My Cowries Poem by Quame Boatmann

Do not ask what I do with my cowries
It makes me scowl and spit out red
I give; I dash without holding back
I see and feel the miseries of Lazarus
They pierce my eyes with shot arrows
I feel his whines and wallows
And burns me in a fiery furnace
Yet a scorn, a menace
my praise in turn,
From Judas, the treasurer

Do not ask what I do with my cowries
For without wiry thought, I squirm
I spur to catch a falling egg
Before it lands on rocky grounds
‘Cos I hate to plant a soul,
in the belly of sheol,
Knowing it would never grow

Do not ask what I do with my cowries
It makes me scowl and spit out red
I've been in the shoes of Lazarus
And if I say it's glamorous
Then I'm the old serpent's son
Comforting air from fiery furnace,
blows in there
To give my all to console means I care

For this is me, this is what I do
And I take delight in what I do
Do not ask what I do with my cowries
It makes me scowl and spit out red