Gentrification I: The Morning After the Night We Raped Death

Street Sects

February 22, 2014

Electronic / Noise / Power Electronics

THE MORNING AFTER THE NIGHT WE RAPED DEATH our desire to live? it was greater than that of the street roach perched upon her clit, feeding from the pinkish milk that trickled out from within her bludgeoned womb, immune to the rising heat as the sun crept across the faded blacktop, crept across the pale flesh that would never blister or blacken in our thoughts from that morning forward. it was eternal. far from a conquest, she was a contest, a race amongst our ranks to see which of us could be the first to forget how to die, to forget the burning hell of birth, the ache of infancy, the sour taste of our own spit after years of sucking the bliss from our mothers’ swollen tits, to forget the sting of our fathers’ belts across the flesh of our naked asses, to forget the swing, the crack, and the stab of the patrol pig’s fake black dick along our lower backs as we humped walls in broad daylight during the afternoon rousts, to forget the dreams we never allowed ourselves to have and the nightmares we gave to people softer, cleaner, and more civilized than us, to forget the sound our blood made when it rushed from our hearts to our heads like water boiling over in an effort to help our ears recover from the explosion of the gavel and our minds to make sense of the news that we were going away for life, that we were going away for Death. we wanted to see which of us could be the first to forget, if only for one night, that we were grounded, that we were faceless, that we were locals on our way to becoming exiles. I finished last, to no one’s surprise, but I consoled myself with the knowledge that because I was last, her smell would linger on my skin just a little bit longer than it would everyone else’s. there was no consolation, however, for the knowledge that now that we had ruined her, there would be no more surprises, no more excitement, no more thrills or discoveries to look forward to, and now that she had tasted us, she would never stop looking for us. I believe I speak for all of us when I say: I am not a monster. I am not a virus. I am not a gangster. I am not trash that you can just throw away. I am my mother’s bird and I have taught myself how to fly. we’ll decide for ourselves where the pavement ends and the sky begins. whether you see us or not, we are here, buried somewhere your seed won’t grow. whether you accept us or not, we are here, hiding someplace where She won’t go. whether you want us or not, we live.