Hell No!

Shall you come to my home?

Shall you come to my loft

which sits atop the summit

of melancholy devotion

and stoic genius?

Shall you come loftily

upon your high-yellow high horse

(with temptation blowing in your hair

and jealousy on your booted spur)

into my territorial bliss,

into my mysterious cul-de-sac

as I realize tears of remorseful victory?,

whilst poetizing your forced entry?

The Lord.

Will He have had mercy

on such a so-called self-proclaimed artist,

whom with a cold heart

would have plagiarized my pain,

mocking my ascent to freedom,

catching a ride on my blue velvet feelings –

(my personal freedom train) –

and not having paid for the ticket?,

violating the very truth of manhood

by gratuitously stickin’ it

to me…,

giving it to me…,

raping me;

your raping of me

over and over again,

harshly, with hate in your eye

and stale malice in your gripping hand,

control on your breath,

guilt on your mind

like fruit on the vine.

Will He have understood then?

Will He have had mercy then?,

having seen your laughter

like the spray of bitter spittle

soaking into the earth of a midnight land….

Will He have had mercy then?

Copyright © 2005 Jacquii Cooke