Nemesis

In the era of the Earth, we will effectively require a language that constantly bores, perforates, and digs like a gimlet, that knows how to become a projectile, sort of full absolute, of will that ceaselessly gnaws at the real. Its function will not only be to force the locks but also to save life from the disaster lying in wait. (189)
Achille Mbembe, Necropolitics.

Returning to language in a way, affirming languages of many kinds, combatting coercive sentimentality and rhetorical idiocy, of projection and abjection, of languages of industrial-level death.

AnthrApology is very much a hungry, angry, loving monster of poetry.

Each of the fragments of this terrestrial language will be rooted in the paradox of the body, the flesh, the skin, and nerves. To escape the threat of fixation, confinement, and strangulation, as well as the threat of disassociation of mutilation, language and writing will have to be assessed to sleep projected towards the infinity of the outside, rise up and loosen device that threatens the subjected person with suffocation as it does his body of muscles, lungs, heart, neck, liver, and spleen, that dishonoured body, made of multiple incisions, that divisible, divided body, and struggle against itself, made of several bodies that confront each other within one and the same body – on the one hand, the body of hatred, of appalling burden, the false body of abjection crushed by indignity, and, on the other, the original everybody, which, upon being stolen by others, is then disfigured and abominated, whereupon the matter is literally one of resuscitating it, in an act of veritable Genesis.
Achille Mbembe, Necropolitics.

This is the decolonized body. Those among us who are not racialized can decolonize our bodies as well from captures of indolence, denial, easy death drive, economic capture, and sloth.

(24. Black, Toussaint L’ouverture, Haiti, 1814)

I had to meet white men’s eyes.
I looked deeply at spheres bearing dim light,
and there met a curious version of myself:
it bore the weight of the jungle drum,
the crazed ululations of a warsong never mine,
so much voodoo,
and the pulsing thrust of black hips and even blacker black cocks.

I was amputated from myself,
and all over me from these white eyes came
the splatter of black black blood.
I am the end of history, they told me:
the beginning of time,
dismembered progress,
dislocated home.
I am become all these white spells of blackness cast upon me. Strange white voodoo

What does this black man want?
white eyes inquire.
What does white man desire of me,
I ask white eyes in return.
Madness, self-hate, treason, violence.
A black and white constellation of delirium. I am called into being.

An exchange of glances
shared on so many beaches at first landings of
so many boats full of whites,
glances exchanged in so many forest clearings at first arrivals
of so many scouting parties of
sword-bearing, gun-bearing, cross-bearing smile-bearing whites, the first glance,
the first look,
first encounter
already outside of time:
full of hatred, greed,
and the fecal stain of a thousand years of murder.