The Quiet Yea of Political Africana

Black summers snort through broken road.    
Latent amen's in fold-out pavilions  
spurn urban assumption       
to Pride.       
A commonwealth, in blubber roar,  
levied by five mill,       
nip and Fentanyl       
sprouted in the stead of flora swept in acid rain       
until an enabled cyclone refrains them in public airway.     
       
Our skin       
is smelted,       
furnished in a demagogy       
that splits Caesar       
while the head still impresses on the coins of our sandwich bags.       
       
The bubble matter in the corners of the sockets       
imbeds under pop.       
C–G–Am–F       
quell the trade of vernacular law in lyric progression       
that, without your labor pains,     
atrophies by slide screens of state lecturers who dismiss amp distortion in a preempted curve.     
The ballet of purple devil's claw      
limps by numb feet.       
       
But the delirious black summer brushes fast       
and hot as —       
slippery lace underwear, in simulcast, and I forget...     
        
But the road is broken, revolted somehow.     
The cement inflames the frontal sinus.       
And there's the tiger that pawns out the Pride...       
soot in tea packets —       
this caffeine,       
while you question whose ass is this of the ballot the provisional village assigned indiscriminate to you
and your assailant also.