The Truth is....
'beyond every unreasonable doubt the truth is a song pledging allegiance to a considered saying, in a hard core manner'
Truth is, the truth is a residual mind, rooted in the now, and never experiencing the necessary maturity to indulge in what is universally recognised as thinking, being of the children of this particular epoch, attentions are in all likelihood focused on their social distinction, that and the moral surrender squandered, the truth. The semantic premise of social relationships are littered with metaphoric ironies, and for longer than lately they’re thinking about it; not the most dynamic, dyed-in-the-wool, doctrinaire member of their movement- part ratchet, part dedicated, part profane part holier than thou- truth is, the truth is the truth is what will have to redeem their world from its contemporary hell.
To use an analogy of rhythm, as to get a feel for life’s municipal sensation - 2017 has come to be how revolutionaries sing a mutineer’s song - beyond every unreasonable doubt it’s a song pledging allegiance to a considered saying, in a hard core manner, a form of communiqué that’s birthed from a human desire for personal expression, and social connection, thus intoxicated with gorilla gulley sensitives, at times with genitals sub-consciously rooted in the earth screaming f**k the world that the very breath inhales, and exhales, sensing the ethos- what city dwellers do whilst attuned to the very skip a’ beat probability- it’s not hard to sense a genre of people moving through life via the sound of a revolutionary song, so a solo inspiring life-affirming intentions, whatever the struggle might be. And with eyes on the style -style the only constant in life- the moves appear to be a bitter joie de vivre fading into a secular meditation, a heavy bittersweet taste of rhythm, a measure of which allows circumstance to regulate the tempo of society, or not, an association with preserved traditions and ensured survival of the ‘community’, or not, and in the age of multi-culturalism, and beautiful utopian equality- such blinding celestial light- never has the rich and poor divide, and colour-coded specifics been so relevant as it is now, with the fierce urgency of now more aggressive and manic as it’s ever been.
Consequently, as in the reason many a’ ‘think tanks,’ and ‘watchdogs’ will gratefully verify, with news of marginal elections, in some quarters making its ritual mockery of a democracy that fabricates more ills than goods, blended with all anybody does is supposedly pay attention to religious affiliations reigning down terror related sympathies, and the poor, seemingly tip-toeing on the surface of a symbolic hot hell, sensing the ethos, what city dwellers up and down the United Kingdom regularly do, sampling online dialogues, listening to symposia’s coming to you live, what’s clear from any given conversation is that there’s a new vogue in town, and frankly it’s had enough of walking a catwalk procession that barley cracks a smile anymore, it is at the end of its emotional tether, and with the roots of a shared ideal literally saturated by a mud; of which prospects find it increasingly hard to see through, what the growing number of marches, and protests, and Molotov cocktails represents is that personal distinction has come to ‘this’ , that beyond the distress of tones chanting for a time of change, the sound fundamentally embodying no way to live, and people effectively dying because of the lifelong circumstance.
Along these lines the essence of thinking asks ‘what to do now?’ Alas, bemused by the reservation, fraught with the uncertainty, this fact no longer endeavours to speak eloquently for the element to which the revolutionary song belongs, a chant echoing the answer everybody knows, the challenge being very few people ever having the power to actually do something about it. And there lies a baron reality wrung dry of hope, and living off the consciousness of the present, with history being what it is to go by, nameless to most the word “history” deriving from the word “histor”, the ancient Roman term for dance, insert the same dancer, witnessing in excess of one hundred people perish in a fire of which will haunt the notice of generations to come, when to speak of the misery the thought concluding with “merciful God rest their souls” is always the last librettos, accordingly, this dance, soulfully motivated by a helplessness that hope will never hope to bare. And they’re use to wars; these dancers, 24hrs a day, every day, they’re accustomed to constant and random violence, some are rooted in the ingrained idea of their young killing their young, whilst some breath and live long the legacy of a residual slavery, some of them squeezed between marginalised, under-represented, and ‘Section 60’ 28 times more likely, thus the living embodiment of 10 per cent of a prison populace making up 3 per cent of a total population, peering through bars of which a music of ‘Grime’ perfectly articulates the unorthodox solicitation, the ‘people’, and there judicious middles. And their veers too far right commonly known as those radical right-wingers, and these ‘corporate cronies’, and governing their prospects a government who supported the retention of Capital Punishment, who presided over interest rates of 15%, precipitated a Social Housing crisis still being felt today and sowed the seeds of NHS Privatisation, and on, and on and then some.
As a city dweller, seemingly choking on the aura-like consensus, It’s not fair to say people are upset anymore, needless to say with the new vogue in town it’s become rudely inadequate to do so, and even though the dance provokes a revolutionary swag the ‘game’ is still vintage, and older with time, and bleak is seemingly no program for changing the undesirable conditions about what a part unified, part rambling, inchoate longing complains about. And so the narrative tells a truth and nothing but, learning to handle life as it is found and make it better; a revolutionary song sure helps the tempo stay whole and hearted.