Monday, March 30, 2015

The Mother/Son Fascination
From Disowning the Self to Self-Proclamation

There is a grave process society propels in undermining the emotional and mental growth of people. The most informal way occurs through pop culture as not every one is initiated in universities and colleges. The idea of schooling is a notion governed by loans and is not merely inspired by the will to learn. That element has much more to do with upbringing within the familial construct of mother, father or the rearing of the child through what one would call a "village."

Living in the city of Accra, country of Ghana where I was born and raised, both my parents were professionals. I went through the traditional process of studying at grade schools and eventually the Royal Preparatory School which was more or less like an academy. We studied under the tutelage of teachers who wore white shirts with ties and tailored slacks along with polished dress shoes. Our uniforms were orange shirts and khaki shorts for the boys and red starched cotton dresses for the girls. We were often met by a headmaster at assembly each morning. Those who came in late were whipped with a cane. This very brutal act was common among the teachers in various classes of study.

I wasn't enamored by a varying culture separate from my notion of home, maids who took care of me, neighbors at our established flat, extended family and relatives, life as a student at the Royal Preparatory, whereby we were picked up after school, my cousins and I, by a bus called Neoplan which had a rather psychedelic design, multicolored, modern, almost futuristic in its display. This gave us a certain advantage above everybody else, classmates who came to class barefoot, exchanged afro combs, misbehaved in class, illustrating images of (soccer) football players in a game of football, our intramural games on the compound and the particular girls I fantasized about, two tall African girls I remember so well and a fair skinned girl named Cecilia.

It was at a time when I was too young and certainly too shy to have approached these girls. Alternatively I lived on my grandmother's compound with my male and female cousins and my uncles. Any notion of sexuality I had was instigated by a neighbor at the flats who had a thing for me and acted promiscuously when she saw me, removing her underwear at one point when my mother and I came passing by. I spent several months living on my grandmother's compound before me, my brothers and mother were to leave for New York. So my cousins were able to have an influence on me. We slept in the same room and the same sheets. There were often moments of sexual arousal as we lay together and groped. These activities were accentuated when they would bring me into my grandmother's closet and spread their wombs for me to look at. It was here then I noticed that pungent particualr smell of the uterus.

This means of symbiosis was also accentuated by the relationship I had with my mother. I accompanied her every where. She introduced me to organized religion by bringing me to church and she often drove me to the market and to school. In retrospect I feel my mother possessed me. It's a circumstance where two innately attractive people have foresight and intelligence, their beauty is a sign of strength and power. I feel my mother and me have a similar conscientious view of life made up of darkness and light. This very combination overwhelms our disposition to the point of amazing creativity.

Having moved to New York and living here in the late seventies as a young boy, the dynamics of the female object circumstantially in my life had to do with my mother as a psuedo-housewife and professional, an uneducated maid we brought along and the first caucasian female I had feelings for. My mother impeded my growth emotionally with girls because I honored her, she was the most beautiful woman I had ever known and I was her first born child. We shared a conscience of love, beauty and death, a philosophical determination which would be explored later in her nocturnal dreams and my propensity for French literatuire and entry into a dark depression. I had a talent for drawing nude figures inspired by my father's adult magazines. The maid interfered with my behavior and kept me from enjoying this fantasy. It was also the advent of cable pornography and mother on several occasions promptly kept me from watching these late night televison programs.

At this point I had lost the emotional and intellectual compatability with the black female. I had left Ghana and here in New York City my conscience was manifesting through a web of sexual images with white females and my female classmates in school were white. It made me grossly dislike the maid. I found her to be dispicable, her uneven dark skin, bushy afro and musculature. It was all because society had subconsciously influenced me to dislike the black female and choose the white female.

I went on to sudy at an all boys parochial high-school where I once met a black girl at a dance. What started off as casual flirting on the telephone and would lead to dating all came to an end when I once saw her after school and I didn't know how to react. I casually walked her by in confusion not knowing was it because she was black or was it my awkwardness with girls. There was another circumstance when I was with a black girl in a group alongside a friend and his girlfriend at her house. The black girl and I were alone but soon afterwards I became uncomfortable, once again not knowing if this behavior was because she was black or if I didn't know how to play the game with girls.

I lost my virginity during college to an Italian girl from Milano. It began a continuous cycle where I befriended or had affiars with caucasian girls. It was steeped in my conscience and love for music, art, drama, television and pop culture in general. My friends were all caucasian. The only notion I had of my black self was through my family. Three circumstances that changed me were meeting a Kenyan girl whose beauty floored me, falling in love with a Ghanaian girl and befriending a Ghanaian artist.

Othere than that the complex of being different from Black Americans was always apparent. I lived in transitional housing among other blacks for ten years. It was a neccesary intevention. I have also recently done a social experiment on my myself, writing poetry with an internal black voice. There always is the dichotomy of being able to write from a black perspective but lacking the ability to perform the work with a black conscience. This has always been my complex of being an eduacted black African having spent time living among uneducated blacks.

Living in a black neighborhood I have grown to encourage a black conscience along with my philosophical thought. I have a black friend and another indigenous female acquaintance. I am able to shield myself from the influx of a caucasian influence in my psychology and intellect. Although I am not a militant black person I have found a balance between living a life as an African and as a profound thinker of multiple philosophical languages in the virtual sense and as a prolific speaker of the Ga, African language, making me well-rounded and not broken as a black person but matured with integrity.

Tuesday, March 24, 2015

New York City is a Punk Rocker

Tell your daughters, at Port Authority, not to look a man between the eye
He’ll drug her soon into a world of Sugar Daddies, make her work the street

Tell her, tell her to keep her eyes looking straight, arch her back
Walk like a woman, Cosmopolitan; never let a man buy her a drink

Out here the garbage trucks pick up after midnight, dead bodies, Coca Cola
Vodka bottles, cheap summer dresses, business suits from Salvation Army

Like a woman on a bed about to make love she stretches her arms and legs
From the East Village to the South Bronx, the skin heads and gang bangers

Subway cars painted with graffiti; don’t bring a white girl into Brooklyn
You get chased into oncoming traffic, Italian hoods with their baseball bats
Beat you bloody and blue, caught in the wrong place at the wrong time

Tell your sons not to get involved with the NYPD, never jump a turnstile
Tag a wall, piss on the pavement, get nookie in the park, smoking a joint
Walk in groups, start a fight, hang with a ghetto blaster, pack a pistol

Saturday night on the wards of Bellevue and Rikers, they bring them in
Handcuffed, in chains, swollen faces, homeless men and young prostitutes
Picked up off the street for loitering, suspected for stabbing, armed robbery

Like the smell of gas, the city creeps through these walls you call home
Finds you standing in front of a mirror, hopeless, you punch a hole through
Thinking about cutting your wrist, buying a gun to shoot yourself in the head

Love is a stranger; you meet at bars, dark rooms with red bulbs, mirror ball
Heart is a dagger, plunged deep into another, lonely women, desperate men
Soundtracks of broken souls, to rock and roll, Jamaican bars, lead guitars

Liquor pours into night, cigarette after cigarette, tall tales, empty promises
Outside the streets are watching, the air is tall and thin, dry scab, finger nails
Make up polish on her face, caked lipstick too hard to kiss, but you tongue

Inside an apartment, you got The Velvet on vinyl, loud stereo equipment
In the bedroom you lay her down, she undresses her blouse, undoes her bra
Much like other breasts you’ve seen before, you bring them close to your lip

With Nico singing Femme Fetal, you take off your shirt, unzip your pants
She watches while you stand naked, her arms pull you closer to her body
You embrace, a hard embrace, distant and apart yet bound by the glory

Bowie and Iggy, Lou Reed and Leonard Cohen, all that you’ve learned
How to love a woman in this poor city; break her down from limb to limb
Scar of pleasure becomes the orgasm, you fight, the bare-boned fisted

Decking man for looking at you with malice, breaking head with beer bottle
You fight, rolling cigarette rings, the O of your mouth, spread of smoke
She breathes caterpillar breath, look upon her rage, what desire is this

Lydia Lunch in heat, attacking the heart attack, if death should come soon
Where will you live not having paid rent, out in the streets, that heroin hustle
It eats your face, sunk in deep, holes in your hand, long legged, muscular

Some nights she straps it on, wicked bang, sounds of uzis in the background
Drug dealer at the door, rain on a Monday evening, piss drunk after hours
Wasting time watching television, listening to Televison, The Talking Heads

Friends from the neighborhood stop by, you roll up a spliff, smoke them out
Is it some one got murdered or committed suicide, smell of funk in the room
Tomorrow, it is band practice, got a gig at the local bar, making a set list

Sister ran away from home, she’s coming to visit, needs a place to stay
Got sick of Daddy, he liked her pretty; she wants to be an NYC punk rocker

So tell her, tell her there’s a boy at every street corner, looking to do damage
Bring her down to her knees, get a tattoo of his name, make her draw blood

Tell your mama, daddy, nephews and nieces not to come to New York City
She’s a punk rocker with tattoos, listens to Johnny Thunders at CBGB’s

Sunday, March 15, 2015

On her Left Breast was Tattoo

On her left breast was tattoo under green leafed trees she parted her blouse
Garden of this French cafe on Lexington Avenue I had brought some girls
Looking through glass window onto streets their backs facing I saw delight
Well to do mongers menu in hand as I greeted waitresses with a ca va ca va
Brooklyn girls rule I breathe them - who am I Johnny Cash made me king
Oh how my eyes followed her around the roundabout wherever she came

Was a glorious afternoon when we dismembered our chatter to friendship
What had I found among these pigeons – beggars banquet love supreme
A forest ceremony lay central could it be Botticelli kept goddesses here

White skinned pink moisture an air of jubilee any rocker would beg for
In this stature I made it known no nonsense – should I ever be perverted
Win her away from the wretched blond coiffeured punks chain smoking
Chokers on their necks black boots black lipstick black dye leather pants
She had been alone then but soon taken away by waves of golden gossip

Pop popular – tall and stark making gestures with her body – oh sexing
Electric muse waiting on cafeteria boys who did everything not touching
With words hot mouths breaking wind shooting the sure shit hipsters do
Puss in my vein watching like clockwork at all hours I made interventions

I walked her down Park Avenue walk ways in her futuristic trench coat
Brigitte Bardot from Bensonhurst stick figure chalk marked pastel doll
Breathtaking view on steps of Metropolitan Museum this art kingdom

Call me the African Godard – call me the African Truffaut – oh shout
Let these fortuned figures wearing Calvin Kleins hail me as Koslowskie
So then for all girls who wiped me off their tongues I chose her as model
Never once did a woman sit before me while I took turn with tight fingers

Oh this particular act – oh this sweet surrender beats any Brooklyn orgy

On her left breast was tattoo dark skies looming light fell on her breast
Half parted supple gothic - what memories I have of the bra she wore
Could she possibly have tormented me again – not in that French cafĂ©
Music so swell sugar sweet cappuccino I brought these lavender girls
What was seduction dreamt up in circles I painted portraits on paper