Manufactured and assembled in Africa. Shipped abroad, westbound yet bound in the ruins of former preordained glories. Fields of dreams were fields of cotton, against the contrast of my ever darkening skin.

     Red flesh exposed from the lashes my back knew so well and so intimately, as if lip fell upon lip in romantic embrace, yet in this case whip welt against and ripped, we the product of the Atlantic exchange.

     What used to be my dark skin revealed a universal linked pink hue, God’s signature on man’s body. So as we uprose and rebelled, we yelled and exclaimed, “skin the master, we are all the same!”

     And indeed we were, for God’s signature was deep in him as well. Slowly skinned and hung for our treason, God’s once magnificent canvas became the carcass of the crows. Withered rose petals in fraternity with cotton bolls and between the nexus of life and death, roll Jordan roll was being wept…in song.

© S E U Nx

• Hieroglyphics aligned on ribs, minus one, Forever hiding God’s scars. Her Highness’ lips I tease with royal honey.
• Satin felt brassiere, unlatched with ivory canines as rabid wolves drenched in wanderlust, such in discovery of new fertile lands.
• Iron cuffs bound to Persian bedposts have no greater link than I in Her, and I in Her is where Heaven and Hell merge carnal delights, angelic harps, with the echoing drumming of devilish hearts.
• Painted moans sing from the canvas of her ageless soul, forever ageing slow…ly. Drink of my goodness and I will eat of your bone, both from below, Italian feather thread count immeasurable, as we lost angels shed in flight over the Ruins of Rome.
• Lo and behold in champagne baths lathered in petals of rose, Beluga Caviar served upon the throne of our Victorian Turkish Bath.
• Skin of Midas disrobed with only laced blindfolds above her nose, perfumes profuse while in admiration of her youthful ruse. 
• Blood rises from her hidden sight, carefully applied rouge, and in unabashed nude, we howl at the last moon.

© S E U Nx

As I hum – In this teal suit

Almost congealed to my dark skin.

She paints on lambskin

And bookmarks unfinished art books with Orchids.

With a playful tan line of where her brassiere once was

I’m sure the sun and God took turns painting it there.

Nestled sand beneath dance with me.

As we ascend upwards a never-ending staircase built from books on heaven,

My modelesque figure with the giraffe neck whispers as softly as air…

“You are heaven.

 You will never find you”.

 Plummet back to hell

 As plucked flowers…

 We, the Devil’s bed.

© S E U Nx