A Brief History of Seven Killings

And I see the zinc on the roof rust itself brown, and then the rain batter hole into it like foreign cheese, and I see seven people in one room and one pregnant and people fucking anyway because people so poor that they can’t even afford shame and I wait.

Dead people never stop talking. Maybe because death is not death at all, just a detention after school

we think we are all spirits but we’re all just dead. Spirits that slip inside other spirits. Sometimes a woman slips inside a man and wails like the memory of making love.

And killing don’t need no reason. This is ghetto. Reason is for rich people. We have madness.

Nobody who kill a police going to hell but is something else to kill the Singer.

f it no go so, it go near so.
— Jamaican proverb