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Kindra Austin Poem
Having me a real hard time—freedom
out here where a stoned god
don’t speak my language
defiles the immaculate,
and I am going mad
in search of great enterprise.
In search of great enterprise,
I seek freedom
from the mad—
a stoned god
static in a sky, immaculate.
I listen for cosmic language.
I listen for cosmic language—
a holy enterprise.
Starless are the heavens, immaculate
in their freedom
from a stoned god
gone mad.
Gone mad,
I lose language—
blame god
and his ego enterprise.
In his grasp, there is no freedom.
In me, I seek the immaculate.
In me, I seek the immaculate.
I embrace the mad—
my mad is freedom.
Language
is an enterprise.
I am my own god.
I am my own god—
immaculate.
I am an enterprise.
Name me mad.
Speak my language.
I am freedom.
Freedom, out here where a stoned god
don’t speak my language defiles the immaculate.
Name me mad, for I am my own enterprise.
Copyright © Kindra Austin | Year Posted 2021
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Details |
Kindra Austin Poem
Upon the discovery of my death,
do not beat your breast, do not gnash your teeth.
Truly, do not lament my stolen breath.
sing hymns, and lay this body on the heath—
funeral march beneath the firmament.
Let the carrion crow consume these eyes,
a steel-blue pair of deceased ornaments.
Listen as the morbid corvidae cries
with ravenous glee over such a gift.
He will not let earthly flesh go to waste—
eat the entrails, and sup the warm blood, swift.
Do not deny my beloved his taste.
A life that is done cannot be redone.
Leave the bones to bleach under face of sun.
Copyright © Kindra Austin | Year Posted 2021
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