Life all around us

Welcome to Urban poems. Real life. Real words. Poetic flow.

25 November, 2010

Wednesday’s Girl

Lips parted, poised
Whispering over the noise
Heart on sleeve
Cleavage released
Watch the rise and fall
Of glowing breasts
Visible beneath see-through vest
Trying to regulate breath.
Adjust expectations
Avoid undue exasperations
When hopes of deep love
Are replaced with only Wednesday night
Love in a glove 

Deep in the seat of expression
Lies the lesson
Betraying the blessing
As bounteous bodies pressed
Removing clothes
Baring souls and arses
Passion flows. Love passes
Through veins
All in vain. As his intent
Is for pleasure.  Much to her pain.
Her intent is for love
But she’s playing his game
And remains neutral to his advances
Instead she dances
The slow grind
Slow burn. 
Another lesson learned
And promptly forgotten
As wet drawers 
Wash away rational thought

He enters her state.
Warm, slippery, tight
Immediately contemplates his fate to night.
Fight or Flight?
Fight: Love and Stay?
Flight: Cum and go?
The former is tempting
The latter is the usual pattern
Latter wins.
Panting begins
Before she arrives
He’s gone!

Lips parted, poised.
He took the noise
On his departure
Breast swell, under the heavy spell
Of his ever fleeting nature.
She sighs
Tears sting eyes.
As she begins to realise
She’s just Wednesday’s vice.
He’s gone without a trace.
Next week.
Same time.
Same place.

Filthy Cash Money

Filthy cash money
Stains hands bloodied
From the menage game:
Gain. Stack. Churn.
Watch as morals burn
Holes in veins
Then stash cash in falsely named
Offshore estates.

The flies buzz round
As the stench rises
Causing a crisis
While naive money lovers
Hunger for inflated interest 
Free loans
Secured on homes
Where fiecies dipped papers
Can camouflage in designer pieces.
Children starve.
While nuclear arms
Bomb their houses.

A trillion dead Queens
And Presidents
Exchange hands
For a mother's sons life
On the oil-mine
Fighting on the front line
To secure more filthy
Cash, money

Why suffer when the 
Is in conflict diamonds
To drip off necks
And fingers
Not just of rap singers
But Hilton's daughters
In Senators quarters
Innocent women slaughtered
When caught with a diamond
In their love storage
Cavity search gets it back
Into the wrong hands
And forced entry to
Their vaginal tract.
That'll earn 'em!
But husbands will spurn them
Sell mothers and daughters 
Into Whiteman slavery
Won't put much food with his gravy.
The pimp will eat high off the hog
As he forces women to
Shake their ass to
Save his soul

Dirty.  Sexy.  Gold.
Gets sold, brought with filthy cash
Crisp, clean notes
In Gucci totes
To fund the airline industry.
Fly a mual in
Wait, while he passes out
The sin within
A latex skin
Get two kilos in
Street value
Two million  
Plus, a private jet
Better yet
A condo in Barbados
And a private education
At Eton
Or Harvard.
Old money escapes prisons
As a thirty storey glass building
Home to the hedge fund division,
Washing and rinsing
Filthy. Cash. Money. 

Status Junkie

Getting high on approval
Get your knees dirty for a
Better job title
Got a key of validation
Light the pipe of 
Where are you heading to'?
Grand Delusion Station?
Won't feel good unless
Somebody's blowing blue smoke
Into your Grand Anal.
Just one more hit please...
Give me a Pay-rise 
In exchange for family ties
A big toe on the next rung
In exchange for a young one
What!  My own office,
Six hundred and sixty six above street level?
Damn! I'll gift wrap my soul
And present it myself to the board of De'Vils
Status Junkie
Upgrade me to celebrity
Up-weight the arsenal
To obscure reality
While I  snort Fabulosity
And  shoot-up on  'licious 

Rise to the Funk

Room swells so sweetly
Smoky atmosphere of blues
Working it’s taboo

Floetic fusion of 
Funk-a-delic filigree
Designed to entwine
Around your melancholy
Listen carefully to each 

Taking you back to
The days when women were bare
Breasted, baby rested 
Strapped to backs as they 
Danced tribal style to a
Tight sheepskin drum rap

Can’t help feel the bass-
Player and the high-hat. Nod
Your head to that. Sip
From your juice and re-lax
Saxaphone on alto 
Is about to answer back.

Reminds me of the waves from
The rough crossing. Tossin’
‘mongst those crammed in. Only the
Strong survived by keeping the
Rhythm. Sax removed the shacklin’

Hear the high octaves
Of the C-trumpet player, 
Man that man can play a
Haunting harmony to the 
Saxophony. Lips kiss it in
Cheeks blowin’ out and suckin’ 
In again

As I reminisce 
On the days when we were
Slaves and blowin for our life
Under Mas’as strike. Blow for Blow!. 
“Swing low sweet chariot”

Ye-ah ba-by play for
Me. Ignite the chasm 
Between my ear and my bossom
Create a prism of orchestral
Funk-o-gasms. Spasms 
That journey through me, running
Wild like a crazed banshee 

Not unlike the days
When we tried to flee slavery
At the cover of night, moonlight
And drums to guide we. Singing
The blues to charter the way
Help cover the footsteps of one
More runaway. Brave soul
“Coming for’ to carry me home”

Oh yes I confess 
I don’t understand a word 
She’s saying. Seems “Skoo-da-le-bap-bap”
 Is a new expression. A 
Better way to rid the pain. 
Immerse yourself in this wild
Deity before we. This 
Sultry songstress complimentin’ 
The blues quartet 

Of loveliness the day slavery 
Progressed to our own
Emancipation. Still waiting
For forty-acres and a mule
Reparation, repatriation!
Heck, at least I got an education
Out of Uncle Sam and Queen Vics
Institutions. The guilty
Graduation of tribal drums
To Jazz, Blues and Funk Stations

Put Black Men firmly
At the root of musical
Lets explode under the jazz
Firm-a-men-tations. Pick stars 
For our pockets, to pick our 
Souls and unlock it, to
Remind us of the journey
When music carried we from
Homeland to slavery
And then set us free. 

Now ain’t that some kinda funky!


24 November, 2010

Dear You Know Who (a love letter poem)

Date: Today

Dear You Know Who,
I fought against the temptation to pen you.  Because putting you into words, might be the worst thing I could do.  But I’m doing it anyway. As someone as smooth and delicious could easily stray, unless I pen you right now, here, my way.
  In just a few days you’ve got to me.  So sincere.  So gentle. So manly. At first you were only electronic… an email, a text. Next: a voice, whose dulcet tones and non-premeditated choice of words, was all I waited up to hear... every night…at the end of the line. And in the daytime, I found myself steeling against the temptation Didn’t want to scare you off, or come across uncool.  I’m no fool! And although I don’t like playing games, sometimes you have to.  Till you don’t need to any more.  You know the score.
Then when we finally met. Stop.  Let me tell you how much I wanted to meet you: As much as the mountain wanted to meet Mohammed; as much as oxygen needs to be carried by the bloodstream; as much as labour pains want to scream. I tried to avoid a scheme.  Instead I wanted you the right way.  With you wanting me as much.  Never thought my luck would lead me to you. But it did.  And although I hid at first, my pleasure in your smile, your eyes, your embrace; you saw through me all the same. “You checking me out, girl?” You said as I walked your way. And YES I WAS.  Cos you looked FINE. And from there the day progressed.  Score: A Perfect 10, over ice.
Lunch was nice… check that… lunch was delicious.  As I wished to be the sauce on your lips for you to lick and “mmmm” as it slid over your tongue.  But that was to come.  ‘cause we left our Italian and walked and talked and learned about each other sons; past loves, past dislikes; how to avoid future spites. I could sense every sinew of you.  My sweet, icrecream dipped, coco flavoured lover to be. Then you kissed me.  
Two atoms collided. I was divided into twos and threes as you pleasured me passionately. Hands on the nape of my neck, just the way I like.  You never went further than that. A gentlemanly touch. Instead you drank ever-y-thing up that I had to give back, with my kiss.  Right there in the park. Sighs, like love starved teens. Grass between my thighs. I creamed. You hardened. Our souls shared the urgent burden. And I knew when my spirit took my steely will and made me whisper “Giving him something he can feel” – that. This. Was. Real. 
Now don’t get it twisted.  I’m not just a lustful sista.  I can see the vision of our future, of you and me in life together.  I can see so clearly that I am blinded by faith. Hope is my white-stick that is feeling for you, leading me closer to you in mind, in body, in spirit too.
See, writing this is tempting fate.  But it’s too late! I’ve already released it to the urban universe.  Let it do it’s best or worst and then be done.  I’m gone.
I feel you, You Know Who.                                          
Love, Me