the poem for the southern boy i hope to one day marry

O my Black blasphemy,

how resolutely you stand,

the glow of Gommorah's dying conflagration creating a wash of that orange,

you know what orange I'm talking about:

the same one that only the luckiest of leaves bask in just before sundown.

How do I love you when worthiness eludes me?

Occasionally you grab it by the throat and force me to gaze into its eyes.

Like those times you smile at my crown jewels of lint and helicopter seeds

Or like those times I scan your brooding majesty

from your wooly widow's peak to your valley-wide nose to your lips that let me sin in respite.

THIS LOVE, my god, this love that is so Black it swallows the night so no one can see--

not with goggles or infrared or any other tools of this violent state.

This love as ugly and as loud and as damaged as Flav-A-Flav

but that clock,

that golden golden golden plated face,

keeps ticking on and on and on

like Erykah.

Oooooh, I love how you burn them incense over the low hum of 808s and my growls of prayerful ritual.

Read me my rites, read me my rites,

Cause fuck Thomas and his subtle protestation of the night,

Oh night baby I'm not coming quietly,

but I ain't scared either.