Gospel 1
In America, I came across a mulatto who told me, Yes we can—Make America great again.
And for the first time, the doors of the White House were allowed open for the entrance of a black phallus: America gave birth to black dead babies.
Spermatozoa Sanguinary is ejaculated into a ring of generations; for Joseph did carry out his consummation duties this time, reserving us no surprises—
Leaving in that metallic womb, the cage: the cadaver of a foetus.
In my dream, I see virility and dignity chained in the bowels of a ship,
forced to feed on the contents of their own bowels.
I can see men and women baptised with fire and the whip, for the glory of the indenture—
Blessed by Saint Darwin for their evolution into ghostly ornaments capable of setting and embellishing the table of their enemies on invocation;
Chained to decay with chains of rot for a feast of worms dangling in a pool of red wine;
Jangling chains ring the bone’s hollow, setting the tone and tune for the ultimate sacrifice.
In dream-land, I can see angry Europeans stripping Africans of everything, leaving them with nothing but the colour of their skin—
Men and women forced to stand naked on a scaffold of putrefaction;
Female spectators doing battle with a spiral of orgasmic reverie;
A strange hybrid cross-checking Africa’s white-teeth, arms, legs, chest, backs, eyes, ears, mouths and genitals
Making sure that he still has the strength to carry another civilization for a couple of centuries, and that her sexual vicinal could accommodate the manhood of Capital—
Dragged into a confederation of races and tribes as a slave;
a cheap napkin, apron, bucket or spade;
bought—used—washed and resold expensive;
an object recycled in and out of value.
Twisted years, twisted months, twisted days, twisted minutes, twisted seconds; twisted hands, twisted palms in corroboration with shoeless feet—
Their shirts and skirts sown out of proportion, not for their bodies but for their sufferings.
And in order to satisfy the devil in the machine, they drilled the earth of black bodies for oil, glutted with hemoglobin
While making sure oil and water reserves, like black and white, lived in a state of apartheid—
Forcing their slaves to carry their names, but denying them access to its heritage and privilege.
When a slave owner bought a Negro, it wasn’t just physical strength he bought, but in essence a contraption of biological organs, emotions and senses; he owned on purchase, the negro’s sperm, ovaries, will to urinate, laugh, cry, smell, think, taste and hear.
I have seen white dynamite attached to rocks of virginity, milk spilling on explosion and guilt cramming the core of the solar plexus—
All in the name of sensitizing the Negro maidens to their nakedness.
Crying and smiling—smiling and crying—crying or smiling; the line of difference between the two is made invisible by the brutality of the master’s ubiquitous presence
As breath and pain go on a conquest to annex the howl.
In a theatre of trepidation, reaped large, the lion mustn’t kill its prey, but paying respect to the script, play, torture and mutilate its members, as long as the show must go on—
Killing the man to convene a congress of vultures
Who will make sure the primary role of the slave’s breath is to rescue him
from the cold, peaceful, comfortable and relieving hands of death.
