Creation Myth - Moor Mother

The idea is to travel throughout the race riots

From 1866 to the present time

A (speedy?) decapitation by time

(?) in thickness sacrificing love for hate

Makin it to the frontline with ease

Like how momma made biscuits outta nothing

All while having a dope needle in her arm

The blueprint provided by a black cemetery

No hope for the dead battered in their coffins (?)

A new type of happiness

A black happiness that’s filled with grief

Somehow ending up at a portal in time

(?) nothing else no mind

Just the innate wiring of your DNA

The process of your chromosomes

Systematically forming to prevent ones own annihilation

I mean extermination

The labour of existence

The first time you heard the whisper of death

That death that has always been lingering here

With you since the day you were born

Heard it telling you that you must be both dead and alive

Want us to be dead when a man wants to beat us

When they want to rape us

Dead when the police kill me

Alive when the police kill you

Alive when it’s time to be in they kitchen

When it’s time to push out they babies

I’ve been bleeding since 1866

Dragged my bloody self to 1919

And bled through the summer being slaughtered by whites

A flux of chaos came after

Influx of terror from German and Irish immigrants

American imperialists wasted no time joining mobs and riots

Even the descendants of the (?)

Still look at knives clean from the trail of tears

Joined in the slaughter in (?)

All because of a feeling, an emotion: fear

And by the time I got to Watts

I was missing most of my limbs

Still had enough blood in my throat left to gargle up nine words

I resist to being both the survivor and victim

But I know the reality

And some of us did just die under a boot

Under pounding fists in the back of a car

Others died (?) mangled guts

Some of us did just die while giving birth

While protesting for the freedom of our sons

And only God knows how I made it to Ferguson

Aisha didn’t make

Rekia didn’t make it

Ayanna Yvette didn’t make it

Pearly didn’t make it

Chantelle, Tarnika, Taisha didn’t make it

Katherine, Gaberella, Miriam, Charise didn’t make it

Charnel didn’t make it

Sandra didn’t make it

And I was sure I was dead in Oakland

After being chained by a pickup truck

And dragged miles in Jasper, Texas

Where 81 pieces of me my body was scattered across a back road

The men drop me off at a black cemetery

See that’s how I got over

How I got over here

The same place I was in in 1866

A bleeding black body blowing in the wind

Tripping an ironic thickness of things never changing

Time is a balancing act that encompasses all things

Suspended in illusion