Just past the smog of some ZR
horking up and spitting
one drop riddim to Silver Sands,
our grimacing lunatic leans in and
rechristens me “B” as in
“B, fuh real. Check this thing. fuh real…”
Opting to wait
like me - “ B ” - for any comfortable ride to self,
he drops words on a voice
as powerful and as altering
as a pinch of sea salt.
So for Christ’s sake,
I start checking these ‘brations.
How in two thousand and fifteen,
in this arm-holed winter season,
if you catch a bus or van
running through Oistins,
your overstuffed computer bag and sweaty palms
can photoshop the tourises pink smiles to lines,
flattening their faces to
“thy kingdom come...”
“Is dem sorta scenes de worl movin’ pun now.
Just rememba dat, B.
Guidance… ”
Then out of nowhere
truth sends you this friend request,
and you accept to find sense
ticking in your head,
swelling louder until the myth
that you’re so safe
finally blows apart –
streamed live in the violence of whole cities
kalashnikoved to dust –
and human flesh, still quivering,
splattered against the insides of your conscience,
forming a vile cosmos of instagramed terrors
expanding at the very speed of night;
ebola opening shop in the district of a testicle,
school shootings, beheadings,
and this worrying waterlessness besieging the
heart of man,
inevitably rendering us all
moon-eyed refugees.