Watusi
A poem from Hunter Bloodmoon
I sail by passive
and go straight to aggressive.
My polite clap,
more chilling
than any war horn at dawn.
Picture this:
My blood smeared face
smiling at the wreckage
the carnage.
My dancing feet twirling
over the broken ground
no dance sweeter than
the Watusi.
My humor is a lash,
and if it does not draw blood
it is not funny.
I am my own favorite punchline.
Please, admire my flair.
It is the brightest flower in my bonnet.
Do not try to placate me.
I am not the moral of the story;
I am the foreboding clouds,
the ominous roll of thunder,
the ssnk ssnk of the scythe
felling the wheat,
the held breath
before the arrow flies.
I awaken to crush dreams
and burn cities to the ground.
Picture this:
A smile so sharp
it can draw blood.
A flash of anger is all it takes
to light my
finest summer bonnet
aflame.
Run.
Hunter Bloodmoon
Hunter Bloodmoon’s a ferocious poet seen late last century lurking black-hooded about the rainy streets of Seattle. Reading Deleuze&Guattari while slinging brutal mochas, channeling serpents and raw riot through her spoken-word performances, she now lurks somewhere in the Salish Sea, plotting revolution while baking for her children.