Welcome to the TerrorDome That tick tick ticking metronome Bides time Stories spoken stories told As we gather round Ancient magic amongst us grows Where two or three are gathered in the midst I roam Divine takes form and expresses blessings Speaking truths embedded message Steam levitating concrete Putrid flesh perfuming city streets Victory shy victims meet exchanging hymns in mundane speak Raging consumptions nourish me Raising hell to eye level Soul’s cry out it’s terminal The first shall be last and the last shall be first Let your words pepper tongues Burn eyes in re-verse Speak now.
II.
I take my seat, inhale deep exhale slow, curtains drawn, a warm blanketing quiet settles us. Eyes open, mouths closed, decibels climbing over decibels, light emerges, eyes transfixed.
Expression is a divine quality, it walks hand in hand with creation. Allowing us to leave our mark in a world that actively seeks to erase us. When we create our insides are laid bare for the world to watch and witness. Some gape, some stare, some look on with rapt curiosity. For some creation is a means of finding validation, something that refills their cup for more creating, for others it’s exorcism, a way for evil to be rid of them. It’s a place for others to find rest, a shelter from the crazy-making the feeling that I am not meant to be here, that my story has no significance, no value and no one cares.
Films allow us to see ourselves as we could be, as we have been. They allow us to resolve disparate parts that we try hard to detach from, that threaten our existence, that keep love at bay and our beloved at a distance. For a time, reality is suspended, in the darkness of the cinema we fellowship together, in silence our focus is drawn out. Our souls are stretched, our emotions swirl and dive head first into the ground, our eyes deceive our ears. By the credits we are different, ages have passed and something transformed.
III.
All the good things Stalk me in darkest City LEDs submerging shadows Revolution is my conscience It hounds me in the voice of the great ones Long since dead now emerging silence Kept alive by sweetened tongues Viscous condense in angelic songs Revolution haunting me Feet shod preparation done Revolution comes Awake asleep the trumpet sounds And the dead must come rising up Gravity abandoning spirit Eternity meeting present Time jumping ship collapsing Curtains drawn in Am I a villain A hero of a story doomed for repetition His story spoken verbatim Am I a villain Tongue heavy with old questions New answers to old ideas circulating
IV.
Of the answers man has found wandering to and fro The river speaks to me Soiling my eyes and my mouth Dirt for skin and sky for ears The river speaks to me Dragonflies and fry fish Pinks and marigolds, periwinkles and yellows Holiness was written on my tongue My flesh is destruction and creation enmeshed As I unravel into somewhere else My form takes up a new mantle I am here forever the river speaks to me in a still small whisper
V.
Black Trauma Selling like hot cakes in the latest wrapper Black Trauma Re-live it, sweeten it, season it, Repackage and Resell it Prices are high Demands are high Sell Sell Sell Unending supply Black Trauma Sold at all stores near you Composition: 100 % cotton, 8 teaspoons of sugar, 1 kilogram of tobacco Do not machine wash Iron on reverse Do not dry clean Rated PG Suitable for all ages three to ninety-three Best until 2424.
VI.
What if reflection is a human condition The prelude to recognition Allows love to flow from soul mediated by ventricle and atrium An unstoppable force Paving the way to redemption.
VII.
Welcome to the TerrorDome That tick tick ticking metronome Bides time Stories spoken stories told As we gather round Ancient magic amongst us grows Where two or three are gathered in the midst I roam Divine takes form and expresses blessings Speaking truths embedded message Steam levitating concrete Putrid flesh perfuming city streets Victory shy victims meet exchanging hymns in mundane speak The time for revolution has come The streets cry out For the price of one the many shall take up the call at the behest of drum Mothers wailing in riddim Weep for the souls that have been taken We gather at the threshing floor Accepting nothing more Justice is just us asking “what if” questions
Shakara, a Jamaican-born writer, poet, spoken word artist, and singer, centers their artistic endeavors on amplifying the experiences of Black queer women from the diaspora. Drawing inspiration from diverse influences such as dub, jazz, Audre Lorde, African, and Hindu mythology, Shakara crafts a blend of poetry and mysticism aimed at empowerment and healing. Their body of work delves into themes of identity, queerness, and spirituality, reflecting a courageous exploration of self and society.
With a commitment to understanding and knowledge-seeking, Shakara continually pushes boundaries through their artistry. Having headlined events across Bristol and performed in venues stretching from Edinburgh to London, Shakara's presence in the artistic landscape resonates with authenticity and depth. They are particularly intrigued by the potential of film as a medium for storytelling, believing in its ability to give voice to marginalised narratives and silenced communities.
