Heist Noir

They’ve been casing the place for years on end,

Watching us sway like a pendulum swing—

From “ugly” to “hoe” to the it-girl trend,

Plotting the steal of our every thing.

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They mocked our thighs, our lips, our flair,

Turned our curves to caricature scenes,

Till BBLs came, now common as air

Being sculpted into what they once called obscene.

Sarah Baartman, trapped in shame,

Caged and gawked for Europe’s thrill—

Now her figure’s the fortune they claim,

Shaped in sterile clinics, quiet and still.

They laughed at Mike for his broad nose wide,

Till he carved it down, chasing a ghost—

Tore at his flesh until his face obliged

And the world mocked him while he hurt the most.

Lil Kim, too raw, too real, too black,

Carved herself down to please the press—

Never knowing the truth they held back:

She was always a cut above the rest.

Boxed us out to steal our sound,

Called it ghetto, then made it gold—

Yes, Nana’s gumbo is now world-renowned,

But her story died with her and 

The dish is now served cold.

They plucked our culture, note by note,

Took talking drums and passed them ’round—

Made remixes from what we wrote,

While our names stayed underground.

Just like Queen Bey told us

Ms. Linda Martell, voice so bold & boisterous,

Got buried beneath good ol boy twang—

But now a black country singer is “preposterous.”

Kendrick gave us “Euphoria,” sharp yet soft and smug,

Told us about Drake stealing

sauce from H-Town, then ATL’s strut—

Taking verses and making a killing,

Black Girl Magic as his favorite drug

K. Dot pulled receipts with no remorse,

Said “Meet the Grahams”— and we all felt the sting.

Then “Not Like Us” hit with unholy force—

Turns out you can’t colonize the people that made you king.

Stole the cookout and the choir,

The slang, the soul, the sacred twist—

Put on our masks like funeral attire,

Ugly till Vogue called it avant-gist.

Killmonger warned with blood and flame,

Malcolm told them with razor grace—

They’d take our shine, but leave the name,

Rewrite our truth and wear our face.

But still we rise, no scripts to fix,

No need for crowns or politics—

We walk in power, loud and slick,

Laced in a fresh pair of kicks.

But here’s a truth they can’t contest:

We are the origin, the curator—

We are the blackprint.

Ariel A. Phoenix (2025)