Confession.

May 20, 2017

 

This is undoubtedly one for the occasion- raised fist, bowed head, kiss the natural black- for everything that contributes to the cancer of the “culture”, needless to say emotionally harassed by the content of sips of Sicily red; it is a sentience double deuced for added emphasis on the unspoken “fuck you” response as cognizance meets world, thus the hit and miss introduction, and the changeable statement, and go figure; the ever telling arbitrary conclusion.

 

On the shore here- humankind – and wherever standpoint might stay rooted, to take a meteorological sympathy into consideration, comprehending an atmospheric process, like many typecasts this particular shade-of-black excessively endorses kernels of truth, and from the point of stand, and peer out and live everything sight see’s, the scrutiny perceives that the vibe of the human condition constitutes that matters of contention are not even poetic anymore.  And it’s known to hurt, to know of this, it’s known to kill a spirit slow, or fast, and when corpses appear to wash up- staying true to the elegiac phraseology talking the nature of irresistible struggle- washed-up on the lifelong beach every day and everywhere take-on takes a peek, and while the idea of revolution is seductive not often enough, one of the kernel truths is a  nappy-head rebellion against an insurgency that provokes Blog posts entitled: “Confession”, and slap bang in the middle of London’s metaphorical melting pot it appears; the only thing every day wants to do is find a quiet space amongst the crowded function, the idea being all mutual consent wants to do is stay alive and stay peaceable, that or get away, or earn enough, save who and what you can and if one is fortunate be proud, and worthy of the familial footsteps an unwanted resilience walks in. 

 

Problem being hourly news bulletins nullify sensitivity, austerity threatens a fragility of decency and Friday nights remain the definitive joy at the end to 9-to-5’s every bloody week, and increasingly, a genera breeding genre-need has grown into a privation, all up in a cyberspace succour can’t but quite get a feel for, credo’s creed current provocations still stem from massa and his boys plundering and still raping the world, and these secret societies, and their secret oaths and their monolithic guerrillas expanding their circle of influence, News 24 all very now, all very recent, all very information-age from the recline of chairs watching wars being pursued daily by analysts, and codebreakers at institutions abbreviated GCHQ and MI5, to a women’s frail constitution still at odds with modern-era insensitivities, of which according to a mutual consensus politics poli-trick, according to a growing apathy democracy’s price has a price, never allowing an apathy the luxury of telling a narrative that isn’t confined to cliché.

 

It’s said colloquial renowned conversations use to talk about hopes and dreams, dialogues use to aspire to the imaginings, mockeries use to take the rough with the smooth and there was always be better than one’s circumstance, mutual consent articulating not like now, not when ol’ skool tête-à-têtes about good old days youth will never see, or could ever imagine, not could ol’ skool ever envision black appropriating ‘nigger’ giving the ‘N’ word heavy rotation, nappy-head and Sicily red seeing thus rape the men, castrate them if you can, never imagine masses singing along to laughable sambos on tracks choking on their buffoonery, with all the flow and rapture a God has allegedly given, an idleness suggesting imagination can’t see past the responsibility of embellished graves according to a de-func’, colour-coded scripture.  Thus "up-gun" the police response, of which include Sig Sauer, and MCX Carbine with its telescopic stock and red dot sight, and Glock 17, and Heckler & Koc, and Armed Response Vehicles (ARVs) constantly patrolling, if not fast-roping down from EC-145 helicopters, Swiss-made, Austrian-made, German-made on UK soil the very international, and intense affair taking a single breath is.  And be healthy costs too much, and houses can’t be lived in, schools don’t teach like they use to and Pastors with their blasphemous penchants can’t be trusted, condescending experts hold seminars on how to love because the many mere mortals don’t know how to. And the plastic bullets, and the polycarbonate body shields littering gutters, murder can run up in a barbershop and decorate the floor with blood red while natives’ sing-song hollers “just another day in the hood!”  And the children, what about the 12 in 16 days children, when ‘Enough is Enough’ marches in the spirit of bereaved families campaign for an end to a violent, morose criminality, and not one, privately owned, FM Black radio station residing in the UK gets to talk it, even though Mary Seacole just got her heroine statue, just when depression’s taboo is more common than sane, a rationality deemed an outcast because sexuality did not spit roast, run trains, or sing about the potency of a lingering long-stick, when communication speaks only acronym's that everybody knows; the VO's, the HMP's, NSPCC, the long 'bird' and f**kers do not fly, the SSDD – same s**t different day – and then some, and then some, and more of the bloody same.

 

Supposition is sips of Sicily red swills a lot more of late, provoking a taste for a degree of reality, like Martin’s- “with the fierce urgency of now”- and if to revel in the bravura idiom of hearts content, if only on occasion, feels like a molestation of every facet, on the inside, is a living essence replicating an eroding shoreline, and the same old narratives, under inebriated influences going more than someway to articulate f**k it undertones, in essence a response in need of more, and far less.  And while contemplating the seemingly ill-fated temperament, of a very suggestible world, and the time it takes to do so, occurring is a reality without time on its side, when drunk with clarity the clearest indication pointing to sober-up, and long before on occasion strolls a ritual every day.

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