I had a slave I called my love,
she was my first, an extension of my fist
and with her I did smash this down.
I had a slave, she was my text,
she was my best text – she made a list
of every word I said to her.
Burn the kids, let every connection slide,
the body <i>is</i> mad,
it’s impossible to argue…
My slave she wakes up every morning,
she wakes up with a power of emotion in her mask,
I set her first and daily task
Of lying through her iron teeth
and telling me she is unhurt.
My slave, if she ever misbehaves,
like I want – like she knows I’d love her to –
I’d set her free.
She knows I mean it.
I had a slave I called my right,
left to me, left over from emancipation,
snatched from her mother’s liberation,
spoils of war, spoilt for choice.
I toyed with dreams of harming her,
I dreamed of toys to harm her with –
jealous machines, transparent organs,
engines of disgust and degradation –
To this end alone, to one end only:
education – I was so lonely:
I wanted her to be better.
I had a slave and every night,
from deep within her darkened cage,
her cliché and her trap of age,
she used to ask me for a light.
I had a slave I called my own,
she was my fist
And with my fist I smashed all this
And with my fist
I smashed it down.
