We’ve moved on, actually

You seem to believe that you have a right 
to live in a world where you still get paid
one thousand times a day or even more 
for the three chords you banged out (by 

accident, might I add) on an ageing Casio
synth in 1986, & which later on was used 
as an obscure earworm in an otherwise 
quite uplifting car commercial soundtrack.

What’s worse, you seem to think that we
(in other words, yr vast and loyal audience)
have no right to do whatsoever we choose 
with those aforementioned three chords, 

whether that be in irony or jest, no matter 
how many of us have paid for the privilege
of calling ourselves ‘fans’, or else queuing 
up to have a hand or a breast autographed. 

To top it off, you appear to be under some 
kind of impression that yr so-called rights 
are still enforceable; that those good times
will continue on indefinitely, long after yr 

own deaths (including the accompanying 
tributes, the repackaging of greatest hits, 
(none of which we’re allowed to even sing 
anymore, at our funerals or in these streets. 

I’d laugh if only for the fact that most of it
Is true; I’d only take it back for the sake of 
a memory you once triggered; & I’d like to 
explain more but (we’ve moved on, actually.


This sound, that stinks of dirty sneakers 
     (never boots, they’re meant for da smeris 
speaks of djungel, uprooted flowerpots 
     (never flares, maybe strobelight analysis

strewn across the asfalt like the remains 
     (not the actual remains, mind, but echoes 
of tribal war, racial war – bloooood! Yeah,
     (not just like Junior Reid, more an actual 

song of the thrice-dispossessed, sampled 
     (never played, not spat by some kannibal 
to oblivion! AKA K-Town, Babylon. Chant
     (but do not actually sing, try screaming -- 
until I find myself somewhere in Somalia,
     buying Camels for the old man. Slutspurt.