~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.