The elder tree

Where I’m coming from

 

Those sottish children, who dance

To the burning bush of mountain top

experiences. Their passion set alight

By flickering flame of blood stained moon.

Rebel to escape the hideous pressure

Of spoil and toil of dark weary days: Learn  

To rejoice in hedonistic pleasurable gushing’s

Of yet another burning night.

 

It’s here they Spin gracefully in magenta’s

Iridescent light. Thrusting their youthful

Vessels. Pumping and pulsing orgasmically

In spiritual whirling’s, induced indulgences

Of strange fire.

 

These tribal Mandingos slaves.Their lent

Colonial inbreed Concubines, display a

Frenzied feeding for Lean and Ray and

Nephew intoxicated revelry. To wash away

The sins of reality. Loosen the shackles 

Of the drowning dawn, that grasps their

Wayward Inheritance from the light that

Shines from above.above.

 

It is here where I first lost my history.

 

I’m coming from there you see.

Half beat by lack of sleep. 

Half drunk by ale and wine. 

Half comatosed by marijuana

Design. I have no privileged

Memories of birthright or night’s

Shifting song.

 

I’m coming from there. That place 

that holds the conscience by the

shaking hand of a dying man: who’s

Soul has lost its will to live or forgive

The transgression of a fractured mind.

A wretch, an outcast. An unfortunate

Humbug trying to purchase back stolen

Time from the hands of some unknown god.
 

Me.

 

My name lies buried somewhere 

beneath the half baked heat of a

summer breeze. The shoal fish

chorus wind, that sails through 

the dry skeletol bones of the 

palm leaf. The irony of love 

and loss, drags t’s desecrated 

Remains of half eaten roots;

Of Idle men with idle minds,

Convalescing beneath another

Tinned roof rum shack.

 

It is here where I forget my name.  

As I squirmed in pain, as I try to 

Understand the religious history

Of my elders and the call of

the native wild. The place my dead 

uncle, Arnel Grey lay naked. Bloated

And ulcerated as a heavily barnacled

Beached whale, on that beautiful shore

Of Barbuda’s unrepentant barren land.

As he tried for freedom one last time.

 

Where teems of translucent fleshy,

Jellied ameba, pulse to the ebbing 

tide of a millennia. Cleansing 

the thoughts of transformed 

generations; by the embalming 

salt of my mournful tears.  

That nourished  his bare black

Soul and saturates the heart of 

the stygian sea.