Empire fade away

I am the son of a slave’s grandchild

born into a hue of controversy and disdain.

Home is a dread empire’s shell and worth is the crumbs of a lowly.

Pain is the chill of a winter eve upon a grave of the long forgotten. Dressed in faded pastel plastic flowers, dead lips whisper that which nobody comes to hear. Bones dry and bleached as noon upon a pave are trampled as they merge with paths covered in snow and driven litter. Upon the hallow soil, toils of many a man’s sweat and life fall upon a country’s sword as nuts cast from branches reach an unavoidable floor.

What worth has the tepid water for stewing?

The engine runs on tea and curse words lovingly exchanged with familiar arrogances, dressed in Sarcasm’s passive aggressive duplicity.

Oh Empire!, we loved you before you spat at us.

We the exotic, of sheens long tarnished by familiarity and its all-incumbent indignations. The colony in the mind is imitated in edifices, reflected in passion for pomp and pageantry. Square jaws and stiff shoulders, mantled in red, boys roused by glories sung in times of pride.

I am the son of a slave’s grandchild

born into a hue of controversy and disdain.

Unrecorded histories in streets, trade and sweet undercurrents of musk and sweat. Crawling creatures’s lusts are sucked from the loins of masculinity. Prayers to sins, iniquities brought before the magistrate, appraised before the saluter of an expectation. It will all end bad and cause a stink when you hear of them eating us in our sleep. Puss and vomit in the pews amongst the likeminded, as they chide their councillors over tea and sandwiches. Sour words tell of the attitude, it was better back in our day! Though in whispered mordacity that it was less dark both in weather and in complexion.

What worth has the mouldy hop for brewing?

Shades in corners of shadow from lips of scorn plot. The contrite and conceited foul communities’s efforts, so the neighbour remembers to hate with fear that he cannot rationalise but fells in the words of a carouser. We hear the scorn of liberalised ideals that stoke the device named ignorance. The able purchase their means of security; and secure in towers of empathy, pretend to care nothing for the differences that we are and how all friends come from afar.

I am the son of a slave’s grandchild

born into a hue of controversy and disdain.

Home I new is now a ghetto of wealth, cleansed of the living

breathing melting and spiritual thriving.

Oneupmanship paid by postcodes and off street parking. Pretty boutiques selling trivial trinkets for the materially exhausted and ever wanting.

Colour wears extensions and morns the loss of Europe.

Air kissed greetings and exchanged coded credentials, into clubs of twittering neuroses and wordy sounding lunches on menus bigger than plates tipped in accordance.

I am the son of a slave’s grandchild

born into a hue of controversy and I grew out of the colony.

It is an empire faded away.