No Budu Please
Playlist by Ugly Duckling Presse
'No Budu Please' emerges in the voice of “an artificial boy in some sort of plastic prairie,” as he zeroes in on desire, spirit, and diversion. A diversion for all those forgotten and on the outskirts, impenetrable. Wingston González has carved out a distinctive way of creating beats with words, a spiritual questioning of godliness, and a space of immersion in a Garifuna history marked by the 1797 expulsion from St. Vincent and subsequent exile to the coast of Central America. One of the most prolific Garifuna writers today, González has built a window into contemporary Black indigeneity in Mesoamerica, but also closed that same window in a sidelong attack on colonialist language and syntax, rewriting Spanish as he goes. Urayoán Noel’s translation moves the ludic experimentation with Spanish into an English that also tears at the colonial heart of Occidental imaginings. Both books insist that colonial fantasies are not to be stomached, that there is no easy way in or out of reality or dream, rather a series of glacial contradictions and bloody yearnings.
'No Budu Please' emerges in the voice of “an artificial boy in some sort of plastic prairie,” as he zeroes in on desire, spirit, and diversion. A diversion for all those forgotten and on the outskirts, impenetrable. Wingston González has carved out a distinctive way of creating beats with words, a spiritual questioning of godliness, and a space of immersion in a Garifuna history marked by the 1797 expulsion from St. Vincent and subsequent exile to the coast of Central America. One of the most prolific Garifuna writers today, González has built a window into contemporary Black indigeneity in Mesoamerica, but also closed that same window in a sidelong attack on colonialist language and syntax, rewriting Spanish as he goes. Urayoán Noel’s translation moves the ludic experimentation with Spanish into an English that also tears at the colonial heart of Occidental imaginings. Both books insist that colonial fantasies are not to be stomached, that there is no easy way in or out of reality or dream, rather a series of glacial contradictions and bloody yearnings.
1. myth of another self
Wingston González
2. Or Omage Against Livingston
Wingston González
3. Saint Vincent
Wingston González
And that object became part of him for the day,
or a certain part of the day, or for many years,
or stretching cycles of years.
—Walt Whitman


he was an artificial boy. a
strange artificial boy in some
sort of plastic prairie
a myth that destroyed everything it
touched, everything that touched it and
what enters at the en d of the night
to inhabit his two hearts
that boy was me. a little nobody
who loved the present day the way one loves
a fistful of diamonds
in grandma’s skull. or
what we all want, just to say something,
to become a fossil, at least a drop
of dna preserved in amber
in a caribbean jungle
that boy, me. some sort
of cursed paradise, eden recovered
through an expansion that loosens the
reins of his insignificant rage
worried about the words
better used by others, a
mediocre animal strung to an
upside-down holiness, to this
presence with no aura, with no arc
how fucked up. to know that we die
does not mean that we die
as days go by blindness
makes me less merciless and
I cry through fields and clouds
the boy suspects that a dead man
goes for a stroll inside his still-misshapen
chest: everything that’s inside
can be found more complete outside
in better shape and against the light
and as days go by, he pounces
on peace and insecticides
and he believes the seas of europe
to be limbos frozen by his
dreams, a brain: jupiter’s
radiation is something about words
he barely knows how to milk
that boy will be me. an image
from livingston back in 93:
the cartridges melt in
the venomous breath of
the sky; the two main st
reets in town st
utter a song together
that no one has even wanted
to remember; a house of cards
just behind the synagogue
crumbles with no wonder and no
lamp to look after
the inoffensive precision
of the demolition. sun of rust
oxygen in flames, oh, two
suns seeped into the history
of culture. see? what
miserable lizards
in a cement fountain
glassy river so close
to faded stars
to a basketball team
and he believes, suspects, that
as days go by he’ll manage
to survive the magnetic
sound of heaven, the foo
lishness of heaven, that
he won’t know consists only
of simple lusts
of birds and scorpions
of decadent paper orna
ments and a birthday part y
to cry openly and without much
passion for the streets that someone
erases from a school map
what will become of the gothic boy
for whom culture
is an accumulation of ideas
provided to be erased
by entropy. nothing
written sculpture, everything
at the mercy of an unknown
energy that spreads, that divides
the inanities of the people
who tomorrow, at this time
will have forgotten their own
frozen blood
da t.v. relakses me
inside of it a girl slurps an ise cream
inside of it dat girl is so happy dat
she won’t be fased by da gase of men
purhaps not as pure as da objekt of der ritual
             but men
an at da end, yes, at da end
da purfekt complement cotes my fingers an she announces da
   terror:
lifes so eesy, says a boice offskreen, as eesy as slurpin it
yes, says my boice offskreen, as eesy as slurpin it
slurpin you my island
of course, yes, me offskreen, how fun life can be when its as
   eesy
as slurpin it, slurpin it, endlessly slurpin it
             a television in da darkness

                         I inboke you
             oh sky of, of, of-of fear!
Da women enter da bei, an I laff
Dey enter obserbing what dey dont know
An ol man lights a Marlboro in da oshan
an duss begins da bindication
of da dead in eighteenhundredsomething

Llurumei is far: I dont knoe her
Im not her son. Llurumei is
a black cat wid a shotgun
an she barely knowes me so I dont care

(I dont know you Llurumei
I dont knowe you
Look for my nabel
in a maternity ward

Tomorrow der will be more dan senturies
pushing me wid da forse of a tung
dat more dan bringing me closer to things
            dribes dem away)
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