DEUX MUSROOM, SIL VOUS PLAIT

DEUX MUSROOM, SIL VOUS PLAIT

The white men are gathered in the office.
Here I am,
the only brown skinned allowed in here.

It is them who are colored to me.

The white skinned devil
sitting behind the desk turns to me,

“We would appreciate your advice, sir.”

I smile.

A military man makes a snute remark
about taking orders from a colored,
another pulls out his gun
shooting that joker point blank
in the back of the head.

The presidential aide storms in.
She gasps,
but regains her composure.
Her skirt is just the right length.

I motion for her to come over,
whisper orders in her ear,
and slap her scared butt to go.

The desk is cleaned.

She returns with a tray of flood,
setting it before me.

The onlookers gasp.

I hear the mumbling and whispers,

“Is he about to do what I think?”

“No. It’s not possible.”

“There isn’t anyone who’s seen him ever eat or drink!”

I eat.
I drink.
The flesh and blood of Jesus Christ, of course.

I get up.
I began to beat the presidential aide.
She turns me on so much
as she implores the onlookers for help,
but they know their place.

She cries as I rape her,
all three of her holes torn open with blood,
her face broken and beaten,
her professional dress in total shreds.

I can tell she is pregnant with my seed.

The look in her eyes
confirms her acceptance of her own death
by my bare hands
after she gives birth to my child.

I sit down.

She begs to lick my feet.

I nod.

She thanks me for the privilege
washing my feet with her blood and tears,
as she uses her tongue faithfully.

I finish a cup of coffee.

The Texas style meal was excellent.

I pat my lap.

She comes to sit down.

We kiss deeply.

The white boys await my orders.

I command, “Hiroshima and Nagasaki.”