the left shattering on stones, the ring of swirling blood in cell debris. Helpless – now with a fear that was murder fuel…a fear for the truth of his inanity. They pushed him on, the sister still shielding his life with her breast. The 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 the 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 waded the wake he spent.

At this final seizure of thought, the petulant seer glances back upon his face pallor with juvenile confusion – intent on further mendacious reasons for exhibiting tendencies of self-excommunication from all that art him (be that in parricide – 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-through and obscurations of brain work – and that which follows the moons of succumbing to her most pedant tools – this calls 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 the 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 the raucous decks, on the desks antiquated by legacies of bloodletting…there, the 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 the flesh-pools she would have waded. Penile violence dripping down her marvelous thighs… the 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 the failures out of pores. The crimson pillow, seeming daubed in an amateur’s stroke…creased into a portrait. He rambles out of the sheets to relieve the morning bladder and that’s when the monster stared back through the mirror. Disproportionate features bloated on his jaw line…the ear at the mercy of air. The 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 of his marrow, to disarm him. Then, the inharmonious nature of his furies and thought-leaps keeps him in monologue. He says: ‘The way of the procreators.’ The 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?  What it set sole to provoke further alchemy?’

The bloated mirror-twin speaks in lisps unto the coward’s steady glimpse – his beggar messiah with a seed forgotten in the 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 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. The heavy drill of night was teasing this wretch…his palm seeping the stains of her strength – her cups of denial. The stench of these thought-ridden twin mirror beings – acidic, odors of gloom tugged in rancid waking after copulating with a beast. The razor root spreading his wall-paper whores on his charmed skull, their poetic slurs shoveled with the 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 has reviled the nostalgia weaved with the dazzling stars that creep up his window? He was the one who knew too much of the beyond – the 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 him? He came trudged to the city’s clutch, air choking this raging hobo’s momentary vigils at crossings – ambiguous odors fogging routes of tarmac. The 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 departure rigged with plain black visages… the menials always in queues. Wading the 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 the serpentine eyes. He blends with the crowd…and fat faced wreck seeming broken in tin-drums. The face high lit by fierce sun, rays aglow for his shame…whispers 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. The shell awaits this exhausted lout… air preying on him through the jacket smeared with dried black blood. He sulks innards, the defense of his aging is in the aching teeth. The poet walked his sobriety to wounds, among streets and rusty grins of glass brains. The aim of a somnambulist was written at his heels. He was trembling still, rage and the blob left-side of his portrait selling him to strange laughter. He became a bleak shade on tar, white stripes of neutrality that led him here. Black sacks bulging with elements of nuclear-families’ refuse, it was the waste consumed from radioactive intestines and butt-0holes 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 the pressure out. The 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 the 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 thence solace was only in departure. The 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. The bundle of shifty slime – bloodied and washed in gall looking at him. He knew himself…the 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. The growl of worms in the tripe exasperated sugar-hungry intoxicants – he would pass out soon. The 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 the sewer 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 the 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…the chest filling with the many dead vagrants of his making. Bishop pulls a stale cigarette bud and scratches a light on the murky wall. The poet recalling the 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, the cold beauty of the poor in the folly of attempts at riches. He deflects his will to the base of his fears…this indelicate brace of a harsh life. The 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…the 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 the 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, he 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 though I floated with. ‘It’s a religion of wenches steeped in a 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 the wretches 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 consumer item of 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 forfeit the metal force of their labor routines.’ I notice how age had moled into this man’s face, the 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 the disciplines of these 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 the noon-sun under a suspicious shade worn in the 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 rays of consoled smites. All seemed to adjust to this drained atmosphere – devoid of color. As they reach the scanty regions of their residences, less populated, among metal fabrics…frozen buildings…the cowardly poet realizes he needs Bishop more, even after the eruption of markets filled with clicking voices of bakers and tripe-chefs. ‘Bishop, you were speaking still.’ The poet sensing the dejection he 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. It was my shame. Perhaps hers as well. And her timing? What amazing penchant for the accusory.’ This narrative was deceptive from the on set…this I could tell by the long 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 the marrows.’ ‘How violently I watched the trembling fabrics of twined womanhood in the sanctity of this dream – photographs woven to my staring walls; the mist of smoke – thoughts were 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 the 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 their desert of hearts, dried pits and their tempestuous eyes…the riders still fused to the back of this horse’s posture. Ride away he thought, seeming to darken in the plea for a grasp of rapture. Bishop tugs again into his swamp of cigarette buds concealed in a bank-pack zip-sealed with weed. The fumes raging through the slits and wools of a jacket in tatters; the doped greens frothing in odor of cheap half-puffed tobacco. What other in-between investigations was he spading out of the junk-brain for this poet? Was his fright for this young skull too? Fingers numbed and slacked folding over the cancer phallus, he rasps a query in the midst of coughs and phlegm ingestions: ‘Is that a way to live, man? That’s 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 the 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?’ ‘No. No, the question should be, does this imply suicide amended in the flaws of living? Does death come as the sole noose towards the true freedom? Tasting death out of self? ‘Would you therefore bear any unspeakable of pain; ransom to the commitments of life?’ As we bellowed the 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 together sketched upon his face like vomit stains. He follows their throng for 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. More amorous songs deserted through this 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 this abyss of waste – childless wombs pouring oils of sorrow on bars and ashen trays. Cane-legged others shit snorting the wildness of dark beats. Ragged flap of boots on glitter-floors – their 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 the rants of chilly thrills. Cannons of utility stirring this blanket of sour air – revolution maggots on T-Shirts and other brain-news calling the locked freedom to the grail. Night-town peopled discordantly – he rubs his eyes – sloppy boned poke into stuffed sockets… a bashful calm tickling. The solid dark outdoors nuzzled in corners fugitive to stars – dull blue-lit avenues of adventures excused. Low risen pressures froze in figures of the 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 the morning slew a milky-nail suspended like a new-born horn above these raucous hedonics, Bishop faced the night behind, the 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 the thighs…sirens wailing about other disasters in the prison of alley-ways. Beneath the 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 his festooned plastic roofing he will contemplate the 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 the brevity of his treed 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 that 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 the 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, the ravenous eyes creasing my face – swarmed by the 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 the 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, the 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…

For the Dying Young.

Of women who spill their wombs in deep-sleep; death’s blood-clad men shaking hands with their compatriots, that’s was the design humming the 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; it was 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 in 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’d loitered the street and now this vigil. Shifty ghosts in slacky pants green, dreary coats 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 the mortals. Tortured packs look sandwiched by penile walls and choking streets filled with narrowing traffic after luncheons. The city is 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 the grime of tyre-splashed wells of fesses. He misses her for what seems eternal; clouds rolled behinds towers of gas, the noon having bleached the masonry of his prides. For her he sheds a consolatory tear balled in his 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 the anxiety of feigned affection 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 the charming eyes of an intelligent pet…an un-bounded heart playing miser with my sores. The sunset soon looms laced in the sliced sky hovering ridicule over mankind, shadowing the plains – sunset melting the glazed eyes of fathers, mothers wheeled tired. Queues to cages of their oblivions; here he was given something to remember. Desperation in his little smiles – questioning grins cremate poised by the patronizing pleading supplications thereupon affixed; the time groaning the gruesome space between the populaces’ shelved lives. How somber he might have seemed, that only now he’d feel embarrassed by other enormous heads lurking unhinged to their burly postures. They are my fathers, mothers and others rogue as the slums. He would have thought then that love was like a building ceased or forgiven, its fluids drained from its cement-bones – a labyrinths of the 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 names 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, the rocky breasts were heaving fumes of plant exhalations banded in clouds. Could the poet regret a cause of this 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 for the 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 the swanky maids initiated nightly by the 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 those slouch rags, the pace, skirted by sorrow of her age – the denim youth in a figure of salty gazes. We walked her towards the station that afternoon – at the platform – here, no friends just lovers who now know love for its motions – a gulf for departures’ entry into the 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 the severance, she hugged, bedded upon the shafts of my void’s chance – wishing for ingratiation, persecuted by memorial connections to eternity…ours. In the crystal reclining shadows of night’s approach, we brace and cry. Then with midget strides brisked towards the metal exit…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 the 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 sewers hum; 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 the sense that 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 was 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 with dreams plastered on dead mural-sex-shops pose braving the blizzard traffic with blindness. The snout of the night’s breathing demon seeking out the deranged to torture with orgasmic musicals – he cries foul, the 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, muddle the humming bonnets to the quite of an alley cat’s starless slumber. Silent wax carnivores leap over of iced- over tears in the tarmac, over squatting walls coroneted by blood of statues – stone men who watch their paws ponderously. A drunkard-fucked-asleep girl tumbles in the hold of a bandaged fool calling for the filaments aligning the 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 the hatred for the 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… the night’s blisters he will lick. He wished to turn his soul automaton unto the 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 the 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 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 the contorted face wistfully. Mourners and other adjuncts to religiosity’s instincts found disgust a suited response – yes – rightly bestowed the sopped felon gnashed by jaws of traps laid in his joy’s range. He dared look again into the mirror-wall; a twin-soul aging seconds adrift in the 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 the 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. The 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 the whine outliving silence’s ears, he needed to find a friend. The 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 the bloated ear’s relentless buzz – still, the framed windows on machine coffins casting 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 the 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 that pious orgy still self-ingesting. But the integuments, between which he was stretched-drawn back 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 a poison common on faces he identified in his. Was he pretending sorrow? He asks his other seer. Did he fail an obligation to the 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 the unabating tempests of multiple selves. The agonies of street-dependence endured thus far, a transition to this painted clime, reverie of dispirited minions; he could finally simplify into myths of his fulminated mud. Poems tremulous innards, others spilt over admirations staged commonly in these back-alley platforms sponsored by patrons. This night, perhaps a gathering scheduled for those 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, the 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, as he dispassionately sat the drag along… beer in front of his posture leant over the oval table. Hordes clattering around his indifferent pose… it was the 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 these 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, soon as he beckons me to lean over wit a wag with his seemingly boneless lower arm. Smoke-puffs cling nebulously unto his face – leaping ceremoniously towards the ceiling, each shading hue seeping among eaters of machine-food…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 the 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 marketer of soul-marrows buried yet more evidence of a nation’s molten bones. Lazar watched this spectacle notoriously, such 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 this 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 blinded a 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 the cold stares of spark-wreathed oceans coagulated abound me.
I paste and ink these 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.
And eye says … eye shun these 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 his 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 the 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 be 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. And with their contrived orchestra from cracked chests behind the 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… but 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 the lewd norm 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 these blizzards of neon dazes illuminate their cotton brains finally, when the night losses its youth; only then would the poet claim that shame is 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 had stood mesmerized for a while after the recitation, on that platform of vigils and 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 the chair street reptilian. He felt bled word 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 line towards their exodus of minds – masses marching, hording diseased stock… flaring the vacuum of his chest. For a while, he was a profligate – responsive to the inertia of his beast-lung… a sprout mud-skinned, mocked by sights of possible revelations impending for his final bow in this lime-light. The drooped faces afforded sudden commentaries over his stutters, his new-fangled words desiring deprivations in others… psalms of his 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 the 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 of 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 revolutionisms. The rays of their cowardice ascending with the 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 the 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; the 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 the 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 the hounds of his junk-appetite;
His return from word prison-rites was harsh, like that congestive fix of pure marijuana charring the
dread-filled lungs, weaning the 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 the fangled leftovers of the 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 the poison 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 and 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 the 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 the delightful recruits scaling the ruins for some coal inventions
And as his night prolongs the jam on that bridge to both ways; neon-pleasure breaths a fetid cloud against the 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,
the silvery kitchen slaves 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 their 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 the hounds of his junk-appetite.

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

Theorem 3

THE LAST FEED BEFORE….. I am filled Breast-full with the cacophony of street design With the woeful swirling of dark rusted crumbs Upon her visage of stagnation The City… Her vast veins will soon cave-in Listless Like testaments of opulence.

If we be burned by the warrants of greed monkey-wrenched and damp, us the slaves who poison and attack the stoic erect masonry of walls stretched hovering over car-cemeteries If we be buried with these needles In blue skins of the expanse Disinherited, bound by our unborn feet Howling across dead silent swamps, Frozen with motorized can-machines…

Would we not Tear-wrench our hearts from their cage of plastic ribs To render our protest at thin sacrilege – Our womb severed for blood donations…. Would we Not, resolve to that final slurp of thinning air? Resounding from eternities llucidly like the cries of our mothers? Ramshackled women with folded faces their bodies displayed in a state of torture.

WOULD WE NOT shed our vandalized liberties, not cowardly die; THE BLACK MARTYRS AND THEIR RAW-BONED WOMEN at the funeral of a noble cause?

When my father passed away at birth faceless and upturned Lips contused into a purple shade… The coffin of his twilight, its wires rattled in the last spectacle of death; Like mud-fingers pointed with impunity. In the midst of many a gallery of shacks; The toxic army of single children together with crucified futile black wrists – their eyes bleeding… Upwards they struggled, chained and earthbound, in convoys towards places of lessons.

And, in a litany of tears choking waste-paper buckets with mind-sores of truth, They ask: ‘Who is our father?’

Who is our father, at this last feed before our souls sail into slavery?

Rodents crack the earth’s crust. Bicycle tyres slosh in shallow murk of crescent avenues. Township philosophers mushroom in suburbia THE NO CLASS, DROP-OUT TYPES…SPEED FREAKS. Mermaids are driven on highways of psychedelics mesmerized by the design of this industry. They are turning their needles of smack on some well-off student activists. THE TOWNSHIP CROWNS THE CITY… With faces slashed with lip-stuck brutal vibes Baskets with holes carried by children queueing for rations of American aid… And, the city caves in.

Midnight hour strikes the capital Motorized carts will soon shut off their engines and methanated street prowlers will clog the silent throat of city sewers with the rubble of city sluts…

And the township crowns the city, with alley slaves – a 1000 trouble-tossed forms responsible for garbage migration.

Scattered wrecks maul the horizon As the city rises out of the slime Piercing chisels of her inferiority through to the skies An amphibian beast Reeking of sweat from them… The blood-smeared metal skins fangled for this festival of death-dances.

And tonight rests the last feed before my soul sail into slavery and now is never, when I say now The lone runner soars past the twelve moon and listens to laments of these wooden people Strained by birth to death twice the sum of all evil Responsive to hails of overthrow From voices in furrows and catacombs Castrated Like muffles in syringes of longevity waters from acid reservoirs.

And the lone runner soars past the full moons Saying I am specializing in revolt… NO OTHER FORM OF SOCIAL THERAPY. I AM SPECIALIZING IN REVOLT NO OTHER FORM OF SOCIAL REBIRTH.

The myriad outside had gathered balls and friendly legs chained to some social contracts their fathers bandaged as gifts. The rains deterred none, sense mattered not in these 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 the fanning blades of night-air; roots of its lights bent within walls and corners crashing official.

Mysterious names run 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. The 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. After lapses of perceived time had bent his knees dry… tired and somber he waltzes homeward. Home. He thinks devoutly as according to the desire for shelters, graven images cut into aged cracks in his face. Above all he asks, how’d he let this humiliation occur unto himself? Could it be that the bile of tears misted and stingy had reviled the nostalgia weaved within him? The dazzling stars innards, which creep up his windowed chest quenching his inquiries with death-strokes fearsome. He felt he knew too much of his beyond – the land of his craving misconstrued in flesh’s sensual cathedral. That burdensome Elysium, HOME. He trots beyond the wear on his thighs, inebriation’s strides taken weight upon his soles dust-kissed. The thought of her… smack slumped in his cold mind void – a tormented incarnate to help bury him. And yes, he was being buried as he spoke with his insides coaxing deliberations on his earth-journey. She had the benevolence to query all valid rescues he assumed abound him, those that blinded him, displayed with the sizzles of his immaturity’s eyes. How could he have misunderstood that secrets don’t exist? How’d he love in a method known solely to his-self? 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 the order of queues toward nearby veins of departures… menials always in queues, slunk heads studying the concrete’s eternal dream. The poet wades the stung balls through acid smoke in tin-drum fires, melanin coliseums founded on legislative poisons of square-holes. There, he suddenly grinds his eyes on another of the street’s lessons…

Theorem 4

DONE-IT-AGAIN was at it again…
missed his pregnant mama with a bullet.
Then police swarmed the streets, and they were all confused and 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 them 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 the 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 the 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 the 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 the
Skies lush and loud

What future’s night is this?
While buzzed adorations hurricaned
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 coffers of punitive gains
Seen for the bile it tastes like; called this
Blue mood.

A short heart signaled towards the stars in supplication; to the gods of gore – a voweled mouth in rude ranting of noise-infested-skull in defect mode.

He sang loud, louder then, a muffled echo that 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 the 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 of 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 the 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 the pure smoke of his charms. Her purity’s scar in the nude contest with other stray love-seekers, she would cry tearlessly. But did she know the ruined roads he has 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 the 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 the fleeting dream of creased manhood is worth hurling curses of broken rods upon, the 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, the orgasmic skins; the poet now knows he was sent here – to this wrecking yard of riddles. He stays calm strangely, in the sheets with rage. Indiscretion is uncalled for in this bed; but how long will luck’s child age and 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 the 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 we starting their sibilant hum through the anorexic tripe of a sleepy city. The torrents of dream-starvation assailed his brain. Mental liberty felt dilapidated watching the orange-bright melancholy of machine dawn poking through stained windows.

At the
Fowl remains of my life’s poem
Fleshless and head-spun
by the whirling pillars of waking…
Mountains reclined
Within the rampart stupor of birth
Whence treasures wrung their vowels around the rays
of the twin-sun.

I 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 the 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, and the idea was our id from these ghetto laboratories of social detoxification.

Fringes of folded skin
Glaring from behind the skull
I fiddle with the crevices
Warmer than the shadows of any deepest hide.
I stood
Pleading with this impermanent feature
Saying:
Tomb
Bend to the wind my sob.

And, a hung bird
bickering at the still eyes of an oxbow;
faceless bones plodding on.
Wind-cut flesh…
of yet another fathomed prey
I was.
With mildly examined terrains of distemper.

A cast away moon
So bulged and cold
Touched the antechamber to my resolve
From this here narrow horizon…
A blaze lingered
Upon its brow –
A simmer of eyes
That art my own.

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. Thus, Eye weighed the scales of the terrains traversed upon pages and bladed mind-dead according to the paralysis of language – The scourge, the impulsion towards the sorrow of truth becoming his sole purpose for transmitting all in rightful accordance to the metaphors conned for the faintly eyes of common-sensitivities.

This consigned final sigh
Weaved in the fateful
Action of piety’
Art long refutable
For a self-torture,
Like a graven image

Cut into my palms.
It talks 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 the 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…the gallows putrid with human sweat and peeled nailed scavenging city-microbes.

They pleaded with me
To carry that coffin.
Caged therewith, was the carrion of spider-queen
Awaiting her repose
To own
And candidate.
How long
Longer too
I need two so hours.
Instead
Of handling them back.

Theorem 5

Now
Synthetic flakes,
Gift-wrapped…
Across floods –
Hatched fields
Of water,
Occupied
A fear of dream
To end death.

He sleeps sweetly
In the safe-wing of tosses.
In the colonnade

All doors suddenly swung open.
The wall bears a glare of ghastly wounds.
In this room of age –
The un-forgiven dusk poses for land and
Bites a chunk of the forest.
In this room

Light never steps outside.
In this blind-fold
I could see through
the walls weeping,
Till poison started seeping from scabs.
Water mingled with brass rusty looking floods,
Rising to drown the light
Who should have stepped outside.

And
Man’s desire
To call himself
By the names of things
He made,
How god-like.
He orders
The slaughter
Of fallen boys;
Fitly dealing
Nature‘s analogues
waiting a-tuned

Theorem 6

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 that 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 bitterl
With dangling tongues…
Tongues caged
In toothless carcasses of goat-heads…

Trailing in blood,
The hunter,
His rear wrapped in the shroud of the forest.

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

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

Theorem 7

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

When the dream of imageries antique
slide into oblivions man-groved, would
the mystery be our flawed method,
at the self-ingestion be ever so epistolical?
We are here with others in the fall,

they claim scars of joy and pestilence
in a time’s scrolls nursed are the pusses,
yet like the 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 8

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

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

Black dust rising,
For that 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
The blurred fall
Of a wavered leaf.

Mother.

She dreams
She is sickly
And alone.
She’s mother
To grief’s children.
She yearn
To erode the sand
From her palms.
Like the shores carving patterns of their retreat…
With waves of tear-bagged mist; what of her chapped lip
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…
A blind eye
Gasps for silk-light
That is shed upon skeletons proclaiming a paradise for rootless feet.

With a collection of starved librarian trends,
Wrapped in mud and the powdered lips of a night’s wind,
The ghost children…
Their radiant faces blush with intoxication
and the stifling fumes of their religions.

At that church of bigots,
Medieval breaths were gradually reduced
On a down-hill run…
Lidless eyes offered large expanses;
Stained with commandments
Of a narrow man,

Whose head is filled with parasites.

With octane lips and gleaming fists of the tar-wand,
The magic machine kept bowing its deceit
in the immense tragedy of attention.

Trudge on a concrete sea.

Captain of the sun-ship on the horizon’s blade, tears a cigarette from his ghost-lip….
Thunder’s renown for rain tearing the gory sea; the storm nigh.
Lazarus wing-flaps his tongue in archangel tones; commands of caution carousing the chambers…
Over the vast pond in silent reflection…
Oarsmen returning from landscapes of insobriety, as of last night…when the ship had burned a hole in its belly.
Every strength held – marbled ligaments unclamping war when he imploded his heart… calling out to the sea’s pits, unto his son’s sleep, and other bait taken in impeccable chivalry.

The murky waves were writhing;
For they’d swallowed a sarcophagus of other heels…
Those that treaded the underworld.

This wreck…now a morgue of dreams, cramped other demon strata wailing at their innocence…
Glib- gab before saying goodbye to his tomb, the captain crucifies his deck with fire…
Snares with his rear eye unto the maw;
Paradise was that which he had left for vultures.
Gulls towering above – the stark band behind the snail waiting patiently

The hour of death’s birth…
Lazarus cringing; a stallion and a serpent at horns.
Light charring his veins – furious lightning in the panic of darkness;
The waves crashing…
The sea swallowing more wounds
As panic snaked in the eyes of those who survived.
Salts of muscle molten…
The wash of a rising water cliff;
Panic for the wounded…
Every breath wormed out of alarm.
No light- Just odors of composure
On the ghost ship, the curtain of souls rent by the rough.
The ghost ship flirting with disaster…
Zadkiel’s drowned sarcophagus with deaf faces staring at the scabs leeched on the captain’s forehead.

He was blinded by steel blood;
Tyranny his soul’s immaculate reward.
To his wife a ballad he hums –
The sun-ship drowning the wrecked skeletons…
In the corners of their eyes, the reaches of death’s fright.
This womb’s night never ceases –
The work of age calling his children to his fore-brow.
Faith was hanging on a tree –
He hummed, as shadows cleaved fangs into the corpse of his oarsmen.
Why watch this with sulphur in the yes?
Longer with wet breath writhing in inner currents of hatred – A hatred for the self
Who loved so that loss would leave a swine’s lick on his blizzard sores.
He recalls himself skinned out of his mother –
The seeds he threw into the ocean, and

The lure of death by water…
He assassinated his eyes on this platform of the sun-less…
A heap of rope laying sordid upon a block of wood.
His monsters cannot sleep,
Under solemn stars in travail when light was with others…
Descending through the tempest of his imagining.
And Lazarus sends records through his pacing eyes – to drowsy lovers and dwarfed hearts with scum as
their ware.
The stern rising settling the pinnacle hold…
The sea not listening to the passing of a drone.
Death tempting the night,
Arms naughted in harm of seeking air.
Some fall of wills upon the stormy sea…
The web over a wreck, thundered as
A captain folds dying without a love of ends.
Electric storm whipping the illusive day over the clime of roars…Tundra looming as no safe lands,
just wild, calm confident of any approach.
Passing time of wretched laments
Bagged with light he fathomed tunneled ,
A shaft of turbulence –
Fueled by soul-struggles to untangle themselves from the metal.
He whispers love’s final sigh unto an estranged life –
A leper messiah with bleeding claws at his ankles.
Friends drank to his death elsewhere,
He kept the hope…
Devil Company when stupor would be roused…
A magician’s ray leaving twinkles on shrubs of his cowered mind.

He sees light outside his bones
Further retreating from the speed of a sink…
Time waiting in the deep; many-tongued despair of

Sea-weed ghosts camouflaged in the shimmer of other shells…
What rosy fish in his sockets?
At worship posture rippling with beads of vapor…

He was held up in this abyss,
Paddled with forgotten trunks that dealt with the god of water
In the burrows of a tirade mystery.

In a fresh death, the poet propelled through the vortex of the triad Star-gate, the Eye, the sperm becoming but a point in space – an ovum in a tadpole’s squirming undulation, akin to a perpetual comet ebbing towards the furnace of being. 

Recalling the landscapes of his bearer’s womb; the nebulae apprehended whence eye art peeled wide in the fluid oceans of his reside before birth. Death was part of the life thus death being a trance of the in-birth. (Being born to the self) in a death-trance was rudimentary to the lesson flesh (mud) still had to learn. That celestial womb – space; bore this soul-child, the seed of time yet to be born timelessly unto it-self. An after-life; was a melting vault of eyes thence to churn-out splints of fiery memoirs to be salvaged for their delicacy in timelessness. The after-life enunciated a concrete realization of thought-forms emergent from the before-life.

So above, so below; and a tree grew both towards the light and away – roots stretched about rock like leaves fluttering the heavy air stale with sculptured voices of memory.

Many proportions of idea-manifest bore a duality such as above defined; letting forth a reality- definition diagrammatically reprint the third point on the triad of its being. To appear was a journey in itself; being apprehended solely art but a means fractional to entirety of being.

Eternity was measurable… first defined as being and then non-being, thus the being of the non-being transmitting monads with form-engendering capabilities. Probability was the garment of nature’s nature; thus no-one knew what/how reality art. The physical was still not the visible. Whence the trans-normal realization of invisible matter accessed my material mind… eye art 0.4^th of a step toward the God-self, who will peel the skins of the onion consciousness, to unravel the world- (mind) with(in) the untimely excursion of the over-self. Those impinging frequencies were histories of life-times now unknown, memorable jewels coded in the syntax of an immortal language. Matter lay in the hemisphere between the debris of space and time’s temporary separation. Human or material being manifested in overpopulation and multiplicity – the multi-dimensional perception of the over-self projected manifold in macro’s and micro’s.   A single cluster of soul-monads being recycled, hence the belt of Orion has shut the paths for the souls unborn to the born. That stale patron of this generations’ memory bank was disappointed and once the soul-manure was relieved to the worm-farm, the quest becoming the return to that mud realm in death abandoned in order to reintegrate their disintegrated selves. With each kind inclined towards perfecting the evolutionary purpose, all dewdrops reflected their own views – proclaiming that same macrocosm of the cosmos in ‘unnecessary’ quantities. The soul’s journey once hailed among light-years and its rites being of extra-terrestrial exegesis, should be the sole concern with regard to purpose this mud plane acquired for its gravitational tolerance of its earth-form. Imagine the soul as a viral code from the trans-terrestrial terrains – injected from a fierce vessel of a make superseding all spatio-temporal restriction. From its timeless genesis, it has desired to manifest itself in time so to perceive that supreme-self, salvage its feasts kept for a nomad’s meal.  After being hearsed over waters of inner vaults, the SOUL virus infects pockets of primates in varied sections of a spherical planet with the vestibules of its discontent with non-being, that only those fit for pain would prevail the mutual realization of the god-nature. Furthermore, volumes of galactic mysteries were transplanted, tattooed and punctuated genetic Rosetta stones in the hemisphere determined between the primes of their minds and matter. Gross was the shock from the unknown, like death in a negligent biology with unseen vibrations. The monads of SOUL-data thus accessed matter as defined by the dimension of this solar system. This perhaps heightened Mud’s consciousness to a degree plausible for astral transcendence, but which then could merely graft all interchanged astral conceptions into symbolic notations of specialty in Mud’s perception of the objective world.

In the animal’s vast torment, to relieve its waking shocks of discovery, Mud realized the domain of symbols, such as the vibrations, visual, aural and called emotions, be it lust for violent copulations with female-selves. With the sole aim that the seeds fore-borne from its travail would perchance elude the tortures it knew, the genetics conjured an adaptation of the soul virus translated by the paternal atom in the alchemic womb of the maternal Adam. To be the perfected by-product suited as a vehicle for the soul’s residence within this gravitational plane, mud had to undergo varied stages of data trans-ceiving, and over-standing the technique of sleep was one of the elemental leaps towards its newly discovered celestial psychology. Man was left incomplete by a nature that chose to sojourn in the womb of Gaia – the sperm of the SOUL-manure mud became having traveled through a thermo-dynamos, so that even his nostalgic prayers are left light-years unanswered. Due to the mud-mind not being prone to transmitting such large volumes of celestial memory and temporal distortion, it filtrated most of the memory-bit into symbolic notations that could be cleaved for their true meanings, (only if humans availed themselves to time and a lesser contempt of the un-scalable). The idea of instincts recaptures abundantly a relevance in the human journey from animality, for they were lodged animated akin to a myriad of primal urges collected from the animal kingdom, later to serve as data and guiding blueprint for the self-exorcising mud towards a super-self. Through the acquisition of transcendental over-standing of the thought-objects, the animal thus elevated its stature before the gods of the immortal expanse, those who brought the light of thought-order. The excursion of the animal towards the god-self became part reason for the soul-monads residence in mud, that its perception of time could yield a space for recollection of other data from other timeframes. But, the latter evolutionary result called human became prone to searching for the unknown with(out) their external reality, and not innate in the inner reality which has records of the soul’s celestial journey. Man projected the immensity of the god idea towards his exterior thus to be able to ‘conceptualize’ the degree to which the idea functions. Cowardly so mud did, thus not feel the responsibility akin to the divine purpose, and these were the initiating steps towards analytical segregated stances he has since occupied with regard to relation to the rest of the world-reality. The proportion to which man misconstrued this inner nature was thence equal to that of his tendency towards leaning to symbols when realizing a nature to all that doesn’t fall within the borders of his reality-definition. Icons were fathomed through individuated perception, a brutal awareness of the ego at the expense of unison of the manure. This required a great deal of construction manuals for the sculpting of fetishist objects fangled from half-realized objects that are substitutes denoting the abstract objectivity perceived. Thus, mud’s elaborations on those Truths merely paled in the worthlessness of a crude fetishism which are in themselves coroneted concoctions of the monist research methodology commonly employed in objectifying the divine thought-breaths. This advent of arresting and limiting the world-mind with singularities or specializations on one thing, then assuming that representation stands for the multitudinous objective nature is reason for half-murdering all interconnections existing between all units of this majestic unity. Even a dualistic determination managed to bind its mind further, locking its reality-definition scaled by a mere black and white – no matter how relative these ideas in themselves are. Sadly, the reasons for transcendental elitist contemporary formats of religion(ism) take their impetus from this premise of flawed objectification, which then require man to fathom many other totems for individualistic and centrifugal worship. The death-chill these objects of sense would soon shroud mud’s hollow eye with, art now stationed upon a sheet of darkness creeping from the seams of individualized analysis of all, and thus created thinking-spheres bound by their obsession with what they view as factual. The inverse truth is that, any gratification of such fetishes will conjure up perplexing phantasms of universal thought-forms upon which the mirages of self in man will fumble and tie their bone with tongues of egoist verbatim. Modern thought-forms are now less conducive to reduction through the logos, their mental(ism) protracts all materials once discarded as abstract towards an advent of disintegrated induction, whence even the subjective is objectified, but in such a fragmented manner that a cohesive collectivized idea of the object of worship becomes a battle based on individual associations. Those that would find their self wrought in no egoistic re-mastering of the universal mind’s micro-manifestation will be the select who will channel these trans-normal instincts in an intuitive telepathy.

At a juncture such as this they are the God-self in multiple units of a unity. There are, however, misgivings to be considered when dealing with a sub-intelligent thought-vessel. Mislead by the draconian fog fumed through furnaces of hot air churned in mud’s faculty of speech, and in a futile pursuit for a male divinity – man faults the mystery of that golden grail who named them (him) hers. The feminine element exhumed is the idea of space, through her time conspicuously forces an outward expansion symbolized akin to the germination force of the sperm in its most functional capability in the space of a womb. But, what impelled the god-idea to (de)evolve into a sacrilegious lie which misleads many to believe that sensorial translations are fundamental and final? Why had time to be perceived as dichotomized from the space it requires to take momentum? How did time acquire a masculine manifestation in the mud-mind, this being in spite and irrelevant to the feminine manifestation it requires to ascertain its existence? Perhaps answers are recalled with(in) the innocence claimed with aged Thought-waves. Perhaps genderizing the god-principle was a necessary pre-requisite for the mud’s true comprehension and means towards the objectification of the subjective. But why if this phallic concept has proven detrimental to the race’s interaction with her?  Matter has been single-mindedly viewed for what it can be exploited for, this mind-frame misconstrued the procreative space-being, and now subordinated the female-self for a mere tool designed for masculine utilization. His territorial ideal has been an imperative known throughout the duration of mud’s evolution. How has this been applied to all definition of the god-principle, and how has that come to be? This conditional veil of incongruent resolutions proclaimed from the common vantage points for most psychical cowards, never divulge the perspective that, the suspension of the god-idea is a perpetual state of not-wanting-to-know, refusing increasingly to let in through the periphery of their thought-spaces the admittance of the bastardization of the Supreme. It is this consensual ignorance of that which can be known. Through collective negation of the scientific reality sustaining the Supreme, mud has entertained since the foundations of its tangible world a finality of realization that has precisely given man footsteps towards the edge of his spiritual oblivion. This resort to IGNORANCE, involves the act of ignoring and not lack of knowing, this way mud-mind learns to compartmentalize most of its dreaded thought-forms into thinking spheres tolerable to its dimension of preference. This act of compartmentalization is a form of limitation scale that yields pseudo-dominance over the unknowable that the mud-mind might be preoccupied with, thus encasing all splints in the arcane of soul-currents into a realm of the known. To grasp the rapport of the unknown is a means to cultivated sustained detachment from its impervious vibrations. Nature’s nature is manifold, it is therefore wise to outmode the physical as illusionary. Discard that insidious humanoid obsession with fixations, which proves itself a crux of this mud’s self-delusion. When the fixation has evolved into a fetishist ideal, and later preserved by the initial compartmental proof through sensual tangibility; the fantasy becomes deified as an unchangeable and all defying death of the known, therefore universal and god-like. This illusionary god-principle embodies the reasoned boundary between marvel with the known and hatred for the unknown, thus god becomes the diminished one-eyed box wherein the unknown remains hidden, never to shatter its secrets through fragments of abrupt psychical insurgences, which are the symptoms of the soul-plague. The false god-idea renders itself a scapegoat for the avoidance of confrontation with these trans-normal reality-definitions normally garbed in mystery…so that all that is beyond the edge of god deceases bedaubed with the affluence of proximity to death. Mud dreaded death for the after-life it knew; thus, mud perceived death solely for the undoing and cheating of what mud knew. This presupposed un-realization of cherished illusions of mud’s real, when the false god-principle’s wand retracts substance to nothing, it is then that death ultimately parades the cloak of god’s punitive and rebuking character in mud-mind. Then, Mud reaches finality in his thought-freedom, abandoning the power of will to let the concealed remain bare of intent. But, not with complete success for much haunts Mud. And although perchance the entirety of being having resulted as a projection of intent centered in the void of the non-being, Eye imaginer that the project of the manifest would also center upon attempts towards returning to that state of being un-projected. Sudden surges of a nostalgia for the heavens would sweep Mud’s collective unconscious world-mind and then, and only then would Mud be headed for another fractional awareness of the sum evolutionary patterns ordained for the universal mind realized in unity.

‘Fuck!!! I am too young for this thought capacity, I need be innocent first…’ the poet thinks. Blake said better prepare for death, but death I find in the waking trance of life. Heidegger says I am always old enough to die. I knew that long before I chose birth into this incumbent dung of a primate, I slid across Orion’s tiles for a vessel that was destined for incapacity to transmit my most nostalgic memories. I yearn still to recall all that the god-self within salvaged through eternities, so to residually share the magnetism of radiant emanations of energy-diaries, perchance teach it to resuscitate itself after my return to non-being.  My other mustered the alchemy of dreams for this purpose, but if only Mud knew truly the might of this unadulterated frontier. Eye would depart without it healing the wound of our severance. It would choose sorely to beckon for a return to its mother’s womb, cowardly without further regard to her other siblings who managed to find their maturity in the wildness of the expanse. Ok, back to the thought-stream (ab)using my Brain. Nietzsche had it by the horn, nearly.

That I don’t THINK, what ever is gnawing the cranium is far too existential to require my MIND to register it, thus thought-forms as floated my brain in their midst…ensured that the begotten intuition grasped the certainty that THOUGHT-forms can exist without Mud having to think them out. 

Leaving Now.

The beast found mortality’s claw
Plied with morgue spills, and

Dry slumbers into a rogue breath dearth…
Wall-coffin peels its eye,

Suffocates chance’s wounds, and
Pours ears raw;

Rivers at midnight of widow-flames await
The speed of chewed sweat

Acid-poked sunset cast upon a watery hearse
Playing with shut scriptures of life’s abyss.

A Letter dated 16 June 1976 (continued)

Tin-corpses freed unto surveillance’s zone de-mined,
Bony shacks stapled to dung creeds;
Homicidal bravado grails adangle
As red flushed in hurricanes sewer-sloshed.

Wound parade of ashen breeds
Molten at curtained dawn of murder’s seeds,
Withering flesh in death labs;
Masquerading blindness with minced lids –

Butcher-breath stinging
As mutehood blisters throats…
Pigments of the shamed
Tumoured for puss hills.

Rebellion’s route contraflowed
Piles of riot discharged
Sermons excreting cranial libation
Barged towards putrid vaults of memory.

Epistle mirage of polished upheavals
Tegumentally fleecing the Kains;
Coin leeches as education’s brigade
Reconciled with abortives toil born.

Brace of our path’s tentacles
Fossilized strung on our hospitable cowards;
Panged with steel-toed penitentiary’s myth,
Unruffled by our throats’ posterity vanquished.

Birth’s corpse a totem vile victory
Perfumed with poverty nestled in implosive death’s
Chorale in freedom’s mourning sling-vocals;
Bowels historical in claws of dust cannibals.

Brain streaks of famine’s zeal powder-teared,
Entrails on infants soles upon thrones of shrills;
Fluid bustle of men fashioned of gore,
The pottery of skulls sweetly stewed bestial.

Tongue-sky slanted over skin-town,
Nameless roars hummed through anorexic tripes…
Sleepy torrents broken in dreams of strife’s
Orange-bright machine sunset poking the concrete bindings of plight.

Inebriation’s theatres brim liberty’s dilapidated walls,
Brawls hoodwinked past the pinning night;
Age-wells of abandoned moments hurtled for vengeance…
The dead dictum of our pallid ashen fathers amitotic.