the hermit

dear soul traveller

how do you kill a mocking bird?
you steal her song, break her beak, wing-bone and
feed it to the winds
you uncage the mind of god by killing him

i want to live in caves where anunakis inscribed time
where paramahansa died a thousand deaths
where golgotha exhumed death’s skull to ashame the flesh
where mummies rot in coffins of gold and poets are scholars

i want my soul on a silver platter,
(lucky me)
gamblers casting dice under the feet of my cross
(am i worth the glory?)
i want to leave the hood’s poetic survival behind the curtain of now
these streets stole my grandmother’s smoking pipe
she has no sense of humour no more

i want to sip herbal tea in the amazon, peru, zanzibar shores shwooshing corals on my toes
the world under me, clouds massaging my weary feet
i want to sail in easterly winds to a new land like columbus, ancient arabic merchants to the e. african coast

i want to be plane-jacked by aliens like the malaysian airline
teleport to mars, saturn rings in my finger like a cosmic pimp
channel occult secrets like balavasky & the galactic council thro’ open portals of the crown
as my palms throb to the elegant heartbeats of the sun’s flame

i want to drink wine in a new town
find heaven in the thighs of a prostitute
i want to smoke pot with lucifer as we blow angel dust on the canvas of the cosmos
these words are selfies of my soul and no filters
i don’t got wounds and scars i got energy portals and dead stars

like lupe fiasco’s outro:
in the event of my demise
give all my earthly possessions to the poor

if i/you/a negro ever feel blue
bake this poem into coke and snort it
crack it and blow smoke rings to the ether
crying, purple rain, won’t you fall down my eyes?

i want to astral project back in time like gray’s anatomy on a pictogram
like the story of a girl who danced on needles and bled flowers

like as a baby I loved to suckle my mother’s left teat
because that’s why her heart beat is

like fuck, I miss me:
this image in the mirror is my brain’s make-believe

like we made beats on yamaha keyboards and diskettes
middle fingers to the camera’s lenses

like reading ti-chi tutorials by the fire and
fighting the surge to slice-n-dice the sky with our tongue
cupping ghetto dreams like a mosquito and releasing it back to space
(’cause murder, murder ain’t us)

space bars and keyboard strokes
blinking cursors and blank docx
baying for the blood of my thoughts

f!ck sidewalks
i’m the highway to hell

f!ck death

if she comes in the morning, i will hold her by the waist, hit the last puff, the last swig, the last breath, and write the last poem as my eulogy, declare my soul free

like nietzsche’s epitaph in the woods:

NOTHING.

3 Comments the hermit

  1. WAHENGA

    “i want to be plane-jacked by aliens like the
    malaysian airline
    teleport to mars, saturn rings in my finger
    like a cosmic pimp” dope. as always
    an awesome read

    Reply
  2. Lauren Lagergren

    if she comes in the morning, i will hold her by the waist, hit the last puff, the last swig, the last breath, and write the last poem as my eulogy, declare my soul free

    like nietzsche’s epitaph in the woods:

    NOTHING.
    Existentialism. Beautiful and terrible all at once.

    Reply

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