~I have it under good authority the sun will die in San Jose. i have been there and thrown myself under the warm glow, the petrifying decadence of it’s assassination, on it’s own motel balcony, it’s own motercade. my awe sliced, nailed to the expression it inhabits, exhibited as artifact and final correspondence to confirm consistency. nothing but white heat and pale judgment paralysed by the intensity, a metronome welded to scattered hours. all faith betrayed  by the knuckles of number 5, a birth with one violent defect, a degenerative darkness exhumed by humid fingers…what does that remind you of?? voices cutting their way out of the city chased by the black swell?? ghosts on minimum wage mining the back of number 7 for the decimals we throw away?? all the white noise growing where the bodies lay.

oil, diamonds, gold, iron, cobalt, uranium,

As long as your markets
        hunt across margins
into definition, giving us dirt behind the nails
behind the eyes, behind enemy lines
these are enemy lines, they spell untoward
teeth spilled from cardboard pockets
when they bring the tanks in.
Now the corpse has a name
but it is not the world
who’s one step is swollen
by the way it is drawn.
a fine boat has managed
raw material for a prior engagement
i am sworn to the resource
but no one has called me beautiful
or convinced me to trade the swept passage
for the chance to see the music
snipers drown in their chests
as they release the trigger mechanism
trigger mechanism
trigger mechanism
which triggers mechanism on a global front
displacement & isolationism
fraud & /ˈdʒɛnəsʌɪd/ [genocide]
cooking up vestige
and sounds you blame on machetes
from inside the truck
on the way back to the Green zone

I watched this this morning it was a real motivation to start this blog. Keith Harmon Snow speaks about genocide.

Consumed

 And Those who brush their teeth with your ashes, young king, barricaded in the centrefold as the guns go off by themselves, abide by greyscale, hit the surface and bend like self-taught light, as the guns go off by themselves, young king, as you might have thought they would. All around us is Switzerland, my own daughter, Swiss as she spills her cup, the police, Swiss as they throw me against the wall, what wall in Switzerland is the softest? it’s true we are the true Swiss. I tried to break you out but my cheque bounced, they asked me what rule Ma’at mothered and my retreat was west African with a feigned southern drawl to throw them off the scent. you might have thought it was late night television and I the ambassador with 41 keys on a chain of laughter, your mouth a lock they can’t escape by simply speaking Portuguese or throwing their bodies against remembrance Sunday. Last week I wrote the words to the national anthem as I sat in the theatre, above them I created a no fly zone and hung your name there like the 40 years after a junta, missing people performed an auction but you are not the child in this scene I told myself, you are not the child in this scene.

*The line “the guns go off by themselves” was taken from Frantz Fanon's The Wretched of the Earth, quite randomly, it stood out.

I have thought lots about Mandela passing and I have thoughts I would like to share but I have been having a problem with coming onto some American social network to express them. Obviously I'm hit, but I guess I dont want to feed some NSA facebook algorithim with my emotion that will evenually be used to sell me a product and increase the Zuckerberg empire. Looking at it for what it is. If you dont have anything nice to say, say it on facebook.

Karriem Riggins Remixes The Roots x Elvis Costello – “CINCO Minutos Con Vos” [Lyric Video]

Joey Bada$$ x J Dilla - Two Lips

Bleed Out

This is Brandon Bryant speaking about his role in a drone attack taken from his Democracy now interview on October 25th with Amy Goodman and Juan Gonzalez.

I.
If it slots, generally three soldiers will allow it
and be seated to stare upon, shoes removed, the advantages
of falling in a circular motion. You were clean to begin with,
now prostrate, shivering the shrunken hymn.
I type drunk like a flapping curtain entertained by the wind
removing a pillow of bankrupt burgundy hair from the season.
This peace is, at least, flexible, much less stone than the amulet.
that’s the sting. Think piano, think no legs, think of
the sleazy eye contact it makes with the marble statue,
think of how many times you slept in it’s roofless mock.
Think of the short sighted mothers with architect lovers
who never miss the frame. You think you are gentle
but behind the winding motion you scored are the black twins still
deciphering the importance of the seating arrangements and
when milk is not foreign aid. barely look. suggest motion,
but barely look.

II.
This will be more of the queen’s money and less of the mosque
with the windows parched by violin regard. Gentlemen ago, all
of importance stopping to countenance mistress. I bring it back
to the first two syllables of the American accent, ‘ugh’ and ‘ew’
now we have sprung an axis that might be nominated to receive a
beating from an educated man. White gloves filled with salt
recur when horses are distressed, which brings me back nicely to
the church organ, the cobblestone and Mediterranean gate.
saunter; the unmarked graves.

III.
By being used to the supply of caricature, we can crash,
wilfully now, into the noise above us, for we’ve no use
of information, leaving that to the 160 locations we call
our children. It takes no shrine to fault the pages of history,
it takes not the second to see the hierarchy of fear amongst
metals, there are simply no smiles. I think I would neatly harvest
a point and say it better than the monstrous sea, which to be
honest, we barely trust to hide gunfire, opting instead for
the Atacama desert and it’s 100 modifications to the accordion.
Gallant, twice the murderer, once more the campaign manager
lacking the rights of 14th century clerics who’s only use for
the new york times was to feed the sphere sharpening the steps
of drunkenness.

I wrote these while watching three films by Sergei Paradjanov.
Which you can see for yourselves. (I don’t recommend)

What tends to happen when I start a blog is I'm outspoken, I say the things I like, meaningful or not, then somewhere along the line, the veiws go up, a mixture of people come and I begin to censor myself. In a way my blog becomes their blog, I only say the things they might like to see, which is like some kind of bullshit colonisation of my intent whereby all the main roads are used for other people and I have to take backstreets and alleys to say the things I want. I think this will be my HQ where all the things I like and see from Tumblr, Twitter, facebook & instagram will go.

Why

I don't want to censor myself here and having no views is always a good place to start doing that. There are things of importance to me and we shall collate them here. I hope to infuriate and enlighten.