JUDGE ME AND BE DAMNED
imaginationland
imaginationland
Dreamhub
DENY ME AND BE DOOMED
POETRY
Black men don’t have auras.
The skin distorts their intention and splits open the electromagnetic spectrum
causing ruptures in the belief complex of albine terrestria.
Instead we have jagged shards of wild light that heave metaflesh into the ether,
chunks of used to be into the neverwhere.
Bursting bubbles like apathy
and making child’s play of the burning sun flight.
I’m going to read the saddest song in the world, that once there was a people who could never be bought, so they chained them to a rock and now they lift it like they ever did, that Prometheus was a slave to desire and the rock falls hard in failure.
Black men don’t have auras, and psychics are little blonde blue eyes aliens
waking up police men with innocent looks,
looking up the ancient secrets in their cookery books.
We have blades, wands, chalices and diamond eyes,
light staffs black candles and divinity pies; lioness bloodlines, survivalist floodriders, and Paedophile Priests who can summon the Godfire.
I’m gonna tell you a history, blistered in pity and fists raised from the apathetic many;
before the prophecy told of sad blacks there were demons with the nightshade pigment enslaving all of humanity with the seductive aroma of musk and spice - and if you don’t cry something inside must be racist, to see the arms of Sisyphus in mountainous vein as he walks a marble sphere through its eternal paces.
Black men don’t have auras.
We have multicolour bloodlines, crystalline shit and telescopic minds, Nubian metaskulls, Pleiadean battle cries, the Sirian coat of arms and Annunaki blue prints written in genetic alignments.
The thicker the info the blacker the shield, the redder the berry the more juice yields and deeper roots dig as flies plies the field.
I’d like to set apart an entire month
to pity the fool who takes the crack out of the whip.
Brings it back to nature and uses every lash
To tear the world out of the cocoon of it's ignorance.
We don’t have lights floating around our skies we’re just spilling all the colour outside, lost the bodies in the eternal prison of the 4D visionary complex, ascended and stepped outside. Pity for those who don’t have to try.
I’m going to write the saddest song in the world, about true power and waiting, about true credit and fate, about empires and wisdom and kings slaves and fishermen and when it’s over we’ll be laughing at a city of obsidian and moonstone from a carnelian ship as it crumbles to the feet of our king like candy glass.
The Woman I Made.
My feminist revolution is broken… she just sits there crying, she doesn’t rage, or fight, she just flaps listlessly in the warm breeze of my momentum. I remember the feeling, of being a child and not permitted the inner space of smallness and vulnerability. I want to leave her weak, but someone has to tell her there’s a war coming, and we can’t be on the same side when it does.
I can sharpen her knives and temper her armour, salt her meat and teach her to throw, brave her to wear her metal with mettle. I can poison her arrows and steel her hammer with golden truth and divine fire and core the oak of her spear with moonstone soul capture and stand mannequin as she flies death blows past my head, a warm trusting eye would beckon the blow, but when the war comes, we Can’t be on the same side.
My feminist revolution has failed, we tried to sail over sentiment along the coast to sense but somewhere she got sucked into the sanctimony and severed our synergetic tryst alliance. The pulse resonance from her wayward doubt beam caused a disruption in the cutane membranic energy field and the engineers optioned for a jettison of any hazardous material; the captain neglected to report in the manifest that radioactive materials were present in the marital parties ambassadors carry cases, and in the air lock were several precious eggs, all meant to be presented to the hive queen upon first contact.
I can charge the genesis engine with starfire, drop 12 measures of pure essence into the black hole generator and send a light vacuum out into space to reach a close civilisation and hope they have enough pure purpose to requisition the God Particle out from the tail of Vishnu… but unless we can merge the good ship Horror with the shiva frequency and achieve the negachrome prismatic paroxystic shift without having to activate the cloak, they’re going to take our presence in their star system as a clandestine threat and send a fleet of 1st chakra flight charges out into the atmosphere and we Don’t have enough linearity to keep going back to end the fight, and if the war keeps coming, we just can’t be on the same side.
My feminist revolution has unchained itself from the gates of parliament; she no longer squirts Loctite into the locks of large banks, instead she tourniquets her misery to my spine and hangs dead weight, like 200 years of civil expectation come crashing down on the back of an ex slave looking for a comfortable bed. Doven from the clamshell and shorn her auburn locks, she no longer smiles quietly from the gilded frame of a master piece, instead she demands pre op that I add her name to the endless scream, and abstract “Happiness” into a factory of fetish running mock across a hellish tapestry of Heironeme belligerence and blame.
I can try and pry her eyes away from the void, but the black splits so hypnotic in the negachrome. Everybody winds up surfing disillusion when they see the warm foam of shame lapping up the guilt shells – and the tiny crabs of paranoia scuttle up the beach so curious, it’s hard not to resort in the effervescent bliss of the No.
You were supposed to be proactive… step heel first boldly into the dream and wave the wand of Aphrodite and Change Us.
You were supposed to be exuberant in the freedom of this war torn desolation, birth new gods of a bold creation glittering, tassled, jaffa zested nebulae from the craters and wall crusts… you were supposed to be love.
Venus was supposed to be turquoise and the level playing field enravished, we thought it would bare flowers once the gate was seen to have no hinges.
You were supposed to bring peace here, not speak new of an ancient war and join it, battle cry wallets to the forefront of the industrial complex, a screaming havok of “it’s not fair”.
And as a populace of lace lingerie hiding pants suit bound slaves walk collared to the factory floors a new deity roars, stencilled dark lipstick and a star spangled banner, simmering the boiling waters of Lillith to march beside them in wrath.
The nearby weep, and man lets hope out the puzzle box and sighs, a billion voices echo thus in wave.
It's safer to vote for a crazy fat white man.
They propogate a taste we know and love.
It's dangerous to vote for the votives of Kali.
They seek to descend images of heaven from above.
Mothers Fists.
All niggers go to prison, she sang warmly as she pulled the red rucksack onto my back, laiden with the
days books. Her knuckles were desert
red and they pressed into my rib cage
like sensitivity tests grinding muscle
against bone. Mothers fists were
warm and bruised, generously
boned and used, and every
morning they would point
with irate and chipped nail
to my untied laces. What
did I think they were? I
don’t know. Black
worms marching
a language of chaos,
war dance across
the hologram
printed
leather
boot
too
strange to understand?
A caduceus staff binding my first chakra to a hell one inch above the ground?
I wonder if all niggers hide sweets in their rucksacks for school.
On the way to school I see a woman is being violated in the doorway to a local estate. She has two heads, one is screaming in agony clawing at th lock of a briefcase while the other submits in languid kind of sympathetic pleasure, legs open on the concrete stairs as the neon clad gorgoroth pumps trunkish broken meat into her, tearing lilac petal folds and leaving cherry pulp between the grey cracks. She looks at me and waves. And screams.
She crawls toward me with haggishen
locks, a jaw mawed wide and hungry
for the flesh of youth. Rising
from the back of her self she
spreads cedarwood blue wings
and armours purple mithril about
her bosom and smiles sweetly screeching
“Morning!” into the air.
Demon lust flitters cockroach in the air. She thanks me for the mornings paper and I smile and thank her for the sweets.
I stink and I know it.
My schoolbooks have deep lessons,
so deep the pencil marks three pages deep;
Niggers grow in tri-fold stages.
Liar, Cheat and Thief.
Liar, take your truths from darkness. Mystery and cloak be God; Ignorance is peace and quiet, Lie beneath the stone and Sod. Liar.
Cheat, the game is written “exploitation”
don’t get bitten, don’t get caught and
don’t get smitten, mothers fists write
eloquently scarring with a silver pen.
Niggers hearts have all got Shit in,
Thieve and weaken, break and beat them,
hold your anger in and eat it
This game has been long repeated
so to win just get to cheating
mothers knuckles did exclaim.
Mothers fists are white and tense,
and the rest of her is crimson, and
she teaches a crusade amongst the
blackenest of men.
Never try and never tire,
never live and don’t expire,
just go sacrifice yourself
at the alter of never when.
Niggers wait and niggers waiver,
niggers can’t excuse behaviour,
niggers fight and wage and argue
but will never stop to savour.
Niggers needed to be broken,
niggers needed to be vet.
But what mothers fists are needing she’s not quite discovered yet.
The scars upon my face say mothers fists need nigger blood. And the lash upon my back says she needed an iron glove; the burns upon my hands say mothers fists need recompense, and she’ll forge those coins from willow trees if I can’t pay the rent.
Mothers fists have a flog and several binds in them. A contract with the devil and a dress for dancing the black tantra, though she held it behind her back the tassles betrayed, and the knuckles burn with black tar. The palm against my throat is now a rape And a murder.
On the way to school I see a woman being raped by the stairs to the estate. She holds her attacker with 5 nylon coloured strings, a blue fairy dancing the red tantra on the tongue of a dead crocodile.
The Last Card.
At the end of the world we all went back in time one by one to try and to try and cure the sickness - the scientist went back to cure the disease of invention with logic, and rouse the people into stasis with philosophy - the dreamer woke into a dark and stagnant pool and ran back to tell the people of his prophecied depravity, the day their dreams would steal the land beneath them; the comedian finally broke down in tears and ran back into the burning house to finally, finally, listen - and the Judge went back to the beginning of the age of white flame and murdered the inventor of the everlasting battery in his bed. The butcher sat in mourning for his self inflicted isolation and ran into the forest to be at one with the cattle of his leaves, and the mage cowered into the corner of his library, became one with the shadows and began to tell babes of the endless void of the mysteries he had done battle with until mystery was all that was left.
The everlasting battery sat between them waiting to be made, the last juxtaposing truth that mocked a tireless struggle for quiet.
Then the joker told a joke that killed everyone, And nothing turned back time to become one.
“Where is my nothing?” She cried, at the empty space where the mirror used to be.
No one understood. It wasn’t nothing. It was everything and that was so much less, just a stagnant pulsing mass of dank miasmic maybe bubbling it’s noxious produce out into the strained periphery of its being. And from that ghastly hosted gas small particles of gravelly omnitheic shit permeated into the nothing, and it stank, and it was moist and the air brought disgust to all in the future, and it was Good, and it was sweet and for all.
Then the moisture fell, the air ran dry and the sluglike pustules of molecular love ran with desperation’s gravity back to the pulsing stool at the beginning of the universe to be one with creation again... but creation had hardened into a white crust of light and being, nuggets of rock bound gold lace lava and burning spheres of pure energy factory farming ness into the ether... dripping over the core they sought puddles of themselves and settled shrivelling and shivering awaiting the deliverance of the mulching Armageddon that would return their home to glory, the pulsing stool at the beginning of creation that never yet built its Hell.
The day society ate so much and took on conscious form, the bulbous cock of racism crushed every home in the east village. It just appeared there and unfurled, dark black flesh invading gentrified homes and just sitting there, expectant.
A thin finger began to grow from the doors of the banks and into the anus of a pig monkey sat jumping the town halls, who squealed in pleasure and shat another crown onto his latest spokesman.
We began to slice bacon from its back and gave it a bowl full of sedatives, since we’d birthed its sickness in the search for perfection the least we could do was feed the dying beast.
As we blocked the windows and tried to soundproof the drains against the slurping gheist below, waves of screaming shit harpies came crashing at the window harking
"Buy!"
"Sale!"
"Free Market!"
"Value Your Produce!"
Before disappearing down into the gaping chasm between quality and quantity.
In hell we only hide for the reveal; we only ever claim to own the things we wish to steal.
We only lie about the things we wish you could but feel, and we only show our weakness to our meals.
In hell we only break for the amend; we’re only ever serious about the great pretend.
We only fight about the things we wish but to give pleasure, and we only turn the lights on at the end.
In heaven we hide cake inside our hats. And staple stripy flower thorns to tails of running cats. We only let the dog inside to clean his dirty kennel, then we’ll send it off to boarding school and That. Is. That.
In heaven we break apples off’ve tree’s. And sell amongst the marketplaces, sick and foul disease. We taper torment in a stick and light it from the starfire and whittle it against the brittle bank of “Mercy, Please!”
On earth we give applause when someone dies. And we only speak of angels when there's profit to be prized. We only speak of demons when we're scared you've too much freedom and we only tell our secrets to our loyal bannered spies.