Does she not dance?
Does he not skip?
Do we not each,
run, laugh, and sip,

Of the deepest drum,
of the foreign choir,
of the winter breeze,
of the Chinese lyre?

We lords of dance,
we merry gods,
we royal queens,
kings and odds.

To us I raise,
to thee I sing.
For thus I praise,
for this I bring,

Facts of life:
unchartered course;
this music many,
this music Norse.

Replete, yet not.
Unbound and sought.
A reason known.
A rhythm hot.

You'll never be white enough.
You'll never be right enough.

You'll never know the route they're taking.

Because your mother was Irish.
Because your father was mixed.

Because your grandma was Polish, to them so much ****.

This world is too kind.
This world is too cold.

This world is tinder, burnt before old.

We'll breathe poison together.
We'll breathe lies till we're cured.

We'll breathe drink like oxygen, dumber for sure.

The flowers are dead, cursed rotten in bed.
The flowers are plastic, and taste of ill lead.

The flowers are children, petals wrought poor.

This flower is tired, far from du jour.

You are not deserving of the hatred you hold;
this self-inflicted thing of barbarous intent.

Not because of some inherent goodness,
and never for what you were.
Such notions are silly. Instead,
you are, each day-
-and every hour hence,
stochastic potential:
whatever that may be.

These illusions we have built;
castles in the sky where riches gild our every motion - they are so:
Falsities. Lies that comfort and steal;
binding chains by which we are made slaves of another's will.

Collectively,
obsessively,
let us melt them down and build for ourselves a tower;
an edifice of resplendent brick mortared by truth and conviction,
etched by the implacable-
-love
(and)
-derision
sat within our *******; a furnace for smelting.

Brown hair, gleaming bronze,
Plaited or free;
Blonde tresses, golden pale,
Curled or bound;
Black mass, thickest dark,
Wild or tied;
Red waves, sanguine silk,
Shaved or shorn;

(Both are lovely.)