I do not want to be a part of something I feel is atoning
You are asking me to support your atonement
Being born this instance
I, like them, have nothing to atone for.
Perpetuating a genocide of classified pregiven status
Located in making up for something
We can’t quite place
Feels like something I don’t want to join in with.
Communication is the display case arrowhead
of those who seek to control
Those who remark on how dogs can remember names
They seem almost human they say
Forgetting that birds make new brain cells singing in the wild
How do I carry on singing in the wild?
Do I tell you I’m deaf by communicating in signs?
Do I tell you about a trauma and the overcoming of it?
Cancer feeds on the not grieving
The fat lump in the collective windpipe
The loss of singing in the wild
We no longer grieve in life as a song to living
We grieve to communicate our location status
We wear the colours of creative solutions
Dyed with the pigmentation of differentiated clarity
This is something I am choosing not to continue doing
Instead I will gleefully dip myself in a bluish blood bucket of joy
Losing my mind to find out what I think in a plume of vapour
Trailing into the beyond of cosmic Crawley indigenousness.
Until that ever-present moment I am not an artist any longer.
