Black Poetry

A black swan was worried
about the debt slaves
and misogyny,
sailing along the
marbled slopes of red meat.

The ghosts in white cloaks
of truncated wombs, wait
for the pearl’s extraction
from the doe eyes of future.

Can you trust the truth of
the city which will not climb
on the rooftops to look at
the white moon?

Instead you get paid for the
crimes you did not commit.
Now you will write your own
epitaph before you are shot
down on the back.