sanguhz

Photo by Praewthida K on Unsplash

all sanguhz got that crooked lip
a foible in their craftsmanship

they sang the rain-rites right out the skies
the panties off the jazz, the salt out the eyes

confiscate you right out your underskin
then put you inside yourself again

ever marvel at what gets their jawbone quakin’,
rachis clenchin’ back, arrangement rotatin’

so to birth ripplets from their riblets
and melisma from their hippets,

and disarrange the glyphs on their glistenin’ face?
(sounds like sumthin’ in a bouillabaisse)

though the bendin’ and ascendin’ of their vox assegai
may or may not be prized by the vox populi,

it’s more a shufti inside that joysuspensepain —
the gutterals firing up through their pipes dispensang

that feral, phonkadelic, spaceship trip
in a manner only their lyricals flip;

feel it?…the shapes of soul in their craftsmanship?…
all sanguhz got that crooked lip