Suicide Revolution

by h. Gibrain

 

At my first suiciding

I wanted to show my comrades

that death is a fine art

nothing to be wasted

noting to be scattered in the wind

I set up a white canvas

to catch the Rorschach Pollock

of my body spatter

that life is not static

and my body in motion

when I ignite

in dervish

my skirt splayed open

flowering umbel

my arms alight

my particulate nature

on display

like food wiped from the face

of the privileged obese obtuse

 

that life should be lived

not for love

not in fear

but in the name of art

and in the art of death

when you release that button

the harrowing screams

shattering bones

splattering fluids of babies bodies

the village animals

and a little ahway al araby

mingle in flight

a soup of sorts

simmering in free space

painting your  face

with the food

that was other peoples lives

 

to put on display

the relationship between

love of art

art of life

the living death of stolen moments

razed lands of decimated cultures

once upon a time surviving on

bear invocations of rain igniting crop

crow mythos of the wonkum mikitchia

darkening the horizon

for centuries

cleansing the terrestrial palette

for the next sun child

and the age of Aquarius

dreams of deer

that make all plants flower

all wind blow

give essence to gravity

manipulate tides

and ultimately

determine my scatter plot fantasy

of exploding in the sky

and drizzling the mist of my life

a condiment on your sloven plate

that you could taste the disaster

and wait for god in her serviette chariot

to dab the corners of your face

 

well

there is food in death

and death is art

too many people screaming about injustice

when maybe

we should be eating more of the dead

imbibing the blood drenched tales

of death’s survival in the midst of thriving lives

and how our children can lead

the suicide revolution

where each each city block is a canvas

where the ultimate expression of love and art

unite in blood and body part graffiti grafted

into murals

telling stories

of futile resistance

in the world of

racism writ large

the ultimate liberation comes

not from fighting

but from loving

and letting go

of the skin which keeps apart