Hold the line

Is that the ink of your mind
or is that just so much
artificially-coloured water?

The ink of my mind is streaked with blood
       house of anger
       house of confusion
looking here, looking there where new black flowers spread their maybe poison
       bluer than death, this anger
       an aurora, this anger
       a roadblock, this confusion
       a freeway, this confusion

Help us, you with the beautiful
skin! Help us, you with the witch-hazel
hands! Help us, you with the hair like
sin! Help us, you with the half-cracked smile!

You hosting the angels in the distorted sky of your eyes
and you slipping through silver fish in the live seas of your chest
and you trapping volcanoes in the desert rains of your shoulders
and you making sunbursts on the strikeplate of your lips
give us the sandpaper grip of your fists
give us the megaphone ink
of your wrists
tell us the terrible names
of our peers
tell us your truth, be our shamans, seers,
bards, makers, shakin’ psalm-shapers, be our
souls’ soul-brothers, our
sweet soul sisters, our
reason for blisters, our master and mistress…

Hiphoprisy, rockocracy, intellimockracy!
Alloycats, nervocrats, dance-o-mats! Work
and play, vortex
and apex

but don’t be our gods,
be our shoes.

Hold the line.
Hold the line that links our ankles,
and hear:

I’ll be nothing to you if you’ll be nothing for me.
Be silent behind your wall
be deaf behind your wall
be arcane behind your wall
and be,
just be,
in the end if you just be
it’ll be
enough. So be.