Yanne

I was looking for my sister

I’d let go of her little hand
when the desperate cold crept under the leather of our pigment in this high rise forest
I was snared by a piper’s squeal bounding through marshy bogs of instantaneous gratifications, flagrant liaisons with effete Caucasians,
Asians and fucked up hybrids lixiviating the steam of my sweat:
but now I’m looking for my sister

As I followed the swine’s buxom carcass
The serpent whisssspered in her ear and led her through the jungle
  mined with concrete snake pits of empty words, processed ideals,
  Down streams shaped by corrosive sub-cultures, social engineering, and fair weather philosophies
   I followed the path of contracted gold and fly by night virtue
where predators are chameleons perverting nature with synthetic poisons
Coats of red white and blue camouflaged with George crosses, camouflaged with universal slang

I was looking for my sister! this side of cultural partitions
Beyond stringy hair and high heels
Without her customised brother in arms veering his neck around ceramic tiles to ogle black cock
I followed that pig down nooks and potholes underlined with football fanatics and paganism
Along lamp lined avenues that textured debauchery.
  I ate of its saccharin sweet meat
And OD’d.  opening my eyes before I could be butt fucked in a chemical stupor
As the hours flew, we died a bit every day

I felt my sister’s thick impenetrable laughter bounding through telecom’s steel vines converted into a muzzle;
Maiden’s chic and seasonally marinated trivia coursing like commuting blood cells in a pink colour ghetto
That very acoustic laughter that had filled the corners of home,
tethering mine, like a swirl of cherry jam in my porridge; before we knew we were diasporas collateral
Even in Diaspora’s tainted mist, I hear her distinct voice and I’m engaged

I found my sister in survival’s yoke, surrounded by ultra modern picket fence and poll tax
betrothed to a great great grandson of massa . :
  The pillager’s scalp;
 he wears her like fox pelt on prize day and I know his blunt claws have long stroked another soul, branded with the scorch of his saliva…..  no longer driftwood
A  formula. of contemporary notions had sedated her to her own
  and she sat, the fabric of processed ethnicities in a house among moths and worthless residue
And I’d been out walking into jungle walls

There she is !… in your eyes
Behind the tassels and the pantomime
Under the debris of confusion and responsibility; cajoling lies and a trillion devils;
  I love you;
My splayed fingertips mirror yours
  Taught as strings of a metallic sunburst, screaming like scuttling fish, across the widening gulfs
  “I need you”,
  to complete me in jig saw emancipation
for requiems of self and the good old days
  for solvency’ in loco parentis’

  From a parallel estuary to bloody seas of indifference