The Washed Up Coward

by Butterfly

Inspired by Hamid Drake,

Oh what we so. . .
long    for
Our tongues wrapped
now breathe

the drums, the drums
Senegalís     Dou Dou
Jamaicaís Claude*

this man Hamid
many spirits within him
I listen to him and I am
not alone

I see   I hear    I feel
my soul
It is hot
It is cold
It is raining flames 
spring fires descend

Sliver through my bodyís
Ripple along my rageís cage
Lure my angerís guardian
to stand for memories not mine

Souls I do not know
pillow my head
Wild spirits realm
They want to be known 
Iím shy
They want to be heard
I hate to talk

Diviners  go in music
ainít no seeing symbol
to hold all these faces
I donít play drums
I hear them
I donít know notes
I feel them
I canít tell you a title
But I know tales

The drums, the drums
Run to the other side
Til the other side say come

My home too far away 
from my mind

My spirit knows it
like a baby knows 
its motherís scent
but Iím 
but Iím
but Iím
searching years. . .
And still Iím lost

I learn languages
from foreign languages
already inside me

I canít sleep at night
lines in their feet 
dance before they dance

I seen Ďem in the Baule figures
Ainít goní lie
heard Ďem in Senegalís drums
Talkiní   cominí    telliní they cominí
Tell them we are coming
Tell them we are strong 

Lay to rest you
Lay to rest!
I ainít telliní!

Did you hear Hamid
She did
She a shy one
Her waist spines in the chair
Her lips juicy     lusts
Salivated eyes reaching
Naw  baby     donít reach for Ďem  

As she gives her arms to the table
And her breasts slide on top
Her head    intoxicated
Fisting hands brace the table

They smell her
Open her legs and blow inside
Open her dreams  to expose visions
She wonít know whatís real
But sheíll feel it
She feels it
I see Ďem gathering around her

She a shy one

They take you whenever they want
They need vessels
They smell Ďem

Tears crawling down her sad face
as Hamid ends

We want it donít we
What they do to us
What they show us

But what they want I just. . .
I just couldnít set free

They kill folks like us
I donít wanna die
I tell the dead living in me
But they spirits alive
and in the need  of vessels

what we so. . .
long    for
Our tongues wrapped
 strapped     breathe

- a Butterflyís opinion -

* Claude McKay

The Washed Up Coward by Butterfly

© Copyright 2000. All rights reserved. No portion of this work may be duplicated or copied without the expressed written consent of the author.

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