“one day my name will be associated with the memory of something tremendous — the most profound collision of conscience, i am no man, i am dynamite.” – f. nietzsche
sat, 27th feb, 2016. 9 a.m.:
hawk eyes turned my head into a heart beat. nodding, rocking shoulders like snickers on studio floor.
what are we doing here, though? by ‘here’ i don’t mean here, here in this island of heat waves, dead drums, last december, helicopter crash, blood of colour, a sip of merissa, 13 year-old mothers, etc, etc.
by here i don’t mean home where everybody pretends to miss. we never really miss home. we miss the people we love. and if you can find love here then you’re home. home is the son of an immigrant on air force one (air force one the jet not snickers, black) with impeccable english, a somali poet rocking slam stages in london, russian refugees becoming billionaires in uk.
“home is…niggers with their hands out
they smell strange savage.” – w. shire
by here i don’t mean here. here where the moon reflects in a calabash of sorghum brew, a veined breast feeding a toddler as the father, a former rebel soldier cannabis on rotation recalling loki darfur adis ababa to his comrades, birds don’t perch here for all branches are dead spikes, and today she recalled how her co-wife poisoned her four children and they told her god knows – fuck god, god died here a long time ago, etc, etc.
by here, i mean earth. this blue rock hurtling through space catapulted by the arms of horus and osiris. what are we? what are we doing here? a question bullets and beats try to solve. philosophy, religion and science lie in a coma in books. dying. philosophy is dead. the age of questioning is besigy-ed.
by here i mean i and m. exchanging smiles and her eyes is a vinyl poem rappers groove to it in the early 90s. like baby tattoo your name on my tongue.
by here i mean your middle class vegan lifestyles don’t apply. we eat human flesh for freedom.
by here i don’t mean there where ra, khemetic and vedic quotes and the zodiac mean enlightenment. here, stars and egyptian gods are asswipes.
by here i mean my best poem is yet to be written.