6:AM: Another Bullshit Day in Sin City.
To whom it will undoubtedly concern:
For what it is, dedicated to the proposal of reality, this is the perfect piece of literati for the point in time; against neo-colonialism, averse to violence, sown from kith and kin cardinals principally penned for the people. Distilled in nine paragraphs hinges on upsetting parochial expectations and reclaiming a voice– the everyman’s voice- a reclamation drumming the spirit of humdrums echoing London’s city verb, thus this must be taken as testimony of a shared aspiration of revolutionary truth, a true urban monologue.
6: am, stood on a kerb, attempting to interpret London’s proverbial landscape, before the day has to contend with the 9-to-5 humdrum dictating that City life has hit rock bottom, and started to dig, essentially the 6:am roll-call is a privately-public attempt to exist beyond that which can be palmed into your hand, and despite incredible, decoded, dawning clarifications that soliloquy on love and light can sometimes bring, and all the Les Brown YouTube video’s emotional response can humanely see to, the reality is waking to life in London– fictively for some the altar for the devils Chaplin– essentially denotes live and for far too long endured, so intense with convolution so maze-like and kaleidoscopic, that only a fool wouldn’t pause to conjecture on an obscurity in a City of 8.7 million people, consequently a symbolizing imagery, appearing subtle as a static revolution desperate for movement and motive.
Speak to the point definition.
As a resident of the fifth wealthiest city in the world, certified tenant of cosmic collusions of happy ever after, speak to the point definition starts with having to navigate footsteps between seven shades of dog shit, from the kerb to the train station, pass New Hope charity shop, pass the figure dead to the world in the doorway, as if to remind people of their station in life, en-route to ten hours in the commercial cesspool that the ability to pay bills; can be found. All-in-all affirming insinuations, climaxing in a London based apathy recalling all the other times that life in London, failed to see “me” in the light of who “I” really am. Contemplating alter essences aside, the morning prelude questioning the disdain for a greater standard of life, and acutely distrusting the notion of an elevated enjoyment of liberty and freedoms.
Cometh crack of dawn proclamations speculating as to what now is the hero in this apprehension, and what is the future in it? In what manner is the right principle going to reunite itself to the circumstances here? Must “we” abandon hope of self-sovereignty? What is the sweetest thing sincere has ever known? And how; the person standing here, is going to convey to the large, without regard, cruel distinction that being here is implausibly intimidated by the love indifference– this contemporary, psychological slaughter house that was once regarded humane- the speak to the point definition speculating as to when the return to an innocence lost, is to come around like any other revered cycle.
At a time when there are so many issues on which the City finds it difficult to reach a common basis of reason, the implication is that time is currency, implying means is time, in this manner 6: am on the kerb has ‘save thy soul’ profiting in the hour of God, and it is for ‘FFS’. Intimate sentimentality, removed, mirroring the physical range, on the edge of a Neo-Black, cosmopolitan premise, this segregated body-politic speaks of neighbourhood manors of which have spawned a supposedly traditional menace, with social dictum, dictating the convention is inherently conceived under the consideration of some neon-flickered, mannish-boy dream, as upstanding as pacifism is, looking at the view from the kerb suggests if one could write the gist in fire, one would be burning the ethereal s**t to the ground.
To clarify an archetype of the London association, of late the Brexit vote in the UK has people of “colour” feeling like they are the much fancied taste of an EDF appetiser, in turn assertions reiterated by what Windrush folk speak of, words communicating constitutional rights echoed by rights of linage, talking between the lines the tragedy of Grenfell Tower further critiquing the broadly accepted, bankrupt condition of state-run institutions, thus in a city of 8.7 million people, and the song doesn’t sound like the Shangri-La hit; that the prevailing political rhetoric croons out, daily, morning assertions are but salutations from a subjugated place of worship.
So, stood on 6:am kerb the alter-ego residing is the little pride left, and in light of culture specific appropriations; frankly for the reason that an historic annexation, still, as a rule anoints an intimate reverence of blood revered emancipation, the implication demands that the first lady is a kick-arse, Afro-donned, beautifully elevated step-by-step Queen, and the symbolism of “pick-n-fro” will undeniably disentangle all the bellicose appropriations, his and her morale has been subjected to.
As it is?
Songs don’t hymn two-step shuffles of promise like they use to, such is the mood of the London apathy distinctly enough to “cotton-on”, implying as it is now has named its laptop Saint-Domingue, urban yoke from now writing revolutionary stanzas, the pet python is named Yaa, after The Commander in Chief, and the contemporary Black premise is classically, and emotionally inclined to affiliate a mutual conscience with Black Lives Matter, and Operation Black Vote, whilst boycotting Primark, Starbucks, H&M and all those who duly will follow with incredible ease.
I insist on the right to criticise perpetually!!!- A significant shift in self-liberation, for some a cynical culture shift clarified only long enough for “Wakanda forever” to have six months of well-earned pride, whatever the distinction, what is self-evident is visions of strolling through the “manor”, trending a Fitzpatrick power fist in the air, cat-walking a red, black and green liberated hoodie, is as unshackled as a war-cry has ever been.
In the scheme of the social order, 6:am is all the raw, repressed anxieties, and vexation on the rise since the prepared twilight of penny-sweet childhood; the russet exquisiteness –an inspired sadness, an agitated, lonely, self-determining manner, that for the most part is nostalgically run down by the Uber-cabs of absolute reality. Despite the much acclaimed “brotha” fraternity, it is all the things “they” never speak of- things of that ilk- as it is never imagining life would master the carry a’ coffin stride, as it is; the few instances adding extra entwine to the urgency upon time, Biko moments in time, even though it feels right to call him Stevie B, ultimately because Radio Raheem’s legacy still is doing the right thing, as well as the tenacities of Grant, Akala, Doreen Lawrence and every single Ras Kwame, where therein lies ruffian associated fashions consistent with the sanctuary of what juveniles are existing in.
London- ask anybody, look at everybody, they are said to walk with an aspiring Southern swag of which literally has no time for them, in the 6: am light of daily pursuits; the chase after the London maxim suggesting the most significant kind of contradiction.
To keeps it real to stay authentic, maybe stay away from photo-finishing when you just saw the fucking thing, keeps it non-affiliated to mainstreams of consciousness that lack their own current, and believe romantic intermissions someday will script poems about the love of life. The inner-city London feel is readily geared to inspire some to talk about it, like the progenitor of funk music; say it with your chest talk about it. And stood on kerbs, in this blooming consciousness’, in this intense period of live-by or die-for memberships, to dare an open privacy to find a spot, any spot, literally stand on such a spot and gossip reminiscences’ of a future, letting that prospect settle in the past only to have a better 6:am, carrying these assertions is a place to go to becoming a necessary thing, as the cashpoint’s “insufficient funds” confers with the three strong queue, therein lies an energised apathy arrogantly aware of 6:am assertions.