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The uncredited, uncared for,
unsung, heroes;
noble, kind, and, unselfish acts.
Fade from sight, and, sound,
into obscurity,
like; a bum-note on Karaoke Night.

Antagonistic fake, plastic, white knight’s,
plume breasts, at round tables,
bedecked, in, platinum-plated,
silver-screened armour,
whilst, counting up, all of the zeroes,
on, starstudded, Hollywood cheques.

A milky, American audience,
cries, for seconds, and, encores.
They, all, scream, and, shout,
collectively, for, ‘More, more, more!!’

False narratives, are made;
tokenistic, faux-ethnic, clichéd,
along with, cult-enamoured attempts,
to; woo culture, by way,
of, condescending amour.

And, reality, is…

Cut.

The irony, has, killed, the protagonist.

Now, pale, sickly, snowy, whitewashed, avalanching; imitations,
slowly die, rebirth, and, infect,
the coffee-coloured plotlines.

And, the precious, Black, woollen yarns,
are, sheared, subjugated, spun, and, then sold. Enslaved, by, a contractual story, untold. From, the embittered, twisted hands, and, lips, of, the corrupt, directing,
Californian farmers.

© poormansdreams

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