A ragged boy
With a phantom's face
Whose bones asked for more.
With no stock mother
She died at his birth
But a stock father
Who cut some of his flesh.
And his blood
Hadn't stopped bleeding
Like the Nile
That slaves would know.
He left home-
Castration anxiety
And Bible verses
Fresh in his head.
That stolen book
His ancestors',
Used to kill him
By Europeans
Who hated magic.
He ran away-
Became a thief
Became a crook
Learned the pockets of London.
Developed a love of bacon
And a hatred of pigs-
Eventually- he started
His own ring. They flooded to him.
They all wanted more
With London accents
No heroes. This wasn't Hollywood
Or story books. It was real life.
One night, his crow crowed
And he dreamt of ghosts
A bony finger- pointing to his grave.
They cared too much
Or not enough. This graveyard
Had no words like stories do.
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