Category Archives: Enslaved

Things More Grand Than Money

When they think they can just say sorry and make up for centuries of red hands then someone has to take a stand so sorry man,, sorry for the ones who are not here today to have their say, it is we who remain who must be the voice for their pain and triumph, fuck Trump and Mein Kampf, and all the years of human oppression, fuck the recession and the epidemic levels of depression leading to no other way out. When you tie your tie and button your collar higher, don’t forget there’s still a raging fire, a towering inferno too high to survive the jump from. You take pride in your flags because it shows another conquered nation defeated, but don’t get too conceited and forget the air on which your own blood relies, it comes from the trees and skies, H20 is more royal than any CEO or sovereignty and don’t forget spirituality and having the responsibility that comes with all that power, or the right to silence when those who are met with violence have no choice but to raise their voices in protest, and hail the civil disobedience, and civil unrest of the slaves of your great nation of corporations, but don’t doubt we won’t take a stand as a people against your plan, because there are things more grand than money on this land worth dying for.

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Filed under Earth, Enslaved, Environment, Freedom, Human Rights, Idle No More, Indigenous, Modern Slavery, Poem, poetry, Society, travel, writing

I am America

All the honest ones on the bottom rung,
hunger without a green clue about how to grow food.
Yet our ancestors had the heirlooms, which would later
be bought by corporate leaders to make
toxic morsels, without real sustenance.

They would see dollar signs in the leaves of the trees,
ignoring the animal need in the seed we
received when we breathed our first
naked breath here, when we were taught to
respect here, this wilderness,
and the corrupt ones with their
pockets lined with lies,
grew rich off our trustworthiness,
or took it, with force, when we
were powerless to defend against them.

We watched what was once fecund,
become what is now a wasteland.
An ashy womb of indifference,
too poisonous to bear fruit.
We said mother earth must have
closed her legs and refused,
and yet they pried and forced
a millennia of greed a thousand feet deep,
so that the scope of it,
could be seen to permeate
every sector, from produce,
to health care, to political
sway, still she lay there
unresponsive to their touch.

It’s like I am America
and you are Europe,
like you rush towards me
with bloody hands,
fresh from raping your
own land, and you come here
hungry, looking to build a
new empire, from the ruinous
resin of your burned down world.
Like I have only an arrow to defend myself
against your lead battalion.

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Filed under Ancestors, Ancestral, Anishinaabe, Broken, Buffalo, Canada, Canadian, Earth, Enslaved, Environment, First Nations, Freedom, Hypocrisy, Idle No More, Indigenous, Modern Slavery, Past, Pipe Lines, Political, Pollution, Rape, Traditions, Tragedy, Trauma, travel, Truth, Uncategorized, writing

Canine

You enter others dreams, a sexy slip screen. When I close my eyes at night, I can hear you scream. You have entered into others without intending to. She tells me her dreams of you. You hold her tight from behind and squeeze the life out of her body, not so hard to do considering how small she is. I’m in love with a masculine mind trapped in the confines of a feminine body, nothing is more alluring than she who being so fragile in physical form, has her true power taken for granted or underestimated, her entire being is a massive understatement, and yet the way she grips your thigh in the dark, as she enters hard and deep, the way her pupils magnify what sliver of moonlight bleeds across your body as you stare down at her thrusting eyes, you think a woman is akin to a wolf and none would imagine the way she is capable of swallowing you alive. Then in the afterglow as she slowly dissolves away into the distance, you feel the remnants of her lingering with you, as though she has marked your body with her scent, to accentuate her territory. She strays but not from others, she strays from her self. This is what it means to love a shadow, her lips are the velvet slowness of a tortured animus. When she kisses you it hurts. It hurts where life begins, it hurts where life ends, but it is the hurt you crave from being enslaved, it is the hurt you beg her in silence to settle. It’s that secret swell of never spoken words, whose expressions die exquisite deaths, relentless deaths, contracting, swelling exasperating deaths, where bite marks and claw marks outline the places you were initiated. She doesn’t ever say it in the light of day, only in dark whispers, and you watch her with this strange mix of terror and desire, as she goes about her daily life, washing dishes, mending clothes, planting seeds that will one day grow into something beautiful. They mistake her for something tame, but you know better, you know better and you know worse and as she talks about the mundane, your mind travels back to dark territory, nothing she says or does is ordinary. You wear a goofy grin, and only when reality slaps you cold and hard across the face, do you realize how stupid you must look, walking around with an invisible leash on your hips, a magnet in between your thighs that draws you to the silver of her. Your friends say you must be whipped. But who are these friends? They are humans. They are human only human, and you are part canine.

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Filed under Bondage, Desire, dreams, Enslaved, Erotic, Fantasy, Poem, poetry, travel, writing

The Effigy

In Tinos where you were baptized, they took the cap off the sky and light poured into the watchful eyes of a virgin dove. They bathed you in such pure water that Mary herself held a shell up for your christening, it cracked in the centre like porcelain and you smiled, that sharp smile of annihilation, hard and cold as the marble, where they laid your body.

As a child I wanted my own girl to hold, like the dolls my grandmother kept in the attic from her childhood years in England, pristine, dressed in cotton and wool, and buttoned up to perfection. She told me that one day they would all be mine if I could prove my love for only one .

I chose the most delicate doll, made of porcelain, with a lace dress and silk stockings , she had dark hair and green eyes, her mouth was painted blood red, and her skin was as white and fragile as egg shells. My own beautiful Κούκλα to hold when I felt lonely.

I placed her on a shelf in my room and stared admiringly at her countenance . One day a sadness incubated in her throat that was as colossal as a Trojan horse filled with a thousand warriors , it broke open and choked me into silence.

I felt the swell of it flood my room and sink down on my chest like a pile of rocks from a well where a man fell down and drowned. Every night he entered me like an avalanche until my heart cracked and love fled from me like a startled bird on a ledge, away from the view of everyone.

As I matured a hunger grew inside that threatened to shatter me. Her pale skin was stained with the markings of a monstrous molestation. Fingerprints from crimson tarnishings smeared over her body like stigmata. She methodically guided my hand down to the centre of the world and I was swallowed there inside of her until I too became as porcelain.

I lay next to her frail frame and entered a wolfishness that no tenderness could tame. She lay motionless as I caressed her and she fed me her despair until my teeth broke and my eyes fell on the floor. My left hand lay groping in the cellar, while my right hand held the edge of the balcony, parts of me lay scattered everywhere like broken shells.

The day of reckoning came and my grandmother smashed a gavel on my hand. The DNA strand of three generations unravelled from my wrist in a long purple tendril and crawled under the rocks, deep beneath a seabed of sunken dreams.

They carried my body like an effigy through the streets, burned candles in a cloud of smoke that shadowed my soul. I am destined to belong to none, a fallen messiah, a dark pariah, possessed by every girl I meet, love fills me with a fullness none can keep from shattering.

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Filed under Abuse, Depression, Enslaved, Loss, Love, Narrative, Poem

Kintsukuroi

I have a cracked soul that no amount of gold can fill.
Swell of childhood,
wave, water, reflection.
Propensity pouring into probable personality traits;
narcissism, histrionics, scars stricken against sulphuric self, flare in sea of black, no return from darkness.
Ears ring out like cathedral bells at the gavel fall of postured people, straight upstanding citizen I’m not.
Chaos’ child curtailing comets.
Mulch of weeds where flowers chance to bloom outward from mossy memories, in places the sun neglected. Damaged seed, uprooted,
convoluted scream shooting agony into pillow of down.
Muted madness on the surface, appearing calm, floating along like an unruptured swan.
Dusk descends like a ceramic sun on the verge of shattering.

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Filed under Abuse, Borderline, Broken, Chaos, creative, Depression, Displacement, Enslaved, Flowers, Grief, introspective, Loss, Malady, Memory, Mental Health, Poem, poetry, Repressed, Self, Shadow, Sobriety, Sorrow, Soul, Sun, Swan, Swan Song, Tragedy, Trauma, Unwanted, Upheaval, writing

The man holding a swan

He arrives at dawn when the others are gone, soaked in their debauchery, seen as a stain on the city, red speckled sea on the horizon , something we avoid on the morning walk to where we have to be, not where we want to be.

If I had my way I’d marry music, swan songs and oblong stories of our less than genteel history. Here in the North we are sorry, that’s our story, forced manners , like blisters on the fingers of the erhu player, but his country has communism, a cracked schism in the pavement, where I step to behold his wordless poems.

You cry out in the morning, no memory of the night before, no purpose, when your legs are sore from running against the current, can’t keep your head above the water long enough to see the shore.

Each morning you stumble down Portage on your way to nowhere, because that’s all we’ve got sister, that and the man with the blister, whose music makes us forget the pain, makes the suffering more tolerable, but what have we to compete with that?

A man holding a swan, caressing it’s long neck of eternity, you and I are lucky if we last ’til tomorrow but that beautiful sorrow can be heard like an ancient cry to the soul, and his case is full of potential coins for the demon that eats loons and moons from our past dreams. They float up merrily and coo at his fingers, see how he wraps them there, wings soft as straw, another corner conquered by something other than a drunken squaw.

What started as awe quickly turns to indifference and downright bitterness for birds. You start cawing and spitting venomous vitriol at anything that jingles. Where did they put my moon eh? Where’s that crescent thing they promised my people, no one remembers the buffalo, they killed him with the red skins, somewhere near wounded knee, but we got this Eastern melody flooding our streets with beauty.

I’m too ugly and my spirit is a deaf traveler. I’ll strangle that white-necked whore! Be nice to the hand that feeds you, it’s the hand that holds you down. They talk like indigenous means religious, it’s not a political stance, it’s birds in the hands of a dying democracy.

I’m the white and you’re the black on the chess board. They are counting on you poor pawn, they are singing for you sweet swan, together we can make a symphony that rises up towards the parliament in full plumed brilliance and lands on Harper’s lawn. Tell him to quit selling what doesn’t belong to him. Take off that Isis mask borrowed from the president and fuck terrorism when we’ve got heroism in our own hands..

dawn over oil spilled feathers, washing these sorrows pure again.

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Filed under Buffalo, Displacement, Enslaved, Environment, Erhu, First Nations, Freedom, Genocide, Global Warming is a warning, Harper, Human Rights, Hypocrisy, Identity, Idle No More, Indigenous, inspirational, Music makes people come together, Narrative, Oil Fields, Pipe Lines, Poem, Political, Pollution, Rape, Revolution is our Evolution, Rhyme, Sorrow, Soul, Swan, Swan Song, writing

Silver Lining

Birth is that crystallized moment when form emerging from dark is grown mistakenly into slavery, the brutality where we are hopelessly adopted into a pulsing world without love, delivered into the possessive hands of a stranger, encompassing us in liquid mercury, dissolving as we strive to gather cohesively, the quicksilver self that eludes us our entire lives into the fluid freedom of death’s sterling soul.

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Filed under Adoption, Birth, Bondage, creative, Death, Displacement, Enslaved, Freedom, Identity, Journey, Life, Loss, poetry, Self, Silver, Soul, Unwanted, writing