Monday, July 27, 2015

Thursday, July 23, 2015

Will Hollywood let negroes make love

Something utter and wordless work us up to the gutted frenzy. Get out of the martyr, black psyche, or I will light you up. Tuff threats are trending like the new sweatshop chucks of thicker souls and swollen metaphors. Where was somebody. Where was her man. Luck, the loa, the lantern of obvious turns. The exact pivot of this shit right here. Like for water I crave an iconic infinity/ photograph of Betty Shabazz and Malcolm, together, lovingly, to be etched in our hearts as far as Sandra Bland and Part Cherokee. Like Spike Lee craved the scene of Malcolm fucking that white woman in an utter way, the reversal arousal or the arousal of reversal or how one man I used to almost know, while married to a black woman back in the states, got high and rented a white prostitute in Belgium.  Maybe none of it was from skin/running. Where to? Numbing.  I know my consciousness is too high for judgment but whenever I try to force it I come into this sin like saddles and whips and the bent lipped daisies in Clay's deliverance, and I  grip the bars of the jailcell my father died in looking past him for a carnival where we might mercy around the ferris wheel of destiny with tambourines and clean shins, mercy mercy me / him,  our chains gleaming like rainy/ Ma Rainy teeth, in our chains, our range, our pretense, our ability to fake death in order to escape reason, our will's Overman and treason, had we considered any of them accomplices on the hit list of listlessly spinning souls. Whatever.  Mineral Animals told to toil as lamb. And the scroll minded mannerisms of blind griots who can strut speeches past terror as rap sheet amnesia leaping up churchgoer parody leads us to why we marry white dna witness every betrayal on both sides as a betrayal of self. You were shown. And you shown. And shone.  Sho 'nuff.  As romance plans its debut in torment and then has second suntan-tender thoughts and tantrums of the office piano we sold for dope in their fantasy we play the needed damsel hugging needles and needless of no one.  For Clyde Ross, Sandra Bland, Albert Ayler, Alberta Williams King, ...   May a lost god, Damballa, rest or save us, against the love we intend against our lost white children, Black, Dada Nihilismus.


Tuesday, July 21, 2015