identity

By James Movick

i cry for the pride that is not mine can never be, will never be; for sprung from the muddy cesspool of white sperms in black gardens i am born without a soul no identity of mine own and i curse the misfortune that i should be one of the depraved deprived fools who lumber and labour the contemptible Calibans ruled by the whim of whoever prospero black or white may be dancing to the applause of bloody oriel’s pipes: on and on to perish on the rocks of purgatory; for i am prevented from attaining that mark reserved for black or for white who against each other fight but are united against us their despicable disinherited foetuses of deceased discredited couples; arise! yeah . . . but for what? develop our own character? sure . . . but out of what? inferior-motived, self-contemptuous, paranoic dreams of paralytic mind? must we grovel on like eunuchs or prostitutes satisfying their own desires which do not exist; should, could, but don’t?