by Kirwyn Sutherland
Klu klux what?
I’m a such
A tool for America
Hands scraped raw
Hammered deep into cotton
Fly up and it rains gold
I’m a Midas
But was forced to turn
Inanimate objects into fortune
To fields of green picked
Over and rotten
I’m a supposed
Dead used problem
Both birth and demise
Alleged
Between trying to kill
And forgetting about
I’ma question
A poking to see if I writhe
How much can a country
Heap on a back until
It concaves into a nail
America’s only seeming quandary
You jealous?
//
Hey Klu
Can I call you Klu
What you going to do
With that cross besides
Make me laugh
A tongue is a flame
A black body is a cross
You worship, me?
Little ol’ burnt thing
Used to be pick to your ninny
Now every time you lynch me
You clone me
//
Behind you!
Issa Me
Oh! You thought the
Noose would kill me
No, no,no,no,no,no
I mean not really me
But another me
Remember the clone
The string up
and teleport
So every molecular thing
Served up to slaughter
Still lives structurally
Same skin and everything
But equipped with the
Memory of your evil
I do strange things with memory
Like let it drip into a knife
But don’t worry
I haven’t breathed here enough
To know how to use it
//
I don’t get the sheet. I never got the sheet. I mean sure back then it was just as much about costuming fear as it was a mask, but now it’s not even necessary. We have lived long enough to spot a racist. A white person could yawn and I could tell you if they whisper nigger under their breath in boardrooms or if they loudly proclaim their lust for my blood. It’s all the same to me, all engineers of the type ecosystem that thirsts for black death so take off those gosh-darn sheets, join us, reveal how easily you slip into assembly, you’d be surprised.