Your Black Highness
A candid conversation with chicken about life.
High in the Highlands once appropriated from us,
I contemplate my past,
In a life filled with promise, often there was an insatiable lust,
to see myself as part of an us,
Needless to say, but let’s say it,
I fell flat on my ass,
And landed in a split.
I have scars for my time in the wars,
I have lived through nightmares even a Freddy Krueger-inspired version of Joker couldn’t draw,
But not when I sleep,
no,
This past devoid of both the soft and mores,
has left me free of the need to draw on settling scores,
I just feel alive, on God!
So while others get bored,
Filling whole holes with holes to salve bedevilled souls,
I just look at the wounds I licked locked away in the Christian equivalent of The Hole,
And am thankful for the newfound depth to my soul.
What is life if not this?
To truly be at peace.
To sit and find bliss,
In the morning chill,
Embraced by a silky mist.
I can lick my lips as if preparing for a kiss,
And tickle myself with the thought that someone somewhere thinks I’m derelict.
Ahhh,
Life is this,
To be in a cloud, enshrouded as a gift,
Nature’s own and proud of it.
On a path to reclaim what’s ours by more than idiotic colonial writ,
This,
Our land for our sons…
The daughters who continue to take so much shit,
Equity still being discussed in this century is puzzling, isn’t it?
Lexicologists never sleep keeping up with our pedantic penchant for reconstituting semantics,
It’s,
Exhausting,
Though spell-binding for the faint.
When you walk through fire, ice is a treat,
I simmer like a glacier in our global-warmed, equatorial heat,
And wonder how lines are still being used to divide us all…
Anyway x,
Patiently awaiting the return of white Jesus,
Mbora Muthee.
Muse: The neighbour’s flock.
