My Turn

My Turn

Do not bore me with your intellect.

Oh? 
You disassociated early in life because sounding smart was how you got by?

Sounding smart was how you proved your worth to your military father and your obsequious mother?

I’m smart too and sometimes words come to me in a flash. 

I didn’t know what obsequious meant 
but I felt it was appropriate to describe my sycophantic mother
who is addicted to social media 
and hating gay people 
and the cruel certainty of the Bible. 

Then I looked up the word and turns out I was right. 
It sounded right. 
I guess facts do care about my feelings.

Only thespians are to be trusted.  

They know that intellect resides in the body and the body turns to dust and we are all equal in this way. 

There is no higher octave at the end of this poem.

There is only a low, persistent minor note; if you are lucky enough you might hear a dark praise resounding in the center of it. 

But only if you’re lucky. Or a good musician. And you’re none of those. You’re an intellectual.

Pathetic. 

And even I can over play Dlala Thukzin to the point where no afrohouse artist can treat me with medicine that will rid me of the poisonous semen that forms my DNA, culled from the ballsack of my father’s cowardly insides, wretchedly sober, meticulous in his pronouncements of judgement and retribution, feigned righteousness to cover up some dark and sinister insecurity I do not have the emotional bandwidth to take pity on. 

There is no higher octave at the end of this poem. 

The journey is down down down from here to the place where soil sludges and microbiomes are hard to decipher even with all the monies of science thrown in to subsidize the investigation. 

The journey is down down down past slander and all the sullen misery I feel creeping up my innards. I no longer fear the coming whip of my father’s belt. 

Now, it is my turn. Now, I will lash. 
Now, it is my turn. Now, I will lash. 

Guards!