(Source: whereisthecoool, via dubonesprit)
‘I’m not a fuckin’ racist, but I’m not gonna slap a FREE NELSON MANDELA bumper-sticker on my ass to prove it, ‘cause I’m not a Communist either. I’m not a National Socialist. I’m not a fuckin’ Anarchist, Degreaser…’ He made as if to slug me where my tatto was. ‘I’m an American skin. That’s it. Why ? I don’t know, Degreaser.
Maybe if you and me were rich kids, instead of working class, we’d both be in school and play on the football team and we could hang out together at the mall wearing identical letterman’s jackets instead of nylon bombers and identical hundred-dollar basketball shoes instead of oxblood Docs. (…)
And maybe you could impress your mulatto girlfriend by writing editorials about racism in the school paper, instead of always trying to fin some Nazis to fight. (…) And maybe we could have worked real hard and got ourselves little wives and had kids and given them all the advantages we never had. But you wanna know what ? Fuck that’.
Don de Grazia, “American Skin”, 1998
Je rapportai l’enveloppe à ma mère, la lui tendis et entrai dans la chambre. Dans ma chambre. Ce qu’il y avait de mieux dans ma chambre, c’était le lit. J’aimais m’y traîner des heures entières avec les couvertures remontées jusqu’au menton et ce, même pendant la journée. Au lit, c’était vraiment bien; au lit, il ne m’arrivait jamais d’ennuis; au lit, y avait personne, rien. C’était souvent que ma mère me trouvait au lit pendant la journée.
“Debout Henry! Rester au lit toute la journée, c’est pas bon pour les gamins de ton âge! Allez : debout! Mais fais quelque chose, bon sang!”
Sauf qu’il n’y avait rien à faire.
Charles Bukowski, “Souvenirs d’un pas grand-chose”, 1982
BEAT ASSAILANT - Better Than Us (by areyoufunky)
Suddenly the door came crashing in. Preacher’s wife began to scream in terror.
As the policemen came rushing into the room, Preacher raised his hands and screamed over and over, « Don’t kill my wife, don’t kill her. She ain’t did nothing. Don’t kill her ».
The first policeman to reach him knocked him to the floor. « If you move, nigger, », he growled, « I’ll kill you. » The officer stood over him with a gun pointed at his head.
Preacher’s wife raced across the room and grabbed the policeman’s arm. « Don’t kill him, » she screamed, trying to knock the gun from his hand.
« Goddamnit, » the officer cursed, trying to fight her off with one hand. Before one of his partners could step in to help, the gun went off. The slug hit Preacher in the middle of the forehead. He fell onto his back, dead before he reached the floor.
In the ensuing silence, one of the officers cursed. « I’ll be a sonofabitch, » he said to no one in particular.
Donald Goines, “Black Gangster”, 1977
