I am a writer rendered speechless
Flabbergasted and incinerated
I am a poet left with castrated stanzas
Mummified and stupefied
limbs chopped off like remains of carnage
they have come to feed, you see
those old men with pink faces and
tie a yellow ribbon around the ole oak tree
Imprisoned in this facade with circus clowns
and the bears and lions smell rotten in their cages
their weak tails and trunks floppy from wear
we have been left to hang on lynches
our necks lesioned by fibrous piles
high and dry, because according to the book
we are savages with our slanted eyes and pussies
muddy skin and broken backs
we have been whipped till senses reel
we reel in this vortex
there is no end.
We spiral down
There is no God.
At least not in this colored world
not in this jukebox of a quarters
They are might Gods. Gods in Gold. Gods with Dough. Gods in High Towers. Gods with High Powers.
In my country, we appease the gods with wine and dine and bills pinned to possessed shamans. But no these Gods. Shamans cannot reach them. This is their Kingdom. Even gods can be reached by commoners, but not kings. Kings decapitate upon their fancies.
how dare i iterate
how dare i this subject to their kingdom be literate
how dare i this subject to their kingdom be legitimate
and so, banish them from this kingdom, they say
this is the decree
this is the speech
It is not that I am left speechless
it is I am left heartless
and I am a poet, with words as my heart.
so these verses that flowed
are a river of bleeding….