Poetic Manifesto (I Mock Myself)

Poetic Manifesto (I Mock Myself)

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There is a time when one must boldly declare her sovereign right to exist without turmoil. This long poem is my declaration. Rather abstract and a bit of a spontaneous write, this piece — filled with bold statements of bravado, nonchalance and uninhibited fury — was scribed in 2005.

I Mock Myself


I mock my self; shedding sorrow laughs of hindsight
Courage sees naught the unshed tear that threatens my inside
(My insight a faith wallowing in prepaid pain)
Yet joy cometh in the mourning?; Weep not for me
Coward, midnight tramping trick
You know my birthright? My name a syllable dare no escape
From your slivered tongue – Your two-holed penis eulogizes
My spit burns your eyes, yet you cannot escape
Vitally into the dark – The zoological society wants to study you
You seek no turmoiled soul, for your eyes too wide to see
My malice awaits you on this side of decrepit grass
I know much: the scent of you – your venom is none here, null; Run
Flee! Fall briskly into the dark void of my shadow. Hide!
I care none more for you one syllabic midnight tramping trick you
I stalk you; My words as antique & haunting weaponry.


My heart can no longer weep! My soul craves blood now –
I am cold like you without keen sight; Scared trembled faux
You blush reeking of death and tiny soldered steel, stained you
I am utterly without remorse (I of no small or great regrets)
Me as fool, You full of dead venom, You scare silhouettes
I shine in respite despite your spite spurning the grounded sand
Of time. You have slithered upon glass; My house is opaque
And my nakedness no longer embarrassment! I laugh at you
Today and you turn your head in unadulterated shame, I spit
At your feet, “Kill me!” I moaned for your leisure, for I know
You cannot feel pleasure anymore. Your pleasure is in my tear; I refuse to
Cry for you. I’d rather rot crude oil and whale blubber -
You don’t own me!


Be proud vexed crusader of impossible mission; You thanked me proper
With a sneaked and stolen fuck! I cry for no art
O’ your foul esteem, I’d rather rot crude oil and whale blubber,
beseeched by your false pawn, your slick astroglided lube
And toss a match your way – No! I don’t expect you
To understand, perhaps giddy with the truth of lust… Yes I excite you.
Shame for shame, wide-eyed and hateful vendetta we know
In common: Be proud.


Then tell your Bitch – You found One.



Copyright © Jacquii Cooke


Jacquii Cooke is a Black American Poet from Oak Ridge, Tennessee. Her writings have been featured in both online & print venues. More of her writing may be found at JPiC Forum For Writers, an online Community where open-minded writers of all backgrounds can freely share in the joy of creating literature. Jacquii’s JPiC profile can be found at MsJacquiiC.

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