To those that I follow, I am letting you know that I do not operate this blog any longer. If you wish to continue reading my poetry, my other blog is at dirtyreggae.tumblr.com. 

Epitaph

Sunlight greets the silent benedictions

of the common plane.

Silence, invisible in one tense, 

baron like a desert dune,  

once curved the heat against my ebony race

                                      against the brilliant evergreen,

framed in a complex attention, when I floundered best

in the suns beat, while white birds

stitch the canvas sky. 

Pearl Creation in Black

Look pure at this pearl

like that moon;              

                                    bereaved black slaves, 

                                    crater its body.  

                                    Embed this pearls face!

Watch all that Mythology

frown like a Negro.  

Derelict Kitchen Prayer

Bless the kitchen prayer slung above the kitchen sink which says:

                                    “Bless my little kitchen,                     lord.”

Bless, then, this family ruin, this rubble of possessions;

the clean clutter of forgotten priorities.

The raw fragrant of conversation;

Grand-dads dry                      breath.

The metre of chaffing chairs against the heavy table,

and the humming bristles of dark winter grass. 

                                                          

Bless the crumbling walls, its contours, its complexion;

this antique chill, the beautiful condensation.

            The apple tree outside,

            and the raven pecking at its consciences.

                                   

Bless the pending-prejudice

from past neighbours/                       for ignorant minds

                                    fear moments of Black clarity

                                    will disdain the memory of their White history.

   

He, like Fish, Fishes the Ocean

The ocean's slender bulges like pregnancy. 

Currents swear to run the theories of physics. 

So life perpetuates for the reflective, adolescent fisherman - 

and his frowns for the Tuna's proportions.

The ocean's pronunciation learns another syllable.

For the gentle satisfaction in eviscerating fins and gills.

That gentle satisfaction.

Three Epitaphs

I

I surrender, still, in a field of brilliant greens, simmering among the

furious ambers of buttercups; delicate masterpieces’

announcing their bond like wonders. Little souls, perfect,

without a consciousness, no formal flesh; but a diluted-green stem rendering it

like ribbons ascended in to skyscrapers from pregnant cities, that

foam to the golden, bleached sores of my memories wrinkled sun light.

Recollections break in between

the rustic cobbles like surf.

My stillness is the sign of my eroding memory,

my body provides its faculty of best-kept days in scars and triumphs.

II

Shining vehicles pass without remembrance,

alone on their quests to societies demand.

They take what they can from the cities growing trends.

Its prominent odour eventually seeps to where I’m ground, in the

spearing rain and wind. My skin stings, serenely.

Clouds indulge each other like a global government

forming peace with the thunders threshold. Light

furies through silently with each gentle flash.

III

The moon reflects itself in the suns safety; clouds

forget to quarrel, and tear; the scorching blue sky

detonates like a foetus

to the syntax of life.

The fibre of grass swirls idle to the sporadic, twitching shadows

of tiny wings, beating their chirps against the winds course,

swifting through remote pylons, - erect, tall, with

a presence faint against this spread-out pitch that fills me.

The stiller I bed, the more my memory resides from me,

like the tide.

Ghetto Associations

It's the end of a school day in Philly,

which means death for some hopeless,

unsung nigger. Jazz/ Funk notes

scrub against this neighbourhood's broken gaze.  

Through the transparent fog along Franklin St,

Jews, Spiks, Niggers - all kind'sa continents,

earnin' no morals no more,

ain' got no clue.

They beat the hell out each other with the

same ol', same ol' dumb illiterate shit;

too ol' in they age to pluck the dried shit

from they Ass Cracks!

And they sittin' opposite each other, bondin' over hatred,

hunched over on they dainty stalls - cussin'

watchin' them fancy, coffee skin honey's,

watchin' them sappin' from wherever hell they came from:

work, school - they don' give a shit no more,

they old! n' they still swingin'! 

like them ol' mothafucker's

from them flicker movies we love.