A little hatred is good for the soul
no wonder the good Lord
not to cure me of sneezing
(to save me from a dusty death?)
And since the stinky boars that constrict us have not gone out of style
I, with a smile, shall like the Christ made 'the vine'
epiphytically hung on a tree,
Cross out the good that is evil;
crown god the angel that is the devil;
buy his cracked, smudged halo as antique
with the trust, thrust of my righteous semen
See, men, you should understand that this is no satire
I am not jesus nor Jesus and so with no scissors
shall make a mess of the sartorius sartorial
masterpiece that is the curtain separating
the bitch from the beach
where the prepuces of Christian, black
children have been discarded, ditched
I swear by Christ's plasma on the tree
that I have no plan to blaspheme or mischief.
I am not thinking as I speak this
You can tell from this tasteless stammer: obese strip-tease.
Am I disqualifying myself already?
Am I contesting for something?
By breathing, am I dying already?
By speaking, am I decomposing?
I know, it's no physics that this thesis
that I call a manifesto leaves you as
befuddled as my genes; thank you for listening.
The son you try hard not to love
for he was born 9 moons after the rape of you.
Sunday, 28 October 2012 17:29
Holy Genes: A Cheap Manifesto Almost Under the Influence of One Crack ... in the CeilingBy Nduka Akpe
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