the praise singer’s voice

February 23, 2016

brownie sits under my feet with a bloated tummy.

“he should fart this gas out”, whispers the king’s praise singer. i ignore him and continue eating. i have been eating for three days now. all night long. and, all day. eating at the table in front of the three million others standing behind me. behind the table in front of me.


the praise singer’s voice is irritating.


i continue eating; listening to the three white men discuss me in third person. as if, i weren’t here. as if!

“he is a great singer.”

“no, he is not.”

“he is.”

“he is not.”

slowly, i am becoming the singer i was not.


an acacia tree stares at my disillusionment with disapproval. its small brown leaves winking at its trunk. (i ignore). its branches stretch across the horizon begging the king to make it stop.


“it’s too quiet here”, says one little shrub with extravagantly green leaves.

“so?”, asks the acacia in disgust.

“let’s have an argument.”

“about what?”

“i don’t know”

“shut up then”

“no, i won’t”

“you will”

“i won’t”

“alright, let’s have an argument”

“about what?”

“you started it so, tell me”

“we already did”

“no, we didn’t”

“okay, i look up to you so, you decide”

“jesus fucking shrub”.


the shrub laughs. the singer has stopped; the three white men continue murmuring.


“you all shut up. and you (pointing at me) stop eating. jesus fucking glutton”, bellows the king.


there’s nothing, but silence. brownie farts into the silence. he farts till there’s only smell.


“i’m lonely” yells the acacia into brownie’s smell.

“how do you know you are lonely?”, asks the king.

“how would you like it if you were a brown-leafed acacia tree amongst overly green shrubs?”

we laugh. at the king. the acacia leaves have turned into slippery worms crawling on the backs of the three white men.


when i turn back, the three million others have died. of hunger and brownie won’t stop farting.

“where is the king?”, i ask the green shrubs


“where is the king’s singer?”. suddenly, i know who i am. (it must be nice to be mistaken for someone else.)

“jesus fucking shrubs! where are the white men?”


(how does one person with a bloated stomach bury three million hungry bodies if he no longer remembers himself?)


i came here with nothing but soles swollen from carrying my pastness and a mind that rots with overbearing memories of loss.


there are worms everywhere and no one will remember to blame the acacia tree if brownie keeps eating his own ears.





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