Nina Simone (February 21, 1933 – April 21, 2003)
Blood
in the fountains. Is black. Ropes dripping from trees. Are red.
Whispers in bar rooms. Electric lights flickering. Someone is getting
the chair. Jesus breaths. His last. Again. Some call it justice. Some
call it the Mississippi rain.
So
many men planting holes. In other men’s flesh. Too much stupidity.
Too much vulgarity. Too much nothing. Nina wanted to crawl. Into the
microphone. The world is mad. Like a mongrel dog. Snarling. At the
end of a chain. She
could smell the bitch's breath. Some call it law and order. Some call
it death.
Running.
From the black wolves. Of night. Driving her car through the mad
narrow French avenues. I
tell you. Everyone is going to die. Such a shame. Wouldn’t it be
lovely, to do this all over again?
After Nina died they took her ashes. Out onto the verandah. And
scattered her laughter. Over the African savannah.
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