There are relationships doomed to suffer, and relationships that make suffering.

Like a cop who kisses his gun at night and lays it under his pillow.

The only Black he dares to touch

is the butt of his precinct-funded revolver;

he tends her like a prized cow raised for slaughter,

cocking his perverse killing machine.

Three shots to the innocent, like a narcissistic orgasm,

The White Man lords supremacy with sick inclination.

Power-hunger insatiable, he eats and eats and eats

at flesh with his pretty little defence mechanism;

her compact beauty, sleek and slim and at his disposal,

ready to fuck at his command.

That is, fuck someone over.

Trigger-Happy Cop fingers his Glock,

feels his freedom infringed upon

by a child with darker skin than him.

Gets a tin can to the ankle

in riots that don’t promote whiteness;

doesn’t even bleed, but

kisses his weapon awake and

raises his lover to murder so

he can sleep again at night

with his gun under his pillow.


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