The Mirror Chamber
You’re seen with hands. Every stroke. Every twitch. I will not release you of my grip. Round eyes glooming in murk, sharply cut by the white. Hold your breath.
The fly will be the first to notice your death. When your fractured scull causes blood to seep into the dull grey mass of your dumb brain. The flies will be the first to realise that your time has come and their time to feed on your corpse has finally begun. The flies you believe to be foolishly laying themselves on your limbs are doing nothing else than seeing if you are there yet. They fly away unsatisfied yet they rest assured that, strong as you might be, you cannot defy the rules bound to your flesh. There is a reason why the devil is called the lord of the flies. Beelzebub sends out his slaves, to see what they can let him know.
As I looked into the pit of greed. You looked back at me. We were once bathed together. We slept together. We shared the same mother the same father. We knew each other. I watched your every step. I modelled myself after you. As I looked into the pit of greed. I saw myself. I saw why you resent me. I saw why you want to defeat me.
Mothers lessons, you’re the source of all your horrors. The spit on your face, the chants, the fear. For what you don’t speak does not exist. Repeats the fair skin over and over, while the other one rests in silence. And shakes his head. He broke through only once. He told you to fight back and immediately got shut down.
I heard what you said tell me more.
Yet he remains in silence, deeply hidden under the shroud. Father won’t give you his secrets. He thinks of our ancestral history as a personal possession. What your bloodline passed along is not meant for your ears. He looks at you and sees only half of a black man.
Cappuccino, cream, beige, pale, light brown, sunburn.
Nur der Teufel lässt dich tanzen
Bist du nett darfst‘ ihm einen blasen
Zecken, Ratten, Schlangen und Wanzen
Holde Engel die dich strafen
Nur die Sünde’s nicht begangen
Heute kommt dein Herz zum rasen
Gerechtigkeit, gibt dir Abbadon
Schreite raus aus Gottes Tempel
Wolltest du ein sauberes Leben?
Tiefe Zweifel, Engel Hegen
Wenn Dämonen um dich walzen
Tanzen leicht auf ihren Füßen
Wenn du nicht sündigst,
wirst du das büßen
Ohne Zunge kannst nich' sprechen
Erheb die Faust,
um Nasen zu brechen
Über Gottes grobe Willkür
Wirst du dich heute noch erheben
Auch Mephisto trägt das schwarze Mal
Seine Mohren sind hier, um dich zu schützen
Groß sind sie in ihrer Zahl
Nur die Liebe bekommst’ in Stücken
Let go. Lay yourself into my arms I will take you away. Far far away my child. You will be mine and i will never let you go. Lean on me. Lay your head into my lap. I will feed you, wash you, sing you to sleep and we shall be free forever.
As you seek the knowledge of the elders who do you speak to? Why don’t they hear you? You seek the gods of stone and wood, but they won’t ever respond. Waiting in an elusive nothing. It’s blistering silence endlessly blows into the back of your brainstem, as you fight the erge to cut the line. I can tell you where we went wrong. I can tell you why lines, white as chalk, divide us. I can tell you why sharks don’t eat black people. The flies are waiting. They’re watching and waiting.
Under the impulse of your flight instinct your shrivelled little dick is unable to escape your shivering body. There was a time where tall German men would deliver a clean cut to whatever remains of your crippled manhood. Pretty little halfniggers like you subordinated to a blade that was engineered to cut not kill. Consider yourself lucky as you are still alive and they are not yet ready to come for you again. Your dead body is not hanging from a mango tree. Your mouth is not stuffed with your bloody scrotum. The knife has not yet struck.
We shall overcome. Remember when they used to sing that in church. They sang it so slow it sounded like a burial song. It sounded so tired and hopeless. But the echos were stronger than the word. You still hear their voices. You still look down on the beautiful skin covering your precious body. We shall overcome someday. Feel the sharp edge of your mind. As your father clouds himself in cynicism, don’t deny that you now know where he’s coming from. You’re now old enough to understand his resentment. You understand why the people in church took their time when singing. We shall overcome. Take into your own hands. It’s your turn. Crash your head into that solid wall. Don’t lie to yourself. Wipe that Smirk off your face.
Bruder. Schwester. Wir standen schon immer im Eifer des Gefechts. Wir wurden in diese Schlacht hineingeboren. Wir kennen nichts anderes. Wenn die großen Männer nach dir rufen vergiss nicht du bist einer von Vielen und dennoch sind wir immer noch hier.
The bloody taste of steel on your tongue, as your fat lips swell up making you look like a caricature. A humanoid creature. Your watermelon smile, that caused a spark of confusion to cross the hateful eyes of the man standing above, was not the result of a bold gesture but of the manic venom clouding your mind. You cherish that sweet taste of your own blood, over the victorious pain in the sore wrists of somebody who has won a dirty fight. You have felt your Heart pumping in the tips of your fingers, the ripped skin between your knuckles, the throbbing sensation along your arms, only to wake up to the striking realisation that - this is not enough. It’s too late for sacrifices. You never had a Chance it is not your fault, but sadly this is a question that will never be posed. You overstayed your welcome before you were even flung into existence.
You were once shouting at the top of your lungs. Now you’ve become silent. Staring in cold anticipation, awaiting the beautiful moment in which you will be left in peace. Left in peace with the fool that sought out to provoke you. Left in peace to devour him like a python eats it’s prey. But you’re not here to crack your Fingers on skulls, but to have your skull cracked, to the satisfaction of the vultures and bacteria, wolves and hyenas, made worms and flies.
Yet you lack a defeat. Your legs were always able to carry you home as if you were never in danger. Left alone with the suffocating hate creeping up your throat, as you spread your poison amongst the few that love you. Your father never beat you but he should have. Unfamiliar with the unfiltered way you express your anger, he should rather have taken you to the slaughterhouse to dispose of your painstaking lust for trouble.
We shall overcome. We shall overcome. We shall overcome someday.
It’s written that there is no human closer to the animal than the black soul. And so the twisted mythology lying upon the black mans body provides the act of sexual penetration with an unpurity far beyond the innocence of a lonely man, longing for love and compassion. There is no larger disproportion of black men on screen than in the industry that provides images of bodies fucking bodies. Constantly fuelling rape Phantasies of white men. The fragile sensitivity within you was ripe to be subordinated into the intimidated, helpless figure of the shoeshine boy. In order to hide it you turned yourself into a hollow shell, the shadow of a phantasy that is not your own. This is why they want to cut you. This is why they have developed specific medical tools applicable to anthropomorphic bodies. This is why they are out to hunt you down. Watch your step you might fall.
Talk to me. Tell me how you feel and the bleeding will stop. We will hang together. One last time our shadows will stretch over the savanna. They will go to sleep just as we will. Our bodily fluids sucked dry by the sun and the flies will be our dear friends who will seek our sweet blood and alert the others as our leftovers will be put to use.
I dare you to speak what you think once you lay your gaze upon Francis Ngannou. I double dare you for it will be me who will beat down. Running your mouth on matters far too big for such a small mind to conceive. You may condemn this act of violence as a self fulfilling prophecy and with this you won’t be wrong. Regardless there will be one more fractured skull before it is my turn. I’ll make you shit your pants. I’ll rip the hair of your head.
Weck mich bitte auf aus diesem Albtraum
Menschen sehen vor lauter Bäumen den Wald kaum
Man versucht uns ständig einzureden
Dass es noch möglich wär', hier frei zu leben
You purposely unfolded yourself under the shadow of our peers on the other side of the ocean. Within a narrative they seemed to admire. Our recent history is far less glorious. It’s the story of the Lanchester pact and the hundred trillion dollar bill. Of a war hero turned mass murderer. The great stone houses cast their long shadows into a future that will be just as endless as it will be horrific. Do not seek shelter in the empty granary, your bones will crumble under its collapsing ceiling.
We were made of this earth, this soil.
Clay, brown, diamond, chocolate, opal, taupe, drab.
Made from this earth in order to return to this earth. A stepping stone for prosperity. Fertile ground for treasures beyond our reach. Our rich land needs to be sucked try, our bodies put to use. Work the field. Dig the mine. Slaughtered and exploited, left to delve into the depth of the core.
Here is the purpose you seek. The price you will pay. The choices you made and those you never had. You may listen to the sound of your skin. Embrace that dwindling sense of pride you so dearly hold on to.
Just as long as you remember that,
everything will be taken away.