These days’ time is at all times of the essence, so to the crux let us get to it.
Your stance perceiving your attention span (yes you) probably isn’t what it should be, your posture, against the nature of your ecosphere probably doesn’t stand principled enough, and the attitudes of your bearings are probably more than a few degrees off direction, you probably lack the soulful palate yet to taste the glory of indigenous philosophy, and philosophical knowledge, you probably commute to a computer, maybe the battle with your mundane is at the forefront of a revolutionary struggle, and yet you lack the authenticity of your fight to do more than wag the shortcomings of a disenfranchised tongue, probably.
In all probability you yearn to say what you want to say, in all likelihood a significant part of your marrow is aching to say how, and to who you say, whatever you feel is relevant and real to you, to, you probably vibe to a liberation track, or two, or the five playlists reserved for guiled moments like “this”, whilst the consciousness of yet another hard day’s work musically mediates, on the accentuated crack of your top 7, and bottom 5 vertebrae. And the worlds condition is critical, you remember when the rhythm of your life only had to double-dutch skipping ropes, probably sick from being tired that the premise of your future’s past is to adopt a glory in restraints, privately mortified that now, more than ever, the measure of body-significance is popular with an array of corpses, a lot younger than yourself, probably.
Well, Mr Black attends to the same liberation track, only he is pitching to an emancipated rhythm, Mr Black’s 7½ Commandments can but wish to be the most incendiary manifesto on a blog post crowded with rabble-rousing statements, what it will do is put a sermon to wax entitled “The Principle of the Culture,” for Mr Black’s sympathies are indeed, they exist between passion and the perfect storm, geared to a little of that divine continuity, organising sociocultural principles of Black community; the "ring shout," moving in a motion climaxing in spirit possession.
For sure, watching him put it down; re-asserting a sense of agency in order to achieve his sanity, it’s fair to say Mr Black’s voice is peddling, if you allow the intro to procrastinate just a little bit more his voice deals in difficult truths and has an urgent edge, enunciating a moral touchstone, fundamentally flawed, and absolutely necessary Mr Black’s mirror looks on himself and the world as they are, and fit for the fight against the conspiracy against him, switching off the vacancy light in his soul is the only victory that Mr Black’s intent, anticipates rejoicing.
Thou shall always stress dignity and self-reliance.
A cultural backdrop, where all those who are melanin endowed are under suspicion, Stephen Lawrence, even now the most ready and apt metaphor for the suspicion to which people are subjected, as such it would be unseemly to indulge in a prolixity of words after the irrefutable fact of such a suspicion, nevertheless, revering ancient Roots, contemporary Gucci, and Sterling, not the queen’s but Raheem’s reiterate a different will to endure here. Mr Black, on his Toussaint Louverture here, states the need to avoid conformity and false consistency, requiring an unfailing credo representing an authentic sympathy of the phenomena which affect the lives of the people- the community, its principal maturity- and the peripheral potencies encircling what “the” culture use to be like, Mr Black’s mantra being the exalted sense of the worth of Liberty, and with the fierce urgency of now.
Thou shall respect the integrity of thy sexuality.
It’s the nuances, the very black, sexual undertones that trace the flavour of sexuality back to the acuteness, and precision of repressed possibility. For Mr Black, whether indecent, on rose petals, or six to a dozen in a calendar month, with the act of sex one gives the nakedness of your all- knowingly, scandalously or carelessly- as such the distinction of the act is that it’s able to conceive life, by default of the act's very nature the sex naturally ties into the moral backbone of the world.
For Mr Black if all there is to give is fuck, smash, or play violins and violas as to skip to the loaded rhythm of bed posts; the intent is dark and fetching, not the fantasies of voluptuously untamed desire to cherish, not understanding that the sex is the rapt resolve and never is, and provoked by nuances of the heart; the meaning, or some saintly conceived purpose ultimately becomes an inspired sadness, in many proven regards an agitated, and lonely self-determining manner, in Mr Black’s, seemingly superficial experience inevitably the manner in which it is given, whatever it; is, speaks to the truth of the soul often conveying inexpressive substance.
Thou shall say, in truth, what he feels
For the purpose of actuality, and clarification, in truth is everything, without fear of subjection for what is constantly considered against a moral code, or culturally inclined impolitely inconsiderate. Then, it’s fair to say personal nobility has never spent hours on end courting the sainthood of African Methodist Episcopal churches, nor does Mr Black merely feel these essences, and lost between delusive parts of identity, unable to perceive that which is deemed real, in truth lies in the embattled essence of culturally denoted music; harmony and lucid composition ruined by the clauses of impatient death, in truth the suggestion of thy opposite looking a lot less like Mr Black, accounting for the potentials of collective liberation, analysed and realised the unassuming arrogance offends the culture, this nigger’, in truth, this insincere unified struggle, this persistently feeble vocal advocacy for a cause, in truth the macho-maligned, dog-tired narrative confined to mannered, “Negro-damus” clichés, in truth this universal talking point, everything to do with feelings of mercy and kith and kin principal, in truth.
Thou shall be me, before I, is a Man
Be a man, act like a man, do the manly...thing? What does it all mean? Maybe man is to assail to a vision of their forefathers, maybe quietly forego their abandoned child syndromes, maybe completely comply with the moment of giving women what they want, as well as man-up and relate to the feminine side, of your man?
Indeed, Man; the man, maybe specially reserved for members-only of a mystical knightly order, qualified to chaperone peace and justice throughout mankind’s world, the man the breadwinner; the sins of a Father, divined Son, reluctant soul-searcher, the chivalrous soul, the amorous character, the exceptionally vigorous, dynamic lover, everything but “I”, or me in a place of "us". Then, maybe like Lazarus, and unlike before no cliché anointed life-labels, no more typecast boxes tightly fitted into pigeon-holed corners, according to Mr Black, a lot more seeing him in the light of who he really is, or at the very least revel in attempting to.
NOTE: Mr Black fell in love with a woman who asked him what his dream was.
Thou shall Emphasise Love. (really)
Mr Black places this elevated growth in a position of awakened answers, and the swoon of love felt he-feels is extra gifted. Equally the moral apathy of the world is shifting between survival and faith, global ideologies flex their muscles, lessened philosophies pop their reputed veins, sensibility is caught in the headlights of a relentless, hostile contemporary age, and poverty slowly dispatches the same people, laws governing body-politic are institutionalised, by racist decree, and disease can’t be cured and water isn’t clean, food isn’t fit for consumption and music doesn’t mean what it use to, and alas priests very much like the Pharisees who took to Jesus a woman caught in the act, demanding days, all the time.
Catching spirited joys, in cardinal things, joining in and dropping down evocative qualities, pretty much luxuriating in its own subjective reality remains the stuff that reveries are made of, for Mr Black the authenticated standing is the love emphasis, to be a purveyor of love adds years to a life, according to Mr Black it pays to love morning tweets that sing agreeably to the sound of your alive, reason enough to personally glorify the devoted regard.
Thou shall be a child’s saviour
For Mr Black it is to resuscitate, it is to protect, it is to glow like a Nubian knight of Dongola. Contemporary reckoning cries deep arpeggios of pain, as such arising from generations of a manifested cotton-field condition to match any one ghetto consistently mistaken for fabulous. And hostage to the fortune their youth gives them children die young, too often, their schools are duplicitous and their teachers are ignorant, their parents are unable or unwilling, and as a result a great number of contemporary youth does it’s very worst trying to f**k-up their divine direction. Moreover at these junctures children are mowed down by the hackney carriages of a crushing reality, and for Mr Black it is to redefine such a truth, for him it is to enliven jaded emotions that have been inexcusably sequestered into silence, with a perpetual softness, and to not do so is the suicidal acquiesce in his own devastation.
Note: Mr Black’s beloved maxim and his most stubborn assertion!
Thou shall smile
This is positive, for Mr Black, it is wit, and black humour in the face of everyday circumstance; context bound to perpetuate a particular melancholy. For Mr Black, faced with the psychological challenge of always looking at him, this longing to attain self-conscious manhood, because of this brawl with a multi-faceted conception of self it is necessary to smile, moreover acutely absolute.
To contradict him, if but to make a point, he’s aggressively determined about this, for him, who relates to visits to the psychiatrist, who have diagnosed what he is experiencing to be a form of complicated grief, who claims his revolutionary essences derive from Panther Party ideologies and still looks for Gucci bargains, who has poured cayenne pepper along the line of front doors to keep the pigs at bay; traditions merely to further agendas of procrastination that contribute to the cancer of the culture, for Mr Black, who has honestly inhaled more times than he’d like to live for, it’s the frightening indifference that he is compelled to make his life important, to protest the “slogan”, it’s just that for him the soul will wither and die, and you’ll barely live on, if but for the sake of a smile more often than not.
Note: it’s the pain and necessity in this bookish piece.
The commandments and this particular proclamation are attempting to transpose the context of identity, and eventually exchange intentions on what kind of purpose should the culture serve. Myself; on behalf of Mr Black, proud and ingrown, and menaced, there is a trait we share, there’s something in us- smooth and uneven – there’s that life in a coma of antipathy, thing, and yet equally motivated for what seems the one legitimate verve left, ours is a tale that 'speaks' the seed of the contemporary Black experience in Britain- hardship, prejudice, aspiration and ultimate triumph- dramatic as it might sound still understated by talk of sentiments, scattered amidst the deep-rooted ruin of a multifarious, and yet undue humanity.
Regarding Mr Black the Lord won't get you acquitted; only owing his liberty to say publicly to the virtues of proud requisites, for myself, Son of Mr Black, over and over and time again, in chronicle as in reportage, gript in the awareness of the person before him, threaded with his anxieties, rapt in his sensations, living his breath.