For Love, For Her, For Cain, whom I should have known

[Sepia]

Here they hang, here they died for you, here was where you lost yourself to it, here was the place you deemed us all not worthy of understanding what you have understood. Here are the images of the dead niggers whom you spat upon in life but they hang there, our brethren, so that you shan't pick the stars from the sky for there are too few of them left.

I have seen it, in my godsight which they now call hindsight and we lost a star already. We have lost many stars but none as bright as this one. Fiery with talons that could shape worlds but we got lost in the squabble like we get lost in the fight or the game when our love vanes and reality is what we have left. When the butterflies fly from your stomach and when you can no longer handle three hours of sleep after fifteen hours working, shoving burgers, pizzas and caesars in the mouths of those who will inherit our world. We have no longer time for meekness and our love has changed. We have no longer time for meekness, we demand results, we demand figures going into the black because when you've seen someone ride a hearse, you know what the hearse feels like, you know its' vibrations and you can see it there, in the front of the motorcade.

I have seen you climb to what you yourself deem stars, I have seen you climb into the gutter when that world threw you away, I have seen you returning to it in glamour and I have seen the others getting jobs, getting paid getting what they call honest and that is a star which everyone plucks down atleast once in their life. I have seen your shadows leave a mark upon the wall, I have seen you whimper in the corner and going out bold, armed with nothing but yourself. I have seen you crumble, I have seen you fall. Sometimes you pick yourself up, other times not, but it's okay. It's only human and it's the most delightful story of them all.

What is the price of your star? What is the price of the slave hanging from the tree?

The tomatoes are ripe. Their smell is clinging in the air, you know when you pick up some plum tomatoes or nice cherry ones, still attached to their vine like an umbilical chord and you smell it and reality stops and dies for a while and there is only you and that smell and when you feel it, all is right again, you smell her skin and you always smell her neck because that's the way you want it, you smell his beard and his chest, the hair a neverending fascination. We smell the love when spring comes, the first dreadful rain giving the asphalt colour, texture and life again. We shy away from love because we go out to pick down the stars, to pick it all down and that is where we will end, standing baking infront of the oven, shoving the coal to fuel the titanic as they serve their caesars on the upper deck

[Roaring Biscuit!]