Wednesday, February 17, 2016

Vulgar Gospels (1)

Kanye in fox fur at the urinal

It’s been social and inuendoless to memorize those vulgar gospels in cotton hoodies, from bangladesh’s best sweatshops to Alameda and 7th, we’ve touched a road. Lifted. Reality gypsy, no pictures. It’s been, pivotal, me and you baby as the fog hits your will, and climbing some drastic canyon this early, this landless, this rich to learn Kanye West is in debt, broken, mentally ill, token evolution heroic demon no one can count the millions of him hanging from sudden trees in your misleading history of a wish, believe that. Desperate, silly power. His debt is ecstatic. His outlandish mediocrity is excellence. His skin is wet like Jordan’s. His skin is will like yours. For sport, for style. We part with the word ‘new; for its arrogance. We part with the new for its arrogance. We part with you for your arrogance. Kanye West’s poverty is immaterial and arrogant, stylized, casual. He shares this with us, lavishly. No elegant despair except from the stage. We swear by it. We harvest it for (new) territory. It turns our prayers, literal. It disappears as fashion. Backlash, no longer being nobel. It disappears. Fear no longer being nobel. First it was cold, made a killing, sirens lingering, made the kid sing for his supper all over twitter and liberty and justice for all it’s been   distracted     

          We (still) ship to prisons        slips    in   the corner    like   a   path     somewhere        Anthropology gets me, the discipline   not the store     Their children never stop running, they run all their lives.  You wanted to see these  people and run with them     

                                                                 It’s been good practice   for the way   

      Jesus Saves

Stable men have found him too. Colonial principal princes/ demanding / let me be astounded too. Unruly too. Jesus pimps. One won’t do and two is not enough for him, too. I’ll mention numbers and you’ll picture whores. The word. It’s endlessly searching jury/mercy/she think she cute attitude. It’s boredom with denial. As our collective oppression becomes both more and less trivial, all of the rap albums are employing gospel hymns, praise songs, chants against their own flimsy benediction, these points of entry in the service of abject materialism disguised as suffering/  and  the same themes  apply   we suffer in the risk of our temptation  we   lord over ourselves with morals  rooted in a judaeo christian sense  of guilt  we are tempted to be niggas still / negus/  kings  black  love negated   as suffering too       and everyone’s mother  dies   a whore      who loves   you     
bored with denial      MLK’s mother    
She is at the church piano  playing   a road  hymn    when she is shot down  just like him
          Jesus     is that silence    miraculous?  

Stevie Wonder is  still alive   

confusing sight and sound is that darkness miraculous radiant fugitive is it a Saturday witness giddy with useless information no matter how many arrest records we search the beauty is in their shame today, lately easy and paid (all niggas, all of us

After Mingus