Insurrection

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I have always liked,
Defiant Africans,

Nelson, Patrice, Kenyatta,
Martin Luther King,

Groovy black men,
Niggers with attitude,

But they intimidate me,
Black men.

Freedom fighters,
Bar room brawlers,

And I rise from sleep,
Sheened in sweat,

Running away,
Scribbling my number,
On scraps of paper,

On foreheads and trousers,
On outstretched palms,

And I’m breathing heavily,
Feeling stained,

Because,
That one there,

The white man in Navy uniform,
With hair on his balls,

I know him,

-conquistador-

He smells of garlic and grease,
And my black friends call me,
Nigger, whore, bitch.

Will he take the lion tooth offered,
Can he make the tribal dance?

-I can teach him to love the earth,
Teach him to plant his feet in, deep-

I masturbate from sleep, supported
By thick, colonial, muscle.

I am forging steel,
Industrial iron,

I am engineering a white lover
Beneath the sheets, whilst

Apologising to freedom fighters,
Who call me nigger, whore, bitch.

 

♦photo – personal

evocative short poetry – words move

The sound of an African funeral

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They sing for him,
Swinging from heel to frail heel,

Growing earth between the ground and,
his casket,

Bleeding love into the air
Like orchids,

Humming,

They rise again
And again their gently swaying busts,

Move the air to and fro,
To and fro,

Intending that mother be comforted,

Intending that her wet eyes,
Smile at new wives, that

though her son was gunned down, the
Rhythm of the occasion,

Brings life.

-short evocative poetry-

There is an Angel

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There must be an angel looking over your shoulder.

There must be, even if you
Never see her,
An Angel.

There are creatures on other, Worlds,
That look like us but, For the clothing they wear;

…delicate, gauze-like materials, that blaze…
…yet do no harm.

One visited last night, pointing out my story, -where I had come from and where I was going-

Billowing from a turquoise dress, As she beckoned.

We traveled in straight lines and at fantastic speeds,
I was not afraid.

“Come,” she said, “Look here.”
“In this ocean there are many levels, Much like your own we just,
Live, In the waters…”

And I look at the ocean she is pointing out,
Orange,
Like the metal Mercury, lit By an amber Sun.

“The ones with technology,” she continued, “Live deep within the Mantle,
And breath a finer form of this liquid, Than your air.”

“How do they move?”, I ask,

“Their locomotion”, she says, “Is fueled,
By magnetic fields in cold gas.”

Alchemy.

It is not in the splitting of radiant metals, Rather,
In the special densities, Of Gold in the right chambers,

The surfaces of Neutron Stars, Super-conducting,

Immiscible in the sludge, That allows them to breath,
And to replicate, And to think.

The creatures on the surface sting, But the planet is defended,
By those further down, And the fumes they exude.

All beings discover that light will not be overtaken,

That travel is not powered, It is carried,

In handbags if you will,
And I saw people long dead, Connected to people still alive,

Creating those to be.

The last thing I remember were a string of pearls she was holding
In her pale, lussatite hands;

How they seemed to stretch out everlastingly…

We were still in motion.

-short evocative poetry-

I have forgotten who I am.

TOPSHOTS  Newly initiated 'naga sadhus' prepare to perform rituals on the banks of the Ganga River during the Maha Kumbh festival in Allahabad on Febraury 6, 2013.   During every Kumbh Mela, the diksha - ritual of initiation by a guru - program for new members takes place.   AFP PHOTO/Sanjay Kanojia

TOPSHOTS Newly initiated ‘naga sadhus’ prepare to perform rituals on the banks of the Ganga River during the Maha Kumbh festival in Allahabad on Febraury 6, 2013. During every Kumbh Mela, the diksha – ritual of initiation by a guru – program for new members takes place. AFP PHOTO/Sanjay Kanojia

 

My shoes are not where I left them.

There is a dog howling in the distance,
And the sound reverberates,
Lifting the dew off the dense canopy of trees outside.

The bamboo lamp beside the sofa,
Sheds dull orange light across the Persian carpet,
And I am not casting a shadow.

I have,

A mug of hot tea,
A roll of Maryland,
Chocolate chip cookies,
And bad breath.

I have forgotten who I am.

I seem to remember going down to the
Laundry room,
And watching her fold steaming towels,

Fat haunches, corpulent bust,
And a very fine neck.

♠picture – http://www.dirzz.com/1155490-topshots-india-religion-hindu-kumbhall1033898069

-short evocative poetry-