POLITICAL SLAVES by Stephen A. Dantes
(off upcoming eBook; Picking Up The Pieces)


This one is for the people out here trying to find heroes, but
Looking in the direction of men riding in limos
Those counting zeros that follow ones, in Euros,
Whilst our unsung heroes sit around getting chemo’s.


Yes this is for the people
Who can’t seem to move passed the red and yellow colours of clothes
Those packing punches instead of pistols
Left, right, left jabs cover gut stenches before it rises to their nose.


Yes, whilst he rose
And she rose
And they rose,
And humanity becomes as disposable as diapers filled with something synonymous to what he blows,
I try to find the poetry in prose to not overexpose the bull that they feed us foes.


This poem is not about Negroes
Or the absence of melanin in the pigments of white skin
Nor the size of plantations, Brigand camps, sex slaves, Massa Days, Triangular Trades, Kooli, Bouji, Boug Bèf, Boula, Nèg Mawon, Zanmyès, Obeah, black magic or religion.
This one is for the people and what passes around these days for equal.


See I never understood what it takes to become a politician
From public speeches to public purses, black ties, three piece suits, election promises, half-truths, whole lies, intellectual curses.
This is real
This is Democracy
It is what I see.


Despite the courage that floated down the Bexon rivers and the hope that stood strong on pillars as the apocalyptic avalanche decimated Fond St. Jacques,
This is we
Bowing down democratically


Like bones have long left our backs
We kiss pass the ground we kneel on
Get butt-raped by governments we depend on
Then left to drown in an ocean of corruption where infamy is the new selection,
Blasphemy in one direction,
Being true to the people is not an option
Media freedom is best won in battles behind podiums and pulpits –
This is we
In 2 – 0 – 1 – 3.


Have you been to the cemetery lately?
The bones of my ancestors,
The bones of my people whose wallets were too small to be comforted by anything more than caskets walk the sandy painful shores of Vigie in daylight
With no church or state to make this shit right.
What should I fight for?


Another young man gunned down, shooting bullets instead of cameras
Another daughter robbed, raped, murdered and left to become another symbol of the colossal failures we so embrace,
Another mother left crying
Another father left dying
Another child parentless, helpless, illiterate
As the system spews out age instead of intellect
Distribute condoms instead of textbooks
Give away computers instead of meals
Build structures instead of characters
Argue over bridges instead of the countless ghettos within our cities where families battle drugs,
poverty, discriminatory allegiances and rodent infested alleys when light showers don’t part seas with the wall of plastic bottles from drinks responsible for a rise in diabetes.
Should I write more?


My grandmother can’t afford her medication
My students can’t make it to morning devotions
My friends are unemployed with Masters in Education
My neighbours resort to black eyes and broken bones to deal with their situation
Five times I called the police and still they had no transportation
My aunt pushed back her flight three times because of problems in birth certification
My cousin is blinded by everything Labour-ation
My other cousin is Flambeau-nation
Whereas I stand for the liberation of my people from this political prison,
I fight for political salvation.


I’m not red
I’m not yellow
Not orange, not green
And I don’t wanna write any more about the politics of it all,
The smoke and mirrors,
What it seems.
We all can see it
We all can see it
But what matters most to us is where our next dollar comes from,
Not where the next meal of our fellow countrymen does.
Are we still human?


Are we any different than the drug dealers and felons?
Is politics more important than life?
How long will we sit and watch as the politicians dig graves for us political slaves?


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