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“Darkie! Sambo! You must think we're dumb.
Are we dumb? From the slaveships to world wars,
to the underground and the hospitals, it's always
been about the labour, never about the living. Cheap muscles and blood to build you an empire.”
―
Are we dumb? From the slaveships to world wars,
to the underground and the hospitals, it's always
been about the labour, never about the living. Cheap muscles and blood to build you an empire.”
―
“You’re running away from your calling.
Your gift for words is meant for church
and not for that skeptical head of yours.”
―
Your gift for words is meant for church
and not for that skeptical head of yours.”
―
“How is it I'm begging you for housing,
when you burnt my building down?
You all ain't even playing fake-nice, like those
other murderers. You are all cut-eye and snarls,
all straight jargon, and nothing but the jargon.”
― A Portable Paradise
when you burnt my building down?
You all ain't even playing fake-nice, like those
other murderers. You are all cut-eye and snarls,
all straight jargon, and nothing but the jargon.”
― A Portable Paradise
“You fooled us. Render your work, not your lives.
This seems like the newest answer to an old question.
Cheap muscle and blood to build you an Empire-
that we can't stay in. Gran's gone missing from
Saturday morning. Brixton Market? No one is frowning at
the quality of the yams, or asking how the snapper's
eye so cloudy. There'll be no Saturday soup tonight.”
― A Portable Paradise
This seems like the newest answer to an old question.
Cheap muscle and blood to build you an Empire-
that we can't stay in. Gran's gone missing from
Saturday morning. Brixton Market? No one is frowning at
the quality of the yams, or asking how the snapper's
eye so cloudy. There'll be no Saturday soup tonight.”
― A Portable Paradise
“But all my life I’d remain a questioning man,
choosing debate over faith, sparring
with mystery, claiming logic over belief.
But in the funeral parlor, the grief
of seeing the shell of my mother’s body
bereft of spirit brought death to my inner cynic,
with her words, my god, my god,
being stuck in my throat as I stood
there, her broken son, preaching.”
―
choosing debate over faith, sparring
with mystery, claiming logic over belief.
But in the funeral parlor, the grief
of seeing the shell of my mother’s body
bereft of spirit brought death to my inner cynic,
with her words, my god, my god,
being stuck in my throat as I stood
there, her broken son, preaching.”
―
