Black Lives Matter

The moment the clip rolled—- cold rain of adrenaline hassled down my spine and narrow nerves. In Gorge Floyd I froze—compressed, suppressed into miniature casket—- “I can’t breathe”—the resonance of this mighty fight of tints and taints against the ground, as a knee slices through my throat—he kneels, in order of State Sacrifice—one more scape goat will do today, or perhaps, a black sheeple. Dusk dawned on my noon—I supped on salt dust—crippled on plaintive waterfall— my soul hung on cobweb; sling falling in the abyss of my subdued skull. I glowered numb—-coalesced and collapsed into myself—escapism escaped me; so I sank deeper into the ocean of Existential Hate that tends to skin me alive—putting an embargo on my ration of breath as I gatecrash my public obituary— facing fire-spits from bazooka mouth bullies—gobbling acrid bullet tablets to cure my genetic skin decease; is to hang on a hangman’s guillotine; on trumped up etiquettes—-the 'gravesands' on my shallow grave hold bound my frail spirit to eternal, age-long ransom and foster-slavery. I see a cluster of stars—MLK, Dialo, Arbery, Michael Brown, Eric Garner, Breonna—the more I look, more I see; clad in old-gold brown, tainted in clots of maroon ink, from ‘hole’ of hell, jungle of death—aimed and shot at—the grand prize for Human Hunt; point at and kill, the fattest lambs to entice thirsty gods—mixture of blood splotches and 'donkeysweat', trickles of teardrops irrigate the land with infestation. Oh! Mother Africa! Are we the lambs for cutthroat ritualists?