the universe is
an endless mystery
but people are all made up
of blood, bones
sinew and regrets
maybe it’s my scorpio rising
or my sagittarius moon talking
but it all just feels like
any other mythology
filling our great and desperate desire
to ascribe some reason to being
still, I’ll let you
tell me what my birth chart says
if it means I can
trace the outline of your body
without using my hands
Sex Sells
you can make your art
make obscure literary references at brunch
drip poetry when you speak
but really all the people want
are the deepest
darkest parts of you
splayed out for them to examine
lurid tales of indiscretions
I am a difficult person
I am an endless void
always hunting in the dark
my mouth, a vault
of bittersweet words
I am a writer
and a scholar
and a slut
an eldest son, so forth and so on
but you just want to see me undressed
in the pale light of this room
manman
grafyé rasin-an
dwèt ou blé épi an san
twou-a pa ni fen
Anvéwité
They taught us that the natives were all dead,
That indigenous islanders were long extinct.
Wiped out by European diseases, lack of weapons, poor luck.
But we know our ancestors, we know our histories.
They insisted that our minds were inferior,
Yet the “great nations” of the world were each built on our forced labor,
And when we claimed our freedom for ourselves, we became doctors, lawyers, architects, writers.
They claimed Kwéyòl wasn’t as good as French,
Et anvéwité, they were right about that at least – it’s richer, much more complex.
It’s the rough colonizer tongue, blanketed in the pure beauty of African and Carib languages. A shining example of our diverse heritage.
They’ll try to teach you false narratives about yourself, about the world,
Whether they intend to or not.
To survive this indignity, stand firm in your reality,
And stay one step ahead.
do you love me?
est-ce que tu m’aimes?
tongue dripping with silver,
kisses all over your body like Paris rain in the afternoon.
est-ce que tu m’aimes?
touch like the summer – wet, hot, unrelenting,
and enrapturing you all at once,
until every inch of you is soaked in sweat.
est-ce que je suis le diable?
peut-être, peut-être pas
est-ce que tu m’aimes, encore?
Je me suis trouvé
pas besoin de raconter l’histoire,
je sais précisément qui je suis et où j’ai commis une erreur.
feuilletant Dostoïevski, allongé au soleil,
fumeur au Young Dolph, l’herbe fraîchement coupée effleurant mes coudes nus.
descendant dégénéré, dissident et perdu de vue de Ramsès II, bien que très loin des villes scintillantes de l’Égypte antique.
pas besoin de rejouer vos souvenirs,
je sais exactement où je suis allé et où j’en suis,
aucune indiscrétion passée ne me fait honte, aucune menace de mal de la part d’un homme ne me met en échec,
aucune chaînes d’entreprise pas m’apprivoiser.
ma voix est forte et claire comme le bruit des vagues qui s’écrasent sur le rivage,
Je suis un enfant de l’été, élevé dans la nature.
Je me suis perdu une fois,
mais maintenant…
Hayden Winston 
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