Nina Simone (February 21, 1933 – April 21, 2003)

Blood in the fountains. Is black. Ropes dripping from trees. Are red. Whispers in bar rooms. Electric lights flickering. Someone is getting the chair. Jesus breaths. His last. Again. Some call it justice. Some call it the Mississippi rain.

So many men planting holes. In other men’s flesh. Too much stupidity. Too much vulgarity. Too much nothing. Nina wanted to crawl. Into the microphone. The world is mad. Like a mongrel dog. Snarling. At the end of a chain.She could smell the bitch’s breath. Some call it law and order. Some call it death.

Running. From the black wolves. Of night. Driving her car through the mad narrow French avenues. I tell you. Everyone is going to die. Such a shame. Wouldn’t it be lovely, to do this all over again? After Nina died they took her ashes. Out onto…