Donahue Jimmy Bulgin: April 11, 1966-April 14, 2005
Thanks to a fellow DJ/Queen from Toronto DJ Relentless I was reminded of this awful event in 2oo5 and like me Relentless also made a decision to desist playing certain dancehall tunes in protest against murder music, here is one of many poems that were dedicated to Bulgy as he was also known at the time of his murder in western Jamaica.
Thanks Relentless for this.
The poem:
Jamaican Birthday
By Monday the missing person flyer I designed was unnecessary The dogs had already found you
Everyone said you looked stunning at Grandma’s funeral wearing the blue Yves Saint Laurent suit I gave you compliments of the Salvation Army thrift store
Breathtaking it would be to see you now in moonlit rain styled with the passion of
machete fire and hate adorned in a plain bed sheet a gift of the police
For your 39th birthday your mother roasted breadfruit (although you preferred it boiled)
I reopened a credit card that flew me to you with birthday presents undeclared at the Jamaican Customs house I returned to New York with my complexion no darker from the sun’s fire
No anti-gay fire burned we chi chi men even as the new CD player I carried down
blasted Carl Bean’s disco declaration I’m happy I’m carefree and I’m gay I was born this way 1
The dogs found you in your own yard in a fatal reversal of your 39th birthday to nine night in three days with an offering of flesh to tear from bones for guard dogs that never barked at strangers dogs whose tails wagged with the satisfaction of a full belly
A boy half your age half your size drives your missing car What music does a killer listen to in his victim’s car? He wears your clothes
clothes twice his size clothes carefully removed from their hangers in the bedroom closet while your body was burning behind your house in the bushes underneath the birds of paradise
The blue Yves Saint Laurent suit remains in the closet You won’t be wearing it at your own funeral Breathtaking it is to see you now skeletal organs exposed through browned bones
ashy skin no lotion can soothe nor hand will touch after the dance of flames rode your body
to the twilight rhythm of crickets and frogs
Quiet is fire Loud was your voice balling out to neighbors down the hill who did not call the police
because your yelling stopped before the last cutlass chop drew blood that rain washed away
away away away
Four nights of rain cleared the stains of eight cervical lacerations but did not wash away our love
my tears the assassin’s intent your ashes You are ashes and memories of your smile never before so painful to see You skinned your teeth permanently but I can’t hear your bellowing laugh only the gasps of your name exclaimed in horror that four nights of rain can never carry away from your death night to your earth day
Everyone said you looked stunning at Grandma’s funeral wearing the blue Yves Saint Laurent suit I gave you compliments of the Salvation Army thrift store
Breathtaking it would be to see you now in moonlit rain styled with the passion of
machete fire and hate adorned in a plain bed sheet a gift of the police
For your 39th birthday your mother roasted breadfruit (although you preferred it boiled)
I reopened a credit card that flew me to you with birthday presents undeclared at the Jamaican Customs house I returned to New York with my complexion no darker from the sun’s fire
No anti-gay fire burned we chi chi men even as the new CD player I carried down
blasted Carl Bean’s disco declaration I’m happy I’m carefree and I’m gay I was born this way 1
The dogs found you in your own yard in a fatal reversal of your 39th birthday to nine night in three days with an offering of flesh to tear from bones for guard dogs that never barked at strangers dogs whose tails wagged with the satisfaction of a full belly
A boy half your age half your size drives your missing car What music does a killer listen to in his victim’s car? He wears your clothes
clothes twice his size clothes carefully removed from their hangers in the bedroom closet while your body was burning behind your house in the bushes underneath the birds of paradise
The blue Yves Saint Laurent suit remains in the closet You won’t be wearing it at your own funeral Breathtaking it is to see you now skeletal organs exposed through browned bones
ashy skin no lotion can soothe nor hand will touch after the dance of flames rode your body
to the twilight rhythm of crickets and frogs
Quiet is fire Loud was your voice balling out to neighbors down the hill who did not call the police
because your yelling stopped before the last cutlass chop drew blood that rain washed away
away away away
Four nights of rain cleared the stains of eight cervical lacerations but did not wash away our love
my tears the assassin’s intent your ashes You are ashes and memories of your smile never before so painful to see You skinned your teeth permanently but I can’t hear your bellowing laugh only the gasps of your name exclaimed in horror that four nights of rain can never carry away from your death night to your earth day
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