Too many blacks goin around, thinkin they own the place
– an old problem.
Time was, they knew their proper place;
[hard workers, the blacks]
these days, can’t go two steps without falling over one
[theyre lucky we came here]
telling us we’re the problem
[lazy goodfornothin]
yep too many uppity, wont-stay-in-their-lane blacks
[farmers? youvegottabefuckinkiddin]
Here sits an edifice; a pulpit
raised of shears rumbarrels chains ships bullets theft and bloodred death
book-lined, velvet-curtained
veneered in an unctuous justice
samely coating all the lives adjoined.
Within a man sits tracing ghostly ink, revolution emergent
as if thrown, a hairshirt spirals
verdant, down now onto this stage
twixt the sombre stacks of once-trees, much unvisited.
The man stops stoops lifts the bristling bundle
now heretic, ascends a stair other hands construct
the remnant curtains part, there ‘ICONOCLAST’ spelled out in neon
tubing pulsing
‘gainst a white white wall.
Tomes clasped chestward, he – our reluctant cynosure – speaks voice rising
(streetpunk academic mutiny / circle back
toward lost fecundity)
standing, blinking manifest sunlight
palaces and towers shed birds like skin
crowds swerve, bend ears, listen:
(there was always life before you
as there is always life after you
you have never been the first, or only)
– an old story.
and like a tree dragged upright, this roar
shunts a world
somewhere deep stone stratum cracks, unfastens earth-strong membranes
wave functions collapse
potentialities formerly certified stable corrode diffract cohere no more
certain stories are fences / certain stories are seeds
gauche bylines slop our troughs to brimming
[gonna destroy im]
adamant fencers clinging to zero-sum
[fabrication realhistory]
mainlining militant indignant feeds maddened erupt
[madeitup fraudster notfarmers]
a vague relentless clouding morass
[sowhatiftherewerehousesyoucouldntinventthewheel]
overwhelm civil semblance
[savages]
two positions, superimposed
[You can’t just rewrite history]
Read the rest of Overland 239
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