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As I hold the sky and hope, nibbling on thoughts
from the pope, singing khumbaya while
remembering a history wild gone, aye
that of bones and crosses, lynchings and
baptisms so holy, cruelty wholly. Sorry.
The peaceful chirping of birds shan’t
make me more civil, life so livid
most grazed on the grass where
their excretions fell, knelt for bread
and milk while the honey was shipped.
Enslaved, sailed to the brinks of
this world’s pond, no Jonah’s fish,
who shall swallow them from destiny’s
claw. Pause!
Rotten Rotten Rotten, smell of
intentions when the Living stone
stared at those with dark skin
and bones being shaved of their pride
and left to die. Hallelujah it’s Halloween
in Africa, child.
Letters sent, barbarians are kept,
from the bay, and we’re Tarzans,
here to save the day. Holy holy,
Kumkani where art thou?
Slept in Africa blanketed by
thick sand and bathing in the Zambezi
waves, where art, when exiles and
crucifixions never caused your cry.
When the flower fell and the boot
stepped, when the blood gushed on
open lips, and lies became darts
where Babel manifested her consequences,
now quench my curiosity and write
me a tablet of divinity, that Moses
soliloquy. See.

Auguries of Innocence; they dreamt of
dreams unseen, saw the light in
darkness’ seed, sought for insanity
to sacrifice their thick skin, scum
scavenging for sovereignty, slavery
and wrong sophistry, sulk on a
mountain’s tip, maybe she’ll rumble
and eclipse volcanoes to burn it all
into crisp, but lest we forget the feuds
and spears that pierced and pricked
the wet bone when Rhodes was in
town for architectural posé. Rose.
In form, eugenics they formed,
skulls and bones they done deformed,
small brains and arteries short,
the charcoal man reasons not like
us gods, paint it all, we’re images of
divinity’s form, now teach, preach
civility into the heart of their thoughts,
their conscience restructure, their
culture batter, their names unsaid,
change, their skin, gutter, their
dignity burn, their households
change. Our father.
Kumkani is dead?
Torture, treat their tombs and
towns like makings of terrestrials,
pyramids and Timbuktu, call
that mystical, Atlantis and pyramids
placed in same womb, their greatness
piss on it, document their ancestral
beginnings as mysterious unknown
scenes, fetch their skulls and bones
and scrolls and bury in museums
up north, strip them and let not
their Fanons and other clowns
unknown to build up against the norm.

As if bereaved of light, they lashed
and dogs they sent to chew us apart,
with guns and canine, blood gushed
and painted this continent dark,
left luck and riches buried in
superstitions of slaughtering albino
offsprings for their skin light as
the dark night brings luck like
the white Cock.🐔
Bear me sanity, slaughtered folk,
oppressed and all, does the struggle
end at all, or do we eclipse blood
red till the world crumbles into ash,
do we forget the wrongs and dance
to their songs, with houses built
from marrow holding brick, and
floors polished by our saliva spit,
do we sing hymns to forget and
drug ourselves of the false normal
that we see, do we cope by quoting
the pope when hardships hit us
from all. What of Us?
Black bodies, and that time
of Blake’s love has not yet found
form, so aye we keep on, smiling
and falling for revolutions that
roar, we’re worlds apart, works of
art defined by shapes of their scars.

By Eugene ‘Philosophisticater’

Artwork by Greg Opalinski

℗ Philosophistication Poetry ℗

2020 All Rights Reserved ©


Kumkani : King

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