SYCORAX WHOOPS

“I’ th’ commonwealth I would, by contraries,
Execute all things [...]”
Shakespeare, The Tempest II.i.

Mother! plague of angels in the house – thinkin stranglin,
oh shit, applied bakin soda remedies instead, witherin
final refrigerator angels cloggin language
like they’d free us from known it’s true further
Father Zeus airdrops party favours, fractures syntax,
gettin the glitter out of war where we’re struck stuck livin,
sex existin, plane to sea. Mother, our cities! cold
called on Aphrodite, AIDS worker, to blonde bond us
again with triage ties of love. Maa! Thinkin writin.
Turned over a new leaf to indict science silence
siloed whiteness witness; was a portal, no paper;
near as narnia, fell in; this darling darkling plain!
It’s rainin in Ilium. There’s somethin classic
about this situation which eye must not, nor heart,
articulate, though bearin it, we do, and have sung
songs whose vibration slips the mascara from those gods,
though a man lookin down on us dogs us with kind thoughts
he kind of attributes to us as tributes to him.
Mother! plunge your tongue where ever with brokenness we’re deaf-
en’d defend fed. Take apart our part. Launch in sighted
darkness our pack of languages, fluid as hounds,
all ready: bathed: riteful: already intending chase: