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

Close

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

Brother!

Why suffer when the 

Squillar

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

Though.

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

Flossin'

As a thirty storey glass building

Home to the hedge fund division,

Honey.

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 

Adoration

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

Super-Symbolise-me

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 

Melody

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 

Reverberations

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

Civilisation

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. 

Shab-bab-skoodle-oo-wwee

Now ain’t that some kinda funky!

  

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 to.bombard.you.with.a.deluge.of.SMS.messages.to.your.phone. 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