water my corpse, kiss my bleed
follow the paths of my scars
digest the bitterness of my soul
let us analyze the thesis of Darwin
feeding melanin to racist theorists
peeping through eyes of a sleeping god
you got to look at the beauty of his mess
revelations of prophetic scriptures
written by wings and legs of an insect
insight the skull of illiterate children
folding love letters into bullet casings
sewing sad tears onto decapitated bliss
eliciting rainbows from chiaroscuro
of love and of hateful doctrines
shedding the apportion of reality through
the limited instruments of the senses
scenting the chaos of my thoughts
sit on my soul with your naked conscious self
undress your senses off old memories
let us analyze semantics and sonantics
in the unseen realm of consciousness
through mythology and theology
on decayed pages of philosophical poetry
using off words in love and God, knowing
union is the common theme of humanity
personify my mental calamity
with a fearful paradigm of time
of paradoxical utopian society, of the States
blueprints of fingerprints are printed
on footprints of my journey on insect back
inhale my hoofprints to orient the self
in inks, in pages, in shelves of my heart
now talk to corpses, buried in my lungs that died for Aristotle, moments after
I stood as a tomb flower on Judah's graveyard
trying to be a mayflower for Anton Amo
crying my flesh out to spark my dry bones
bleeding on footsteps of Zera Yacob
with a verbal shovel that symbolizes
Socrates ideas of a democracy and States
I disagree with State affairs, paradoxically
holding on to "the veil of ignorance"
that Nozick sought to rip off my page
to kill the hidden sage of Rawls in me
and leave Hayek laughing up his sleeve
Find a grave, bury your thoughts
follow my bleed to the tombs of Athens
now let us die into the unknown
the world of the dead is the most living
it is some form of reaching, leaving
the weeping and millions of drooling
in this perplexed world of Antifa
of QAnon, of Anarchism, of Trumpism
of Alt-Right, of Proud Boys, of BLM
maybe Walatta Petros is needed in this
era of mental commotion and mad norms
meanwhile, I remain seated on the TV
watching the couch, while half-wits
coach the universe with a dim-witted torch
into tough ruination with coronach hymn
©lamin
L