A mo. of silence- Now, for a dashiki loving, #power to the people clench fisting, affiliated to the Rootz Underground revolution... kind of milestone character, it’s reasonable to assume that this particular mo. compels conscience to holler inner-city blues, one of those halo-moved instants craving for ancient heavenly correlation to the starry dynamo attitude looks at. And habitually conjecturing lifetime, ultimately in the preternatural obscurity of penury wearing colonial tatters, where theirs a tale that 'speaks' of the pervasive stereotype of ‘them’ as passive objects in history, in one page, of tightly, with a loose knot woven reasoning, a moment of silence, more often than not alludes to whatever faint hope remains that such a manner will see an unoccupied day anytime soon, and come September 2017 a silence unapologetically flamboyant, despite the psychedelic tragedy.
It’s 11:05 am, 1st day into the eight day leave of the monotonous 9-to-5 that sentiment so hates, so much, taking in Isaac Hayes’s, symbolic, ‘Hot Buttered Soul’, sipping on peppermint tea, satisfied by a taste unlike the norm, with moderate sunshine peering its way through blinds in the dear, dear light of what is the affectional ‘concrete zoo’, and contemplation is seeking the personal profoundness of statically poor and inspirationally rich; the idea of what now? And addicted to communicating impressions, situations and thoroughly precise appreciations – a writers perpetual habit – It’s fair to say 2017 has been, amongst heinous terrorism, and 40 year old famine and new-fangled disease, and the global refugee crisis and the many other things that rarely impede on the method of a race, run by rats and judged by the manner of a brazen madness, setting the tone for all of the latter, 2017 is a period of geopolitical recession- British politics has frequently demonstrated its almost indecent, inept capacity to deal with the deep-rooted implications of ‘Grenfell’, youth crime, deteriorated civil liberties and the growing number of pickets and culturally defined frontlines’, while Trump is no isolationist, and yet accused of being a bigoted unilateralist, and a misogynistic racist. And there’s a power vacuum in Europe gagging to be imperialistically gratified, a pause in economic progress, technology is disrupting the Middle East and North Korea is rattling Its Saber, not to mention a struggling South Africa is reinforcing colonial issues of an indigenous kind, culturally endorsed niggas’ are GQ’s men of the year; of which always seems to find its way to the fragility of Fatherhood coming to terms with the idea he might of failed his Son, despite Daddy’s day-in day-out purpose being religiously servient.
"...‘them’ conscientious objectors passing out incomprehensible leaflets preaching love God while the sirens of the London Metropolis warrant the disbelief. .."
Garnering this divinely secluded significance of silence, sincerely listening to what perception of self, is ultimately yelling at the deaf and dumb conscience caught-up in the clatter of ‘everyday’, such a silence ultimately represent echoes ringing out the tone of the ‘bottom line’, where the truth is neither doubtable or to be refuted, where age, experience and prospects have a hard time of relating to the other two, and communicating the Big Smoke, prevailingly gleaming in all it’s filthy, breath-in breath-out gives life to a ruthless situation, arrogantly cooking babies in everybody’s colloquial melting pot, where brown leaf cemetery dawns are just another one, and ceremonial sad song is another one, and initiatives for the ruined and beaten, robbed of mind all bled of brilliance pop-up and pod down by the day, and those that whimper at the end of their streets with their bags full of debt breath heavy, those that lie on the hardness of their benches only to rise up to the blood in their coughed spewed mucous keep on bleeding, even though the last couple sips of peppermint beguile a barren palette, loathing still despises those pacifist eyes resplendent in their Christ, ‘them’ conscientious objectors passing out incomprehensible leaflets preaching love God while the sirens of the London Metropolis warrant the disbelief. where already ordained by a soulful, lyrical interpretation of life, down by the riverside really has no bloody shimmer to its sheen, just bickering, crying and gagging hissing facts of battles and struggles and narratives evoking tear jerking eyeball kicks, moments of silence that hear the frights of hospitals and jails locking-up sinners suffering from lack of esteemed treats, and how all these worldly principles ultimately effects ‘you.’
12:38pm, wondering where next to take this piece, what is apparent is just how loud reality resonates its relating gist, and the residual impressions retained staying graphic, evocative and realistic, true to life, crystal clear and lucid, and it’s not merely feel these essences- the mood, the years, the nowadays and it could be- it’s the never getting never winning never quite eloquent enough questioning the overtones’ of hope, prospect and humanity, fair to say, come the 2nd day, of the eight day leave from the 9-to-5 sentiment so hates, so much, time to sing something as emphatically loud as Mr James Joseph Brown intoned his virtuoso narratives.