The shaman, madman, medicine man, poet, philosopher king
Could do what they willed - privilege.
Because they had the sacred connection, understanding.
They were the ones who could cure and purge.
They represent the notion of being bent for discovery,
The were the sacred - prestige.
So they, from all time, had the privilege
of being the madman genius.

Take me to your *******
@cisgenderwhitemale
in salmon shorts sport polo
boat shoes and expensive cologne—

I, emissary of the InterPlanetary
Order of Eugenically-Minded Denizens (IPOEMD),
have come to rid the world
of this contagion—

who for too long has
beguiled us with their
wicked fashion sense
and appalling profile pictures

appearing on friends’ dad’s yachts
smiling behind a pair of Ray-Bans
with a glass of champagne
drunk underage.

Your valedictorian address
bored me,
your sexist racist homophobic xenophobic (etc. etc.)
inside jokes to your friends
on the lacrosse team
sickened me—

I’ve had to listen to you
brag about your ***** size
since puberty and your discovery
of Spike TV—

I watch you mock Black English
in tweets and hashtags
from locker rooms where
the talk can range from
racial slurs to ****-shaming spurs

(talk never to ****
upon its potential revelation
in a political campaign)—

I film your weddings
where you dance all night
in your Aryan enclave
to top 40 songs
screaming “This is my jam!!!”

I scroll through your #familyvaca2k17 posts,
the immaculate hotels and poolside views
concealing the succeeding flophouses crumbling adobes
and dog-ridden streets of dirt and infinite trash—

I see you engrave in bold
ALL LIVES MATTER
BLUE LIVES MATTER
AMERICAN LIVES MATTER
on every writable surface—

and as a meninist,
lament about the harrowing trials
as a victim of reverse racism.

[The white man’s burden
is to carry the weight
of their inability
to be anything
other than
incorrigible.]

I have come to rid the world of you
once and for all:

Taking the Gideon’s bible
from every hotel
and replacing it with
feminist literature,

burning down every
Banana Republic and
coinciding shopping mall,

cutting the brakes
to every Mercedes, Lexus,
and BMW with a
“Salt Life” sticker
on the back window—

You wear your ethnocentrism
like the sleeves of the cardigan
wrapped around your neck
swaying in the air conditioned wind
like a little cape—

[Behold, Cis-Man!

Whose superpowers include:

Getting away with ****
and perpetuating **** culture,

Minimal jail sentences (if at all),

Guaranteed college entry,

Speeding ticket immunity,

and impeccable draft dodgings.]—

I solemnly swear,
I make a pledge
to never procreate
if it will perpetuate
this vile sect of humankind—

I take a vow of celibacy,
I spill my ***** into the dirt—
not one egg will be fertilized,
not one will be conceived

to the soundtrack of Coldplay,
or Kid Rock, or whatever hair metal ballad
conceived you in the first place—

You are a logical phallicy.

You want to talk about eugenics,
you want to stop
breeding all the “retards
spittin’ on your kids”
at the amusement park—

Pledge chastity with me:
Interbreed,
undilute the strain—

and together,
we can end
the White Man’s True Burden:
Existence.






(p.s.
And it is with great irony
that I write this as one of you—
the Judas to your
Megachurch TV Caucasian Christ—

I write it because
if it were by one of
whom you’ve held
under your [jackboots to boat shoes]
since time immemorial—
they’d never stand
to read it—

for even mutiny
among these ranks
has its own
privileges.)

it’s like you burn the w
hole world
in a shadow *** of money

       and i should know
       i live in the sunlight

it’s funnyha
that you speakha ha
       in a tongue that nobodyha ha ha
kno
ws
ha ha ha ha(idiocy)
                            i shouldn’t be laughing
though because people are dy
ing right under yo
ur shoe
       (boo hoo)

the red light
stops me.

you are always there;
with your arms
full of flowers.

your flowers travel
in the passenger car seat
to the arms of a lover,
to the table of a hospital,
to the planks of a stage,
to a sanctuary.

and I wonder
if someone,
ever,
gave you flowers;
and if you ever
wanted
to be that lover,
or that patient,
or that actress,
or that saint.

I wonder
where you dreamed being at
when you were 10 years old.

¿what circumstances
ripped you off that dream
and put you over this
badly paved avenue?

the green light
illuminate us
again.

Spent the evening walking nowhere streets
dodging horns and sirens of hungry motorbike taxis.
It was a parade of street-food vendors,
security guards half asleep by bottles of whiskey.
Every woman I passed was beautiful,
laid their *** on the numbered tables
as off-hand as their mobile phone, their purse;
their bored men. Each one had their toenails painted,
wore short skirts and vest tops in the stifling heat.
The best of them wore tight dresses of black or red
and ate their food in the same studious manner
I imagined they would take to the zip of my jeans.

Could feel the sweat roll down my back
kicking gravel out my sandals every ten strides.
The playboys rev their motorbikes
as if it were a talent they had been working on,
a kind of siren song to tempt the free women.
Each one is on the lookout for a bargain.
Each one streaks past to some indiscernible point
where they will bury themselves amongst
the massage parlours, karaoke bars, and short-stay hotels;
Each one a straight-up brothel once you make it through the doors.
I feel too awkward in this ******* town to order a sandwich
let alone try out my second language to ask for a cheap *******.

Every foreigner here had some kind of breakdown.
Some kind of complex that drew them like a moth to flame
to some place where white skin is enough to feign riches,
stimulate desire and place you amongst better men.
We steal a living for a year or two of forever blue skies.
We eat good food and toast ourselves every evening
with cold lager and palm leaf cigarettes.
We cannot read a word in these humid streets
where every single building holds a portrait of the King.
Spent the evening with my shadow, both alive in the night
beneath the heady aroma of cooking oil and street-food spice,
both hurting to become, both slipping out of sight.

youre a city girl raised on

fantasy-realities of ivy leagues and

imminent success your 
only scars are pimple scars

remainders of a childhood
of 
vaguesuccesses.

exceptional, they call you, who were

bred and groomed for this title

talent is a spectre that haunts

you and your sibling and every

otherchild

born into that grey area between

happy and sad.

you have the world beneath your

dainty soft feet but its never

enough to bring you to the summit of

the desires (expectations) that
push down on you like

a suffocating cloud that waters your eyes
   and 
chokes your lungs. youre afraid to leap

up (out of sight out of mind out of the safe cradle
of a mothers wisdom and a fathers love and

the familiarity of being a tightly coiled rope ready to snap)

and into a sky where suddenly that weight is

lifted and you feel light

       (the weight is comfortable, it keeps you grounded)

                                    and perhaps
that you were moulded with

this constant belief that you [are/must be] the best is

the __ (only/best) reason to stop yourself.

when others have problems that seem so

much grander and you in your protective bubble

that even a city cannot permeate (you ignore the sight of beggars

or thieves or poverty and avert your eyes

from anything that contradicts

the perceptions that you have, it doesnt
matter if youre in a city

plagued by pain and exploitation

as long as you can live in your (steel tinted) dreams)

you wish that you had that claim to fame (isnt it sad that

were so desperate for relevance we
selfishly wish for suffering, trading your own

trivial vices).

but you [dont understand/cant understand/will never understand]

no matter how many times you
sympathise and complain and romanticise.

youre just a pimple-scarred city girl carrying

a world of ideals and expectations on

                   your shoulders.

Don't make me get out of the car
Jolt me out of my dream
Pulled back by the heave in the brakes
It's the only time I'm not sure
if I'm supposed to be
Here
I just want to be, my love
pulled by the force of the car
And you
carrying me in a hammock over a river of grossness
Adding weight to my eyelids
I can't move
Safety to take for granted
that's what we all want
Safety to take for granted
And that we forget we have

Release all the words you buried under your tongue.
Let your words flow through your fearful mouth.
let them flow effortlessly exposing your thoughts.
It is always a privilege to be heard in this busy world.
It is always a privilege to be heard in this world!

I convinced a man he could prune his own ****.

That if he spliced it just so,
two little pink shafts would sprout in it's place.
Wriggle themselves growing into two separate fully functional phallus.
And I watched him.
As he reluctantly reached for the shears.
And went through the five stages of grieving.

"There's no way this will work.

******* for telling me this secret!

can't I just take a pill to grow a second **** without having to cut this one off?

I don't think I can live without it..."

but just think, I reminded him.
after you do this.
You're gonna have TWO *****.

"I'M GONNA HAVE TWO *****!"

TWO *****.

And with almost no other thought, reasoning or belief.

He closed the shears



He opened his eyes.

His flaccid privilege laying there.

"When does the growing start?"
He asked me, pained.
His big brown eyes swelling.

"It doesn't."

"WHAT?"

"I lied to you, it doesn't grow back."

"It doesn't grow back? Not even one?

"Not one, not two,
no **** for you. I lied."

"Lied?"

"Lied."

it was easy,
to convince him.
Just had to promise he'd have two times the power in the long run.
If he risked it all right now.