Motherless New York

Citizenkane

Motherless New York

A motherless New York and I am her adopted child. One of her many discarded, dirty children weeping in the stained gutters of her embrace. And she is the bastard daughter of a thousand fathers and mothers. And we are her children. Her yellow, dried stains on a white, silk, blouse. Her dark clouds on a bright, blue summer day.

Yet she loves us all.

Motherless New York, she was not born, she was spawned. A forgotten little girl craving attention, she grew into a beast that has the children of this planet needing her love like a fix. We are connected to her intravenously; a tube runs from our arms into her body. She loves us like a pusher loves his junkies, and we love her like a junkie loves his drugs. One happy family in love, a Kodak moment framed with the bones of her parents.

“Smile!”

I am one of her many adopted children, a yellow shade of white, a darker tone of pale. Green eyes, with hazel brown as a wall around the iris. My teeth have patches of yellow resting on them. The bridge of my nose changes direction midway. My eyebrows are Siamese twins that refuse to be separated and I still haven’t mentioned my back. Yet she loves me, how can she refuse me? She adopted me, ME! out of all the billions! She is not like that bitch with the veil around her eyes; my mother is not blind to justice or injustice. She sees it all and chooses, chooses amongst the many children, all with their arms pointing upwards, wanting to be picked up by the same once illegitimate child that will be our mother and suck the tears, blood and sweat from her breasts until we’re fed and satisfied. The milk of all her hard work, these small mouths devour the cream that she has churned. Hard-skin patches on the tips of her fingers, raspy sandpaper spread across her palms, yet we want to be caressed.

Fondled, hugged, carried.

The cracks in her fingernails meet the torn patches of skin under her nails which meet the scars and burns on her hands, yet we want her touch.

Pats, rubs, strokes.

And they stare at me, with their dull, grey eyes.

(They have bought you mother! You slut, you sold my love for their artificial heart, they stick their hard plastic in you, they wipe your sweat with dirty green napkins. You abandoned your children for this minority.)
I want to hold these elitists by their ear with both hands and scream with my lips pressed against their ear hole. Scream till their eardrum bursts, till blood trickles down the dried, cartilage passage. Scream till my voice cracks, till my throat feels like raw flesh. What about my story? What about my story you dirty bitch? What about my words? My dreams? You piece of ****ing ****. They will never be printed, never be screened, never aired, never believed. This cinema showcasing dreams and nightmares but when it comes to my turn the screen turns black. As if somebody took a thick brush, the kind with long, dry bristles and a wide head and painted the silver screen black. Black like in the Rolling Stones song. So even if somebody wants to use the screen, have an image projected on it, nothing would show. The black would repel any light.

A stop sign, a road block, a red brick wall.

In the myriad of words spoken, read, and heard my story is lost. In this thick literate jungle of illiterates a machete is needed, a bulldozer is needed, a fire. All I have are my hands and feet. And my feet stamp on the leaves, trying to get across this foliage of letters, words, and sentences. This jungle of white, black and grey. And my hands grip vines, trying to get on the other side of promotions, advertisements, and commercials. And they rip. And they stomp. And we sing.

Rip, stomp, pull.
Rip, stomp, pull.

Rip, stomp, pull, tear.
Rip, stomp, pull, tear.

Rip that vine, stomp that leaf.

Rip, stomp, pull, tear.
Rip, stomp, pull, tear.

Cut those nouns, burn those verbs.

Rip, stomp, pull, tear.
Rip, stomp, pull, tear.

Crush those ads, **** these words.

Rip, stomp, pull, tear.
Rip, stomp, pull, tear.

And that’s how I feel. A baby ripped out, pulled by arms and legs in all four directions, nearly torn apart from the sockets and finally stomped laying on the hard concrete. An infant, only a baby. With small marbles for eyes and clouds of green and hazel frozen inside it.

This concrete, my cradle, my grave.
This needle, my bottle, my pacifier.
Its contents, a substitute for my mother’s milk.

Grey sky reflects the concrete. You look up you see the ground. Like a mirror fastened on the ceiling.

My motherless New York. I am one of her many adopted children. Her deceased child, forgotten, buried at an unmarked grave, the silent companion to thousand others. Our stories are different but they all say the same thing. Nothing.

“Nothing.”


What do you think? Tell me! I know it's not a proper poem nor a proper story but still, please tell me what you think of it.