Hanging from the ceiling
like shadows of lanterns,
nicking blue wounds on our wrists,
with the carnivore in our breast,
we're gyrating in deep facts;
insane poets, sitting on rickshaw
flame, waving back & forth
like music that doesn't care;
baying at the moon,
railing at the sun.
Time, a thug with its
batons; they hang here,
dressed in nicknacks & knapsacks.
We hang at the back of the crowd—
buried in deep treasures,
our words a force of nature.
—mumbling like a black shaman
& we've got charms bro,
because we've been writing
without a pen,
each day, our stories in the humus;
with our bread & butter,
they command the respect we deserve.
& we have to go
back to where silence toys,
fills our rooms
& seeks a god that must hear
because we're tired of waiting
for this world to end; yeah?
we'll birth soon,
black body, like moonsoon season.
a songbird is the midwife
of our prophecy
& the desert storm, sea spray
& city strife; we don't care.
we're here with our uncalmed fears;
the soft animal
you've been fornicating with.
We're the sun at its zenith
& to everyone looking at us,
waiting for the rust to set
like elephant cement (Amin)
on the floor to keep the status quo quiet,
get this,
this is our sixteenth couplet
with our tenses & we do not fear
you will hear us scream
inside that single quatrain.