A KIND OF BLUES

Why were you knocking at night on the floor
up above with your all-seeing cane Almighty?
The proper thing was for you to come and help.
Didn’t you see me? I was collecting discarded mankind
from a documentary’s dustcart – stifling
the hunger emitted your black race’s grief.
Didn’t you see how gravely the dark circles
were closing one by one round its eyes?

Well, where are the loaves? Was the Holy
baker who kneaded their multiplication
so that all ate and were filled
a racist perhaps?

Little girls – a familiar soft plaything
a suitable gift for dolls not too old –
lying on the sun’s stretchers.
Their figure raped, before long
they’ll acquire black bastard earth
You being the Father most likely.

Infants hanging from wailing’s teats
mothers all skin who squeeze and squeeze
to get milk from the scene.

On transparent membrane leanness draws
swift skeletons that knit together boys.
About ten years’ old – compare;
at their age twelve years’ old He
proclaimed a provisioner church; the world over.

You won’t believe it, these creatures here
Christ too when he was still a little cross
a light piece of jewellery on the upward neck
were given birth by me; rosy things. When still possible.
When at the least angel
I’d straightaway conceive lilies
simply by smelling the white
still fragrant world virginally unsuspecting.

That’s why;
vanity’s bucket has sprung a leak
and I refuse to buy it a new one.

A kind of blues