In a Constant State of Undress.

Photo on 31-05-2014 at 03.16 #4I wake up naked

Wearing only him scent

Him put him clouds in my coffee.

Black. No sugar.

Him is plenty sweet for me.

 

But. I am not a caffeine drinker

Him put doubt in my daydream

But I am not an overthinker

I just think things over

And over. And over

 

Like. How I did speak too freely

About how trapped I have been.

Like how I just stepped over the last snare

This Babylon set for me.

 

That bandulu. That bhuttu.

That tattoo-sleeved-teef

Who kept his heads together

With my stolen sanity.

 

And when him rise like a hymn

In the church of my thighs

And when him worship and him praise me

With him prophetic lies.

And drink saltwater

From the mouth of my mountain

I pick clouds from the sky

Like de lickle pickney dem

Pick penny outta water-fountain

 

Him pull my body across him.

Without a single visible string.

But I will be him bow.

The fiddler tell me say, I am reggae music.

I tell him say, I know.

 

From Charclit To G Major.

A Perfect Fi(f)t(h).

Him voice rises seven semitones.

And him spill cumulus clouds on my coffee-coloured-skin

And my coffee-coated-bones.

 

I clean him.

Him dress.

I miss him.

Before.

Him left.

Me with the sound

Of free-thinking.

Mingling with the taste

Of a long night of whisky-drinking.

Him left me. Overthinking.

 

And now my soul is sick

With longing for him.

And now my hair is thick

With thoughts that escaped when

I decided to cling

To this man without a single fucking string.

 

And I think the colour of our heat just grew colder

Than a London summer morning.

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Let us live. Let us love.

gaycivilrights

I do not understand the motivation behind homophobia but I do understand that this ‘fear’ is a by-product of teachers, preachers and parents abusing their positions of power and influence to perpetuate the abuse of innocent civilians. I also understand (and despise) that our children’s innocence is regularly being replaced with our constant cruelty and our, synonymously, inspired and insipid ignorance.

Whatever your belief system, do you honestly believe gay men and women deserve to be burnt alive; beaten within an inch of their beautiful lives; chased to their deaths; stoned to death; gang raped; sent to the brink of suicide; murdered and slandered because of those beliefs!

What manner of God is this that would create me to hate me!

I have asked this question of myself everyday since my own fateful Friday the 26th of August in 2011.

A significant part of the danger in teaching your children that being gay is gruesome, ghastly, unnatural and ungodly is that your child may one day come downstairs to the basement, stand in a bedroom doorway as narrow as your mind and shed some light on your life when they whisper softly into the dark a hard truth that, sadly, hardens so many beating hearts, “I am gay”. Almost hoping that you will not hear because he or she is so scared that you and your ‘fear’ will tell he or she to disown who they are or be disowned.

Your offspring will then be faced with the ‘fear’ you taught them; the ‘fear’ you enabled with great effort, incredible ignorance and a perverted passion for prejudice. It is a ‘fear’ that afflicts us all, irrespective of our sexual orientation.

What if your child is beaten in the back of their head and left for dead? Will not the blood you share be on your hands! Will not the blood cry out from the depths of your duty to love your child without condition!

I miss my earthly father daily but I do not miss the homophobia he used to harangue and hurt me as much as I am certain that man misses me – his son; his choice and now, sadly, also his victim. Though I am no victim.

Homophobia will never be sanitary. Homophobia will never be a solution. Homophobia will never cure your children of the courage it takes to emerge from that cultural cupboard we call the closet, stand up in this horrible fucking world and live the lives so many of us are still dying for.

Stop. Think before you teach. Your lesson does not have to be one that contributes to what is best described as The Gay Genocide.

Let us live. Let us love. Let us survive. Let us thrive.

 

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negação

tumblr_n6kok5Fx6u1qilmc0o1_500i told him

i am not

some stanza

and this

will not end

with us

as a

rhyming couplet

we will

never be

poetry

just because

we rhyme

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Naked In Bed.

Photo on 31-05-2014 at 03.45Overburden. One last time.

Heavy eyes for the third son rise like light black sunrise does in the morning of my nighttime dreams with their here-nor-there-themes; in trapped thoughts and all that black talk middle-children like I-and-I so often caught like a chest cold that had to be untaught by a long list of nigger lovers after spending decades getting headfucked by those untitled black brothers (who shall remain nameless) and their blame (which shall remain blameless).

The council move you from Yellowbrick. And within two years a single bitchlick from that Half Way Tree hick (the only diamond in that Jamaican spoil tip) gives you a scar above your left eye that you christen Gratefulness. And so you are saved from the same fate as she who was born in the underbelly of the master’s last black slave.

So now you seek meaning. In ghosts and their haunts. In bullies and their taunts that burn before being poured into an urn when you are the first of the five to learn and you become ashes when you – a mortal motherfucker – are involved in several violent clashes with that St. Katherine wall that will hit all five in the end when, one by one, our blood is spilled and we are killed by the rage he should have reserved for his mother. The rage he mistook for love when he abused your mother and took that whore he called a lover.

Burden over. And dat deh antiman yuh cawl fren’ and all the fake-name-giving-men and your sunshaded foes and that long list of hoes that you beat to the grave cry incumbent tears that fall off the edge of your bloodline, like seconds fall off the edge of passing time and three-out-of-five niggers fell off the end of the poverty line into a life of crime and doing time and one fell into the bottle where he so often got drunk that he sunk and he sunk and hopefully he is still fucking sinking.

Interment. And incumbent tears crash into a grief-coloured garment, that is the same colour as the walls of the bedroom in that old E17 apartment. Midnight blue. Just like my worldview when I lost you know who.

And all of this heavy-eyed-shit is not because they miss the dead person but because all living persons fear the thing that’s never really there. Something like air that you only appreciate and value when you are gasping for one.more.long.lasting.breath. in those last few moments before a modern black brother is hacked to the antiquated death that Half Way Tree hick avoided.

And now he is naked in bed and the wind that washes us all whispers something you always wished you had said to that nigger who’s somewhere in his head drinking, getting drunk on his thinking and typing some drunk text:

You – mortal motherfucker – are next.

 

 

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Dosage.

I drink too muchPhoto on 10-05-2014 at 08.19

I take too many drugs.

I think too much

I need too many hugs.

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La Maschera Di Amore

IMG_20140505_203855Unmasking. He told me of this tragedy that lives in a minor mode but I have seen the universe under his skin. A brief opening that made everything within me sing to him in an uncommon language that only those who dare to grow will know. And we trembled as we assembled our sentences, removed our pretences and moved with the music into E Flat Major.

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Some Light.

02intimate_600Drawn to the dreamer whose hands have been burnt playing catch with the moon. The subtlety of his magnetism sustains my intrigue. I wonder will he hold me the way I have held his glances in our ever-changing air that is regularly littered wet with my voices but not his, for he speaks to me only with his eyes. And if his tears should fall like stars into my darkness I fear there may finally be some light.

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