I am the son of Black Love

whose forgiveness is not the loss of his pride,

whose white is worth the fight.

Forget that you sweared.

Forget the page is grim.

Forget the ebony of words.

Forget the wrath of the wrecked.

I am losing sleep.

Found the fire in me.

Should it burn me out alive.

Since I don’t lurk the glorious salvation of a poor wicked man who gluttonously fucks and ingests the breast of the slut.

Raise your eyes and swallow the sunlight in the streets.

Then bury me with lust.

Our sins are obstinate and our repentance is dim.

I don’t speak your name

so just sleep.

Now just breathe.

I, the son.

The son of Black Love.

Bête noire, ce silence nous tient droit.

D’encre moisie sur papier trop lent.

Bête noire, d’une ligne d’enfant.

Lente forme croit en cendre.