[SONG OF THE CONJURER:]
swing low, sweet chariot
i’m coming for your ring
mary don’t you weep
pharaoh’s army got drowned
michael row the boat ashore
all god’s children got shoes and wings
tribe defines us what do the deaf think?
beauty is colour the blind dream in rainbows?
Don’t understand why writers feel special like a proper noun. Like a Top Secret envelop. Like secrets of the White House. Like Big Foot. Like Osama’s death. Like aliens. Like
Obama’s birth certificate and his alien body guard. Like conspiracy theory. Like Icke. Like YouTube traffic and us. Like success is a temporary thing. Like a one-hour radio interview. And you feel like a fucking star. Like reading your poem on The Washington Post or to jazz saxophonists at Pittsburgh, City of Asylum. Like a girl saying yes. Like shooting a creamy load. Like instant gratification. Like every rapper and poet I know masks some pain. Like a dead dream buried in their words. Like an incurable disease. Like a dead parent. Like a broken home or a husband who never comes home. Like waking up to the stench of slum sewers. Like a boyfriend who never calls except when he wants to fuck. Like is this even a poem? Like poetry is easy. All you have to do is hit the
& s p a c e
ProseislikeashygirllostinthewoodsWudzWordsSinginglifeinD Major.Babies.Bibles.Blunts.Bullshit in B Minor. Libra scales.
Meditation and herbal tea do not change bad neighbours into smiley friends. Then how do you change the world? You don’t. Crucify the ego. Yoga is for middle-class women lost in pseudepigrapha.
The truth is ugly. Lies are beautiful; lies wear make-up, go to work/church, and promise you forever and flowers – as long as you give them money. Lies want you to open car doors for them, pull chairs in coffee shops, remember all their birthdays, wed them, love them until they cum in multiples, they want you to go out and work hard, they want you home to cuddle, they want you for life, they want you dead. They want. Want, want, want! Your job is to give. All these lists of insane, inhuman, childish, torturous demands just because they have a vagina. And they can give you a baby as a gift. Another mouth to feed. The cycle of wants continues. And the suicide and drinking rate amongst men skyrockets.
The new Kenyan feminist thinks an ass is a brain ‘cause they both have
left and right
Like fame and music
Hi-hats and basslines and quarter notes
Music is science and mathematics
What is freestyle when all words are spontaneous?
Us on the street corner
Cops and beatboxes
Turning street children into heartbeats of harmony
We hum cascaded dreams
Like distant echoes: reverbs
Like fine-tuning ambulance sirens into flanger
*RIP to my nigga Zack
Though I ain’t forgot what your dad put me through
I cried last night
“Swing low, sweet chariot
Coming for to carry me home…”
Negro spirituals are not gospel songs
Stop re-mixing that shit into Christian worship lullabies
They are cries of cotton-pickers hanging from the colours of their black skin
They are blood, whips, identity, struggle, Africa
Relics of the present moment.
Indigo child, I feel. Crystalline blood flow. One candle and three circles. According to poetry, everything is wrong with everything. There are words that I
hate. Feel-important labels like CEO of Pranic Healing Center. CEO means money and suits. Spirituality shouldn’t be for sale. 30 silvers?Judases of the last brunch. They gambling over my body. Crystal stones on Amazon. Like, WTF? Like de javu and telekinesis don’t make one psychic. Love is the ultimate chakra. Open it. Horoscopes are dead stars. The sky is a graveyard. My feet in salt water. Grounded for real. The ultimate alchemy is turning fear into love; wine into water. Starseed footprints. I think people with autism and bipolar are very special. Normal people are a curse. They invest in stimulants. Like psychedelics and sports. Amusement parks and shit. They die, thus.
I die within.
I experience stillness.
I die as quick as
sin and heal as slow as forgiveness.
Who am I?
What do you know?
They die not.
They tie knots.
They die. Humanity will die. Even robots ain’t
shit without us. Even heaven and hell are vacant rooms without us. Books and food and love are meaningless without us. We die still. All we own. If I was the last man on earth I will still enjoy life. Talk to stones, breathe and eat fruits.
Life is a sponge of mystery. I’m squeezing happiness and meaning out of it as much as I can.
Swing low, sweet chariot,
I’m coming for your ring,
*Zack: a friend, brother, hustler, student at JKUAT died in a road accident a few days ago. We used to bond at their village shop in Friends’ Silungai School, Western Kenya. Young shadows remain in his path. Rest in bond, my niggur! The earth is a genetic vehicle. We ride, we don’t die.
Photo credit: “Spirit Awakening” by Jenerid. All rights reserved.