Inspired by Strange Fruit by Billie Holiday Standing tall by any means, going toe to toe with the trees of southern makers and enhanced outbacks. Sit and take a minute, trying to understand yet the news of the missing, abused and deceased weighs heavy. A never ending turmoil just wanting ease, a bite of a fruit leaves a bitter taste. Mourning as bodies shows marks of negligence, disrespect and unprotection. Fragile, innocent, white like snow?…
What do I tell my parents who are black. that I can’t cope, you know most say I cry myself to sleep there isn’t a reason I can’t seem to stop the drought that forms on my pillow. What do I tell my parents who are black. Sweat covers my palms, my breathing shallows. I can’t seem to say what I want to, what I need to. Because I’m scared of failure furthermore I fear…
Persecuted and catergorised by the colour of my skin and struggling with the constant thoughts deep within. Am I good enough? What are they looking at? Am I being too loud? Who i am. How I am What I am I am a MELANIN MAN in deed, in speech, in essence. What i am is a blend of cultures, rhythms, stories. Generational Knowledge I am the child of my ancestors and i will not back…
I’m earthy Brown skin Like the dirt we grew up in. Warm and dark Like the kind Our roots Are still covered in. Beautiful things grow from inside of me. Did you know I smell like the ocean on a summer day? That my thoughts go deep and come in waves so big they could drown this coastal town. Did you know my skin tastes like warm honey in the evening? And Love, If you…
What if I simply were a story My years spelt out on every line Would I read and be proud of my life? Or would I wish I’d had more time? What if I wrote myself a fairytale No hatred, pain, or crime Am I a princess or a peasant? Or am I something more divine? What if I made myself a movie Would I surely be a hit? Or would another person’s rating Simply…
I’ve listened to a thousand symphonies not all of them music, some of them colour. What tips the scale from caterwaul to hymn? What turns a heartbeat to a march? A mathematician invented tuning after all, so where does music sleep? The metal of the bell? The steel of the string? It is how we hear it that makes the tune; song the subjective, dance the objective. Vibrations of life only lack composers. -Leo Cookman
It is a strange breath that fills our lungs in the moment before; the moment before the needle goes in my arm before the first boom of thunder before she starts shouting her oaths before metal meets metal with a rending peel before the final sting in the trailer with the release date before the gunshot before the death rattle before the last swig of the last pint at the end of the night before…
If justice is blind what use are the eyes of the law? A blown out iris, two spheres suspended in formaldehyde or a frosted lens that somehow still sees guilt, redemption, truth. What of justice’s ears? Nose? Mouth? Fingers? What does the law taste? If innocence isn’t ocularcentric she must hear a choir of context or smell a bed of appeals or feel the goose flesh of disclosure. The court may hear but does justice…
Do you remember the day? Or should I say days, because I remember the struggle, I remember the hunger, I remember the days you left me and let him touch me. I remember how he broke me. I remember at just 6 years old, you told me you wanted to run away and just leave me. I remember, you threaten to kill yourself because I wasn’t worth it. So now it’s my turn – mama.…
It begins with the promise of a brand new world At least they always say so We go to public debates to watch openly How they play with our fates. They saturate our minds with explosive mines Of information While secretly sew our destiny They sign their lies before our eyes C’mon, C’mon again Lets vote for assdudes or mulemen… C’mon, C’mon my friend Lets vote for assdudes or mulemen…MULE-MEN It’s been a year already…