maybe
the cycles of time carousel us into parallel orbits for a time two souls in suspension in space for a time two hearts bound by a beat for a time two tongues entangled in a tango for a time two drops of dew becoming one for a time two winds wound into a waltz for a time, for a time. and then, we’re not.
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I am a minefield
awash in the most intoxicating of poppies, spoon-feeding you the last bits of sunshine before the darkness takes hold. I am a ticking time bomb, enveloped in a wrapping of velvet bound with the shiniest of bows. I am the harsh throat-burn of ginger, the unassuming looming, creeping of the tequila settling in, ready to be your soothing night companion, loosening your lips just enough to hear all your secrets. You trust me. You trust me but I'm dangerous, I'm unstable, and my mouth is slick like black ice on midnight pavement. But you kiss it like it's honeycomb and your sugar is low. And your lips, hot like the noontime sun set my armor ablaze, and for this moment, I am vulnerable. In this moment, I am tamed. warfare was the womb, and
the womb was entrenched, and empire, amniotic, saw you nourished, and comforted by sated stomach you settle, soothed. soothed, so you embrace your god -given birth right to remain silent; how ungrateful would it be to bite the hand that feeds you? to bite the hand that feeds you would cast you into the dark, and lest you find yourself among the dark underbelly, home of the ungrateful, you say nothing. nothing, because you're afraid to starve, and you know the food will always come, as long as the war continues. as long as the war continues you will cherish the fruit of lies, and because the devil is in the details and, where the devil dwells thou shalt not dare go, you say nothing. nothing, lest you venture too close to the truth, lest you find the corners of your illusion singed by brimstone and hellfire. singed by brimstone and hellfire, those heathens knew not your god, and since salvation is reserved for those who deserve, then clearly those people were ungodly. ungodly, because otherwise they'd be immune; the circumstances of your birth are holy when warfare is the womb when warfare is the womb and the womb is entrenched then someone has to starve to feed the beasts who make the bombs so, you say nothing. nothing, because someone is going to starve but, empire, amniotic, ensures that you are nourished, so that someone will never be you. this is not Life.
this is not living. sitting on bated breath and awaiting permission to exhale, to inhale, to be tossed bits and scraps of your dignity like wretched meat tossed to broken dogs. there is no truth in such an existence. they starve you and try to refeed you with lies until your willpower grows anorexic. neither life nor living nor death nor dying it is something unnatural, manufactured by the hands of destructive men an aberration, an affront to a balanced Universe whose laws dictate that law and order and justice aren't things you need to shoot into someone. it's the fabric of conscious oneness that says i am i and you am i, as well and therefore i refuse to put my knee on your neck because then, i won't be able to breathe. two eyes
gel-glossy globes, slit-thin and crimson-rimmed and spider-webbed from terpene-topped tokes of sweet sensi smoke, green grass grown gas - inhale. now feel the verve, now voluminous, now vibrating in your veins now buried in blood and bone now settled atop soft skin now, I understand why I get lifted off your lips why your finger tips feel like a god is making music through you and I am muse and melody and microphone all in one. i thought it was the weed but it's your love that gets me high. What do you do
when a poem isn't enough? When the weed is ash and the flute is dry and the sky is despair. and the leaves have folded into themselves seeking a way back into the earth, and the wind sucks dew from your skin? and the ground craves water but you're too bitter to lend any from your eyes. you've forgotten how to cry anyway. and you're not sure if it was ever worth it to give that much of yourself to a world hell-bent on consuming itself. and the tree stands stoic, mocking the wind, and it offends you, the way it stretches laying claim to all of the sky with no regard for whom the sunshine disappears. Go away, go away !
They want us to go away. Dilapidated ghettos, rot and blight Gunshots ring out in the middle of the night Cop's bullet, but he says he didn't do it Though the blood is red and the body is dead, Go away, go away, To the morgue, go away (So we don't have to face ourselves anymore.) What more do you want? We owe you nothing Stop asking for handouts We owe you nothing We didn't bring you here Why the hell should we care? Go back to Africa! Go back to Africa! (So we don't have to face ourselves anymore.) They want us to go away So they riddle our babies' bodies with bullets and sit aside to watch them bleed build asthma factories that pump illness and death into the air our children breathe And when the little ones are hungry they eat McSorrow and artificially-flavored disease because the freshest thing in the goddamn supermarket is the bottles of Febreeze. They want us to go away so they smash us like mirrors they can't bear looking into lest the truth finds its way to the surface and eats them alive. So they shove and push and glare and stare and infantilize and discipline and punish and jail and abuse and judge and mock and kill and kill and kill. Go away, go away Haven't we given you enough? Why won't you people just go away? (We can't stand to look at ourselves anymore.) Have you ever wondered what happens
when hope disappears? Whose eyes ache from the fatigue of one too many tears? Have you really and truly considered, or do you find it to be a joke? Those backs concaved and weary, from one too many yokes? Has it even occurred for a minute? Do you at all recognize? The cruel hand that paints the darkness under heavy-lidded eyes? Does it bother you at all? Does it ever disturb your slumber? That millions of tiny bellies are being besieged by hunger? And are you drowning as well? Or are you immune all the time? To the raging waters that douse the flames of a ripe and brilliant mind? Or are you blissfully unaware of the acts done in your name? Do you sit comfy and unbothered, as the world is set aflame? Maybe hope has never left you and for this, you'll claim you're blessed. Well if there's a god by the name of Privilege, then I'd say you are correct. But beware the traps you set, because one day you'll wish you cared. There is no true place to hide when all the world's ensnared. You treat love like a virus, airborne, carried on words whose sincerity you're unsure of. The "I love you"s and "your beautiful"s bare jagged teeth. Their untrustworthy brightness shoots pain through your eyes. Because hugs can be sharp and kisses can burn and evenings, drunk with laughter become frozen, hungover mornings, and unlucky for you your brain hangs on to every. piece. of. memory. from the night before. Except now it's grayer and you shudder at the sharp angles and dark shadows of the exoskeleton the moment has left behind. It is fear. It is fear and it is pain and it keeps you tucked under your quilted armor on Saturday nights while the rest of the city builds altars to Jack and Jose and Mary and Molly and you? You just can't be bothered to pretend like there's anything good out there for you anymore.
There's so much sexy in our skin.
Something sensuous about the way it radiates lifetimes of sunshine absorbed. There is celestial romance inscribed in our hues, myths and fables and folklore of erotic affairs under the cloak of the cosmos. We make love in stardust whenever our skins touch. Me, melanin-soaked mocha, and you, earthy mahogany, with a kiss of midnight. We are animal and superhuman, dangerous and divine, from nowhere near here yet still very much so of Earth. For when we are entangled, we are sunshine and dust, and wave, and storm, and lava. |
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