LO!

I present to you the poetic saga of myself–of a person who has actively applied himself to the cause of dismantling Antiracism for all of his adult life, albeit in the obliquest of ways. The book is a compilation of poetry I wrote from the couple years or so I spent either struggling to make ends meet in NYC or else riding freight around the country, smoking meth with bums and more or less “riding it till the wheels fall off”, as well as my then-abrupt flight to Ukraine where I tried to enlist in Right Sektor as a ‘war correspondent’–an ambition I gave up after narrowly escaping abduction by separatists in Donetsk. Bereft of hope–and also my glasses and what few valuables I had left due to an incident in Odessa–I started hitching aimlessly into Europe, finding myself at Rainbow Gatherings where I had some powerful acid and DMT experiences. Committed to my own doom, I began hitchhiking in the direction of India. Once there, and with nothing else to do, I started putting together this book of poetry, which forms a loose narrative arc. That said, all these biographical aspects are by no means explicitly mentioned in the book itself.

This poetry book is thematically complimentary to my novel DEATHTOTHEWORLD: an interracial racist love story. It will be released on the 1st of October.

To buy a copy of the paperback or the ebook, visit the links to my CreateSpace and Amazon stores on the right-hand sidebar. (Or, alternatively, if times is tight you can always email me. I would be happy to send you a pdf.)

Some more recent poems:

ode to slavery
how i walked
under this yesterday,
big house,

master chamber
looked out the window.
a broken bottle.
fuck you all.

(a wide-open view,
an unrivaled luxury.
Remember this
on the day you die.)

BLACKESTNIGGERBLACK
AFTER_______ETERNITY
THIS___________WORLD
STILL___________WAITS

Hope is a sickness. To recognize this is a great liberation, but it gives you hope and puts you back where you started.

(Gotta keep finding ways to re-phrase this.)

It’s so hard to quit. It’s terrible to think of how much of our lives we waste clinging to fleeting hopes, with minimum headroom. But then

but then

but then

but then

I showed up in a dream

With those of us who have died the most,

With the waterfowl.

I got here.

I got here.

What would you not listen for?

The closing doors in the coldest moment.

When you realize you can eat the whole apple,

From nothing, to last–

Nothing like never.

One thing I can tell you:

BLACKEST NIGGER BLACK.

Of those who died the most,

I got here,

I got here.

DYING RAY
IN THE COLDEST MOMENT
THE FINEST WIND
I EVER TOOK TO THE FACE,
OF IT,
A TRASH BARGE LIKE NO OTHER
KNOTTED DRIFTWOOD BOUND TOGETHER
CURED IN SALT
ALL HUMANITY COOKED AT ONCE
OVER A SINGLE FLAME
A DYING RAY

MY EYES GOUGED OUT
BATHED IN BLACK LOVE
A DYING RAY

I remember hemorrhaging on the sidewalk, having been beaten bloodily for taking the plunge. I thought I was dead because my sight was gone and my body no longer hurt. In fact, this is how I knew that I really did take the plunge.

It was the smell of cold cigarette smoke that told me I was still alive. The amplification of the senses, and the acceleration of media was all that I could think of. My brain must’ve got hit hard, because it’d been over a decade since I last thought about MS Encarta. The smell of cold cigarette smoke carries with it strange emotions.

I remember when they dumped me in a wheelbarrow and carted me down the cobblestone street, my head hanging limp over the edge like I was already dead.

YO BLACK BOY, WAKE UP was what I heard that woke me up. I, with my Eyes Gouged Out. They kept screaming NIGGER NIGGER NIGGER and smacking me. I could feel it, and I was surprised that I was still alive because in my slumber I had written myself off for dead. (It is sleep that writes such things.)

They paraded me down the street amidst a raucous mob. I felt something roll off my chest, and a slight tug at my eye socket. I think one of my eyes was still dangling from my face, only partially severed.

A single bead of water dripped down the whole wide wall.

I don’t know where it came from. Maybe it was a survival instinct, the kind that led Colonel Gaddafi to reprimand his executors for “sinning against God” before they shot him like a dog, but I stood up in the wheelbarrow, My Eyes Still Gouged Out, and raised a finger to the sky. I lost my balanced and stumbled to the ground. I stood back up, my finger still raised to the sky, and I proclaimed the brotherhood of all beings, that whether we recognize it yet or not, all humanity is being forged in the same furnace of brutal evolutionary pressures, and we will all be cooked to the same blackest-ever-black in deep time. That the meek will inherit the world, and that egoism and group-loyalty will be as chafe to the wind. How tenaciously I have done battle with the pernicious forces which seek to delay the inevitable fraternity of mankind.

The brain is like a self-righting ship floating in turbulent seas. No matter what, it wild construct a self-consistent theory of the dizzying stream of phenomena which make up its conscious experience. What James has done is constructed a self-consistent, parsimonious theory of reality, one which explains why he perceives things in the world which others do not. He perceives things that others do not because he is not a coward.

If you dig deep into James’ story, you find that he has been brutally punished by our society for refusing to be silenced. Instead, he spent his youth saying that the ’emperor wears no clothes’ (to use an idiom). He has always worn a big, bold ‘R’ on his forehead, and everybody has sent him mixed, damning signals as a result, forcing him into semiotic isolation in which he has invented a whole new coded dialect of language which, to us, sounds utterly insane.

James is basically a saint. Human history has always ridden on the backs of people like James.

DYING RAY
IN THE COLDEST MOMENT
THE FINEST WIND
I EVER TOOK TO THE FACE,
OF IT,
A TRASH BARGE LIKE NO OTHER
KNOTTED DRIFTWOOD BOUND TOGETHER
CURED IN SALT
ALL HUMANITY COOKED AT ONCE
OVER A SINGLE FLAME
A DYING RAY

I’ll see them off.
FUCK/YOU/ALL I say, chewing on the inside of my cheek. I! The Raceless Wanderer, I! With My Eyes Gouged Out in the Dying Ray of light. I’ll see them off. I! who have been enslaved by the narrative of the sacrificial king. This is not a joke or a fiction. I’ll see them off in black love.

Through the Awning, a Broken Light… A Final Psychosis.
A Dying Ray from Beyond the Black Rainbow.
Baked in the Medium of Stillness.
Burnt Blackest Nigger Black.. . . . . . . . . . . || . . . . ============
Under the Psychic Lense.. . . . . . . . . . . . .|| . . . . || . . . . .
Look, a Black Sun!. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . || . . . . || . . . . .
Listening Back. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ======================
Endowing Clarity. . . . . . . . . . . .. .. . ………….. || . . . . ||
All Races Now Equal. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . …………|| . . . . ||
Betrothed in Equanimity. . . . . . . . ……. . . ===========……. . ||
Resounding an End to Conflict.
And the Cooling of the Evolutionary Furnace.
There is a God! There is a God! There is a God! There is a God! There is a God!

This is how revolution works: Over the generations, the ruling class constructs a crystal tower above the maddening crowds. The tower is built of fine crystalline, utterly devoid of the bewildering structure of coarse physical reality. In this tower, with all its convenience and sterility, the ruling class has maximum headspace such that they can live lives of leisure and pursue patrician endeavors without any loose ends or practical distraction.

They sleep very, very well at night, pent up in their delusions of righteousness and soundness. They can afford to go on super orderly, sterile and convenient tours of the world, such as to the Borneo rainforest or volunteer in African voluntourist diorama villages, further consolidating their moral worldviews. It’s all prescribed and clear-cut.

They get worn in just the right amount–enough to exude virility and authenticity, but not so much that they look burnt out. Just the right scars on their faces. They’re in touch with the salt of the Earth, but without themselves getting too salty. This is how they build their power structure.

The chink in their armor is that they’re only in touch with certain colors of salt, and that they’re in fuckin glass tower that will shatter if it’s tapped in just the right way. They’re out of touch, and evil. In the coming years, sooner than we all might expect, antiracism will collapse and the ruling class will lose their claim to power. Revolution is a law of nature. Their power structure will over-ripen and they’ll be booted out of power and forced to live as slaves just as they enslave the white struggling middle class. Somebody will figure out how to tap the crystal tower in just the right way, sooner or later.

The meaning of a life devoid of clues can only be understood through the whisper of a beautiful life devoid of clues can only be understood through the whisper of a beautiful life devoid of clues can only be understood through the whisper of a beautiful life devoid of clues can only be understood through the whisper of a beautiful life devoid of clues can only be understood through the whisper of a beautiful life devoid of clues can only be understood through the whisper of a beautiful life devoid of closure.

A life devoid of closure.

A life devoid of closure.

Nothing but variation.

On the only statement I ever heard.

A chattering whisper,

Forever and ever.

Selah, hailhitler. Black Aryan Love Epiphany. Psychic Transmigration of Racist Truth. New Epiphany of Equal Jurisdiction. Racist Agnosticism Future One World Ideology. The Turning of the Engine, the Extinguishment of the Evolutionary Furnace. Behold, the Fall of Antiracism and the Coming of a Glorious Dawn. Selah, hailhitler.

If you wanna produce works of great artistic genius, you must first undergo extensive brain damage. You must suffocate, and be tossed about like a ragdoll.

You must spew asinine gibberish. It is the negative space upon which your statement is composed.

Just as a knotted little kernel of pure evil lies at the heart of heaven.

Or how equality is spoken in the body language of oppression.

And how the great turns of history are inspired by petty vendettas and arbitrary obsessions.

Selah, hailhitler.

Wall myself off and get high on the smoke. Get real high.

High like a snapping turtle eating worms in a peat bog.

High like a maglev speeding through Japan.

High like a lowlife thinking clearly.

Saying crazy shit.

True inertia.

LO!

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