We’re a crew here. We’re blue jumpsuits in the
monochrome dress code. They’ve got secret piercings of
perspectives running
against their belly-buttons and out, we’ve got those as poetry on our
tongues. They talk in big words stolen off Oxford and
we’re still the love children of manifestation. We have Flemish faces full of
naïve,
but heads filled with more than Austen, we speak
fluent Bukowski. In the land of Vedas we’re unafraid
alchemists – what we want? Only sore face truth.
We scream into thin air after the show’s over, only for its just us who
know about the 3.14 in urban wisdom:
expression began at creoles, poetry, long
before ripped the fire into
flames. So remember comrades, they’ll be here at the frontiers with big guns and long treaties-
we’re the love children of
manifestation; with small knives of peace rusting the rest of our thighs, in anticipation.
We’re the brothers taking the pain, not the ones kissing the filthy microphones.
We’re the sisters who bring the fallen up, not the ones talking away the wounds deeper.
We’re the children of minds, of manifestation, not the superficial adolescents.
We speak fluent poetry we had in our mouths since bloody birth, not art that’s none less than the guns.
We’re the generation of tensors, not the cliché of scalar GenX.
We don’t listen to you mate, we listen to the swooning heartbeat we can’t ignore, we don’t change our poetry for the skin deep, we don’t learn art; we are it.
Don’t tell the other love children of manifestation they can
write in synonyms and paint
in-frames; don’t tell them
that big words and foolish techniques can out- power the voice. Don’t
tell them they can’t learn prose but tell
them can’t learn poetry that
they’re born with. Don’t tell them they do
not fit the hierarchy when they’re valiant soldiers,
valour.
We’re the love children of manifestation my love, we don’t speak, we love.
-TURQUOISE
