PART ONE
the brief tale of sugar fighter,
sour apple sucker:
she lies all night at the bottoms of
oily factory vats
in long braids of gold corn syrup
her vernacular is chewed flaky like
monarch butterfly wings
lodged like collars around her teeth and tongue
they hold her back from saying what she needs
her Ebonics are swollen with caramel,
coated in ages old chocolate collecting dust
because the last time she listened to
Tribe Called Quest and wore her braids black,
a Walkman for a heart, and roller skates and drinking King Cola
and slathered herself in peanut butter
and jelly
was the first time in a long time that she
she cut her hair so she could see her
breasts,
and was the last time she cut her hair,
because they droop like bee hives full of dead bees,
sting everybody who wants a peek,
wants a taste of that dark Nubian honey.
the rats sleep warm and make babies all day between the
steam and melted plastic,
and she sings their children lullabies about love lost
(their pink bodies like ice cream)
and how she will kill him with her
tongue and her hips,
"i could stab you with these
eyes, i could drown you in this
red velvet orifice, this chocolate
iris you find so warm and inviting
will burn.
i will scald you with my
hot, humid
Louisiana slim orgasm
you'll burn your tongue on my
juices,
electrify your limp carcass
on my salt lick river.
no cunt will ever taste the same after
me."
she only cries on holidays,
and when she does
the chocolate tastes sweeter.
the workers get her fatter and full of candy, for when they will beat her open.
YOU ARE READING
american gothic
Poetryhave you ever seen a slave in gold chains? i have never seen so much golden slave flesh melted and turned to candle wax.
