Another negroleader, on the steps of the White House. One kneeling between the sheriff’s thighs, negotiating coolly for his people.

Jeg skal ikke forstå meg ihjel på konteksten til dette stykket. Diktet er, uavhengig av tid og sted, rasistisk og antisemittisk. Dette er ekstrem afrosentrisme. Men diktet er også, uavhengig av tid og sted, uavhengig av politisk ståsted og verdisyn, et som slår ut tennene på deg. Et som plasserer en knyttneve mellom pupillene dine. Et som sparker deg i magen. Et som ber deg om noe du ikke vet hva er. Og, ikke minst, et som  er akkompagnert av Albert Aylers saksofon.

Spennende analyse av diktet finner du her.

Black Art

Poems are bullshit unless they are

teeth or trees or lemons piled

on a step. Or black ladies dying

of men leaving nickel hearts

beating them down.

Fuck poems

and they are useful, would they shoot

come at you, love what you are,

breathe like wrestlers, or shudder

strangely after peeing.

We want live words of the hip world

live flesh and cursing blood.

Hearts,

brains,

souls splintering fire.

We want poems,

like fists beating niggers out of Jocks

or dagger poems in the slimy bellies

of the owner-jews.

Black poems to

smear on girdlemamma mulatto bitches

whose brains are red jelly stuck

between ‘lizabeth taylor’s toes.

Stinking Whores!

We want «poems that kill.»

Assassin poems.

Poems that shoot guns.

Poems that wrestle cops into alleys,

and take their weapons leaving them dead,

with tongues pulled out and sent to Ireland.

Knockoff poems for dope selling wops

or slick halfwhite

politicians.

Airplane poems, rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

rrrrrrrrrrrrrrr . . .tuhtuhtuhtuhtuhtuhtuhtuhtuhtuh

. . .rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr . . .

Setting fire and death to

whities ass.

Look at the liberal spokesman for the jews

clutch his throat and puke himself into eternity

. . . rrrrrrrr

There’s a negroleader pinned to

a bar stool in Sardi’s,

eyeballs melting in hot flame.

Another negroleader,

on the steps of the White House.

One kneeling between the sheriff’s thighs,

negotiating coolly for his people.

Aggh . . . stumbles across the room . . .

Put it on him, poem.

Strip him naked to the world!

Another bad poem cracking

steel knuckles in a jewlady’s mouth.

Poem, scream poison gas on beasts in green berets.

Clean out the world for virtue and love.

Let there be no love poems written,

until love can exist freely and

cleanly.

Let Black people understand

that they are the lovers and the sons,

of warriors and sons

of warriors,

are poems and poets and,

all the loveliness here in the world

We want a black poem.

And a black world.

Let the world be a black poem,

and let all black people speak this poem.

Silently,

or loud.