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- Alcaeus (via reborn-in-the-sea)
- Edward Abbey (via conelradstation)
Reflecting back upon the harm
Done to the blk man’s humanity
Lazaro Ros emerges
From internet radio
Afrekete all in his voice
And you cringe
In the discomforting skin
Of your own non-customs
Invoked into anger
And shame or some other
If only your mouth
Was acceptfully asian
Singing italian opera
With a frenchman’s accent
If only you were gypsy and easily
exotic in accordance to
The Black Beautician’s Code
For Broken Standards;
Your primeval not so pagan.
If only the west
Would romanticize you
Then we could all move on
Everyone a perfect people
Your persona non grata name-tag
Now a campfire ghost tale
Or a boyscout’s merit badge
For the best retelling
Of historical sci-fi
Left to reference life and love and
Not ‘this culture for sale’
You could sing in the tongues
Of your eldest traditions
And no one would rear back
Waiting for king kong
To break through the gate
Fearing for the fate of the pale pin-up
Will our women ever be
The girl-next-door? Our mamas
Have always been
A beta version faye ray
But who ever rushes to our mama’s
Rescue to candlelit-meal them before
The adventurous moonlit walk?
The monkey on their backs
Done been 400 pounds
For 400 years. So, Afrekete, yes;
Afrekete, yaaay-yo! All the rose petals,
Each and every one,
Lighting gently upon
Our shoulders; lilting in gaiety
To our outstanding beauty.
fortunately for us, your thighs are too thin to bear the weight
of this poem / my words have never been ones to believe
in brevity for the sake of themselves. all the bowels break / bleak
sentences full of baby diaper and swaybacked similes.
a thing of beauty.
this bent brogue might bore you to death (both ‘drill you’ and / or
'not thrill you’) but it will not betray you for slivers of fame…
this old thing a new theology; long wet baptisms in all god’s
bullshit ochres / this written word smitten to no ends with its
own stench… ranch animals defecate and make love in the branches
of every syllable. im sorry aunt sylvia… im so sorry mr. frost,
but yall’s thighs are too thin to crutch my vévés from primitive
corners to porcelained crucibles. i can not rely on yall’s hallowed
histories to rub zeus’ silver glitter against the shoulders of my slang,
will not entrust you my tongue to twitch and hang like a tassel
from where highbrows pedestal a poem / propping up shakespeare,
prometheus, mephistopheles and the other old heroes of europe
that were never once inclined to help save my mama / tho she had
such a hope - but then she grew up and discovered there was no
greek mythology that could comfort her after 10 long hours at GE…
in my mouth: parables and marbles mix / a new myth. my penchant
for the projects over nobel prizes and pulitzer’s pull… zombies exude
themselves from my birth canals / re-enact a michael jackson passion
play and speak words that have werewolves in red zipper jackets
excreting rainbows onto comedies of eros / cold rhythms that pass
for write. i’ll bite a basquiat backbeat before i chew the cud of your
crystallized canons - i do not throw perils before swine, i cast cowries
at the very feet of shadows / this shit is my science and i am its highest
sorcerer; no ‘griot’ - but an ordained babalawo… a ‘gawlo-ologist’…
a black poet with a sight-seer’s degree and i’m sorry for i have not enough
truth theorem to come cure the ills for the both of us. my science is a sunra
worshipper. in this fable sonny blount flew too close to saturn; burnt the
abstract into black beauty / became a household name (patent pending)
but there is no ending to this tale, just my pledge of allegiance
asymmetrically ascending: canonically black, cosmologically bright,
and yet, all-in-all, i’m still a dimestore horror show to you / i’m sure.
there. i said it.
nothing to do with sex or gender… just in my perspective. i’ve identified with that word since i first picked up a crayon to draw caricatures on the inside of closet walls (shout out to all my grandsons carrying on that tradition!)
i’m not goofy… i’m not quirky (tho i long to be both!) i’m just queer.
i love my family without hesitation (except for some of my louisville fam where ‘hesitation’ is our way of emphasizing our statements; it’s a louisville thing - yall caint sit at our table and yall caint show love like us. sorry).
i’m strongly affectionate towards the people and places that matter - it might not always show up that way because of my deep proclivity for introversion. to borrow a phrase from a friend, “i would fight a brick for them”.
i love chauvinism. i love feminism. i love mankind in all of its dualism and multidimensionalism (my browser is telling me that “multidimensionalism” is not a word but i fucking know that it is! stop spreading your lies to me, Artificial Intelligence!). i love contradiction for it is the most human trait a person can have - where else in nature does nature contradict itself for reasons other than strict survival?
i love straight people. i love gay people. i love people… especially the people most often attacked for their own individual peoplehood. and if you also identify with queerness, if you query internally for queerness, then i love you most of all.
if we share the same aesthetic then i love you too… i just wont care too much about you. if we are too much the same then that’s lame to me - i already enjoy talking to myself, how could interacting with you be any different if our identifies continually mimic? your individual queerness better be pretty damn dope, playa.
just offer me something new within you for me to explore within myself and we’ll be cool. we may not necessarily “get along” because i often struggle with that type of maintenance. especially if your presence or if just simply knowing you requires my devout attention. i’m too walter mitty for all that shit; i caint be your acolyte, i’m already a follower of shadows and i do not want.
anyway, i’m just a very queer man. a big, black, cis, queer ass man.
and i wish queerness on you and everyone you love, that’s about the only way i could ever see us getting along with each other.
is the only prerequisite for consideration as a modern civilization.
"come hither" is the god-given name collectively given to their daughters at birth and it is a father’s role to deliver his daughters into the hands of commerce for all tutorials on "refined womanhood" until they are labeled useless.
a woman is only considered “useless” once she loses the desire to seduce and it can happen at any age (be aware of the warning signs that your daughters are considering a useless lifestyle, there are many and most begin with books that can not be made into movies).
once useless, she will be labeled a “hag” but there is always hope that she will return to a softer posture for the appeasement of society, then the west will train them as “educators” (a “bitch” is a woman that chooses to seduce off-cue and for her own pleasure, but as long as she retains a commerce-based sexual desire then this is ideal, although not optimal).
parents must reassure their daughter that such dreams are not impossible (and propable, if your daughter is nonblack).
ladies, welcome to the destiny of a desireability demographic.
please dispose of all prepackaged aspirations in proper order for maximum consideration in feminine idealism or you may find your privileges zeroed out to a non-commercialized sum.
keep smiling; stay commodifiable.