| Venetia Ghozlan |
Time, My Bitch Time is my bitch the monkey riding merrily on my back. It is an off centered image that can no longer be touched up with a bit of color or camouflaged by adding extra pixels and bytes. It is the itch one contorts uncomfortably to scratch, the distant alarm that disturbs one's deep repose; unidentifiable and irritating even as one dreams. it is the shimmering optical illusion one blinks once twice in order to center and view clearly. October 2007 |
| Copyright 2007 Red Pulp Underground |
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Red Pulp Underground
Rootless Love Children created in a moment's illicit passion and pleasure you are the sacrifice demanded by god, family, economics, or choice sometimes desperation abandoned with remorse, resentment but mostly grateful acceptance motherless, fatherless bastard love child birthed and named by none but law and state a tick mark annotated on a bureaucrat's spreadsheet left unclaimed in a forgotten dusty file human warehouse cribs left to die on or sold to the highest white bidder and brought to America where the warehoused American black, brown and crack babies are left rootless to rot and die, albeit still alive black/brown/yellow and damaged ain't never been beautiful October 2007 |
Excuse Me Please, Mr. Whiteman excuse me please, mister white man for not staying in my delegated place, my caramel skin, big eyes and equally big ass excuse me please, mister white man for not speaking grammatically incorrect English, having the chuzpah to graduate from college, live in your lofty lilly white neighborhoods, and shop at your pale eyes Macy's excuse me please, mister white man for reading Shakespeare, Kant and Voltaire, in addition to Márquez, Nikki and Allende, and listening to Debussy, Mozart and Bach, in addition to, Jarreau, Santana and Camilla Williams excuse me please, mister white man for forgetting at the end of a day I am still the hybrid spawn of a nigger, wetback, red savage, Jewish refugee, and a Swedish pirate; not entitled to pure bred white American justice - for this I beg your forgivenes October 2007 |
Shame waking slowly I snuggle deeper into the cocoon of my blankets unwilling to start the day's activities lingering in the echoing silence the chill frosted windows stand as sentinels to my isolation my hands explore smoothing down the body warmed sheets seeking something that is not there the flesh remembers what the mind refuses to acknowledge I want to taste this shame again November 2007 |