The Black wolf
She asked me how i’m doing, so I told her
Painting by Lars Sandås. Photo: me
It seems my frontal lobe is finally heralding its arrival. Along with the decision to resist the corporate machine at all costs and put all my chips into the written word: the obscure lifelong journal in the name of creating, not consuming: through the poetry of resistance and not rote of subordination: in aeternum.
Although I do a temporary bow for academia, and kneel in its affirming presence. I kneel not in awe nor do I cower in search of elevated station. I lower myself to gaze upon the whole beast in preparation.
No longer do I see studying as a praxis of self-actualization; rather as a mode of self-protection to figure out how they are fucking us. Well, let me not assume about you - fucking me, that is.
Thick books, mostly of bearded white men, telling this poor, wayfaring son how to live his life?
Sure sounds like fuckery.
Well, they’re not all fucked up, they’re not all fucking archaic, some of them I fuck with - but there’s always the eyes of a big brother drawing the limits of my imagination.
Incidentally, the fuckers reveal themselves because I get to see them nude: academia, the nudity of the mighty: the world’s bone marrow: in citation.
Where’s the power of this bone - the moral yard stick - by the Jordan? Why is the whip of annihilistic frenzy, not of serene humanity, hanging like the sword of Damocles, over the Levant?
I want to scream but my lungs are empty and scarred. The heart enveloped in bitter darkness. So I retreat, like a wounded dog to lick my wounds: like a gullied man to nurse my cough:
Big brother you can fuck off.
In retreating I seem to have accepted the longevity of the struggle: cut malignant vices, gained control of the benign ones and now scurrying around trying to find witnesses, to form a moral cadre, against the ongoing siege of fascism…
…and for the ever-present march towards the winter of truth.
In short: alive, kicking and howling at the moon - the black wolf searches his pack and he hears a faint wail of eccentric comrades in the distant wilderness of urban sprawl.
Free Palestine!
- ‘gassed out
