Burning Tongues

We ay from brumajum
weem in the borderless
pits – black be day
red be night. Where baby
rhymes with Rabbie – that old
bard who kept the burn
in his tongue.
That burn connects, it burns
like our old forges burned –
burning trade and toil and song
and burning a brand
that yow know and yow know –
burns like Saxon shamans
whose embers were stamped
and pissed on by ministers
of education immersed in
double spayke –
thass why weem taught
to hayte those four-letter words
like fuck and cunt.
Those words burn and words
that burn sit, like us,
in borderless pits, ready,
with Blakean bows, to fight
shot to shot – to burn back
with our vernacular,
thass why when my Auntie
sez yow doh spayke proper ‘er’s
playing ‘er part in burning.

R. M. Francis is a poet from the Black Country, researching his PhD at the University of Wolverhampton. His chapbook, Transitions, was published by The Black Light Engine Room in 2015. Two further pamphlets, Orpheus (Lapwing Publications) and Transform (A Swift Exit Press) are due out soon. Find him on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/RMFrancisPoet.

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