From the album ‘Babylon’ by Bryan Paul Thomas
I’m here to testify that she’s been messing around. And you know that it will come back around.
And round and round turntable deejay spin song in the key of life and Francis Scott. Scratch spin ’til fingers raw and we think raw means real so we be real quick to drop them drawers, them red, white and blue drawers.
Richard is the rawest mother in the business (oldest profession), but Richard is raw for the right reasons. Richard is raw to teach lessons. Point finger happy trigger crazy nigger turn gun on self aim first the head mind brain think aim next the chest heart pain stink foul rag and bone shop. Stop. Feel the gun. Test it. “The next man that moves and the nigger gets it!” Bang! Drip drop blood bleed soul. And so, like Richard (now wheelchair bound because no good deed goes unpunished), let’s roll.
And still I love her, and still I ask my God to bless her but she don’t want my love. She wants new lover same old same old. She licks this lover but he don’t even lick back. I will lick back. I will lick her back. I will lick her neck. I will lick until she forgets September because she remembers it the wrong way. She remembers broke nail stocking run mascara chase black tear down cheek. She’s weak. She thinks the hurt is hers and hers alone so alone she takes a breath.
And Harry Belafonte sings a sad, sad song about how these niggers be fucking each other to death.
And she wants this death without the fucking so she walks these nigger streets in her red white and blue skirt with an ass too big for the Planet Earth and a heart not big enough. She walks these nigger streets like she ain’t working them. She walks these nigger streets like she’s above niggers. She walks these nigger streets like her high heels don’t touch the nigger sidewalk. She walks these nigger streets like these nigger chilluns ain’t her own flesh and blood. Mulatto. Quadroon. Octoroon. These monster nigger chilluns from the black lagoon. These nigger chilluns be the pickaninny proof of a self and a soul she don’t want to know.
So elsewhere looking she goes.
At night. Sidewalk. Street light. Car slows. Window rolls. Eyes meet. No words. They know. He parks. Gets out. And into the alley they go. “Relax. Lean back,” she says but he don’t want to mess up his suit leaning on the side of building still wet with yesterday’s rain. She wants it slow and sacred like new religion but he needs to hurry home to tuck his kids in. So no relax no make it last take hold the hair and bring it fast like summer into fall and she likes it this way after all this quicker path to bomb burst blast lips kiss blown to bits mouth and teeth and spit bomb burst in air the proof she’s there on her cheek in her hair this speed seed spill spunk drip drop down death doom disgrace this seed has no womb to chase while soundtrack car passing boom bass boom bass boom bass.
He fixes his belt, aloof. Reaches in his pocket for the real proof: Lincoln and Lincoln fall to alley floor, lust to wet dust, her rate per minute, her hands and fingers in it. But that ain’t all: he smirks, and Washington falls. She smiles thinking she’s made his bomb blast one louder. In truth it’s just his little joke and either way it’s just junk, just her next spunk junk fix takes her to temporary heaven. Hers goes to eleven unlike her heart. Indifferent lover then departs. So Myth America stoops to folly and paces the nigger streets again, alone; smoothes her weave with automatic hand, and hits redial on her mobile phone.
Sun up. Time to sleep. Time to dream green jism dreams ’til nighty fight she wakes to walk the streets again. To walk and wait in unreal Myth America unreal nigger city nigger town when spunk junk trick comes back around when spunk junk trick comes back around. And around. And around.
And I’m here to testify that she’s been messing around. And you know that it will come back around.