Accent

My skin was born in the Year of the Pig. My accent much
later, and it’d rather be a Capricorn. I seduce women with my
accent. I subdue them with my skin.

You will still hear my skin whinge even after maggots dwell
and die in my accent.

My skin is my landscape, my accent my fresh air. My skin
is too thin for bad weather. My accent, so incredibly thick it
whistles under water.

I am not one of those sentenced to solitary confinement for
life inside their own skins. I can get under your skin once I
step out of my accent.

People judge me by my skin. My skin’s purpose in life is to
prove them wrong. Once I open my mouth my accent proves
them right. I keep my mouth shut, my skin open.

Which is truer, my skin or my accent? When it comes
to swinishness they are on the same page.

In places where I am considered white, my yellow accent
always holds me back. Since whatever comes from my mouth
is an unpasteurized lie, I will always have a yellow accent.

As for my skin—

it will be blues when it fancies the blues;

it will be jazz when it fancies jazz.