I say what I want you to hear.
If it works, they will come by near
the tunes we hum, and drums too,
kind of old fashion and striped blue.
It's true. I am vulgar. I dress
the way you say I do. Not like. Not
what money, old money, can strike
in height or gold, or obscenity
for there are hungry folks out there
wanting to tear into the fat lie
that we have the same colour of eye.
That as filthy as we were, we combed
for a symbol of us, set to the side,
a little bit out of balance, a coin,
a place in the heart and mind,
a commodity printed so much so
people can copy and paste, so sung
by the bloody lungs of my spiff
as I worked up in stature from dung.
I pollute. I bet. I like it in the damp air
of my private jet or golf streamed skiff
overlooking some vaguely Slavic bay
dug by church and perhaps now state.
I was told I was born in between
a home run. My father, he bought,
with every penny he grudgingly got,
the possibility of this green plot
twisting our road ahead, my children
yet to come, their fourth or fifth mom,
the whore that cost me not that much
to be treated in kind or harsh words,
whichever you think I prefer.
I am pumped. I can do it as proof
that I have done this before. I can sell.
My father would have been proud.
If he were to see this grandeur. This
pink drape trimmed with pearls found
by blind dark bodies that learned
their correct social echo location,
a tad to the right of Muslims but below
our beautiful shade of pure red
where I'm now to write a new chapter.
I am strong. As cold as you think I am.
As old as you guessed I was back there.
jam16
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