Black blood veins palace walls—
Whitehall smearing Pall Mall—
drains under auction blocks,
stains rum and sugar docks.

Anguish anchors English—
Vowels banshee howls sandwich.
Tongues jab just like daggers;
Negroes stab like niggers.

Yellow Fever buries
backra, spiting theories.
White wives wail. Our secret
prayer?  Their Ruin.  No regret.

Uphill, but out of sight,
black troop ignite black night,
torchin massas’ Bibles,
smokin out shocked cabals.

I.

Sunlight slithers, insinuates itself,
amid preening palms.

Likewise, I goad my serpent
to rifle lady’s “bird’s nest”:
I don’t trifle.

When the moment
comes imminent—
of our monumental crisis,
our maximum crisis—

scissoring her suave silks,
or ripping the bed’s linen,

we know Tumult—the heart’s lusts—
desires as prejudicial as tears:

We fall sedate,
yes, not sated.