Chava walks towards the tree,
plucks the fruit; takes a bite
then everything goes berserk;
Eye opened, enlightenment towards
sense it begins to loot…
See the truths;
Genocides, switching sides,
black holocaust since Alkebulan,
Columbus is in the mind,
Rhodes in the railway lines,
devils in the mines, Gumboot
jive for an institutional prize,
oppression maximized,
propaganda digitized,
trending media lies, Floyd
and Sankara died for mines’,
poor Jim Crows still gentrified,
truth still sanitized by sweet serum,
no one knows the truths of the slums,
white squatters in the South; Google
biased now, too many martyrs overdose
on the drug, black folk in the mud,
ablute and the ravens come down,
dust to dust bring the dustpan,
looted Africa and left a diabetic lifespan,
molested Africa in a missionary stance,
black book culturally appropriated
to manipulate the sons.
Shoot the guns, burn the facilities,
burn the trees, pluck the fruits, taint
the leaves, strange fruit; lynched
from the tree of life, dangling with
cracked bleeding feet, tired of many
resting in peace in the hands of Herod
holding a piece.
Throat on a leash, unemployment
leaving most in the streets,
what’s education when we’re reading
theses from racist academics,
Wildrow Wilson’s racist ethics,
with this so-called freedom we’re gambling,
melanin hating plaintiffs, grief
an everyday reason for belief,
no relief for the enslaved, no peace
for those left dead and stiff,
most have wept and some have swept
their kin’s ash, snatch the stash
from the system’s bag, our matrix lags,
it’s too painful to see through
the darkness that is enhanced with the
death of another crowd, cry aloud,
pout to the heavens, we betray the Son,
there seems to be no reason
to be crucified too, a new me too hashtag,
who’s the new cultural fool, who
drools towards privilege’s looks, who
sees no need to cherish books when
the abdomen fails to stay mute,
lube this cracked up skin, where a map
to true independence is tattooed,
judgement overruled towards the
black-slaughtering brute, we used
to be the strange fruit of their eye,
plucked to nourish their supremacy spite,
no true delight, we’ve forgotten eye
for an eye, we have grown blind of
our might, all we do is divide and revise
our skin tones and we know we’re not lethal,
only trying to stay legal; keeping the power
minimum, mannequins in a systematic
puppet show, skin glow, soul like coal,
beings that faced the fall, tired of the toyi-toyi,
only cherished when a Floyd’s gone.
The death of us; mandatory,
for me to be understood; spit an allegory,
truthsayers seen as corny, soothsayers
horny for Nostradamus’ luck, Martin’s dream
they shoved into lady liberty’s backside,
the pathway is a little less wide,
the holy, being the supremacists singing
shalom behind their bottomless pulpits,
someone grant me a rubric on how
to fix this false colorful Rubik’s cube notion
of the rainbow society, discriminated sporadically,
you can’t flee academically, they can’t see
the Maya…see, the vision is subtle,
the mission baffles; the motherland; a shit hole,
shackled to the reality of swinging
round and ’bout strip poles, walk on
coal and summon the Kaguvi ancestral,
the shrine awaits, poet pissing away his
debauchery; no rhetoric, being free is ideally
an amazement, this world a mere black butchery,
who is our monarchy, what happened to our
nomarch, now we march to become
what our forefathers cherished before their
sons were colonized, colonizer sanctified,
skin sanitized; see no color; forget the
historical injustices; hamb’uyokhala,
feel royal after a Black Panther rerun,
Kill-monger suddenly sounds wise, peep
the pun; kill the monger, the one who sold us,
kill him ideologically; we’re not the carnivals
nor the savages, we’re aging oppression-pundits,
privilege bandits; trying to steal away our
gold snatched from Thulamela and left believing
in chakras and sunbeams, what about our
incense, Anansi, |Kaggen, and Mwari,
seems like the African belief is
not really cool for one to hold within,
only good enough when woke rappers
rap about our cultural sounds, colorful
African blouse, arouse my eye;
Nonetheless, these bones shall rise again.
By Eugene ‘Philosophisticater’
Artwork by Tomasz Angel Boss
℗ Philosophistication Poetry ℗
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