It’s timely (forever),
She reminds me (together)
How special she is.
Not through physical bliss,
For she’s deep (my Queen)
In sleep (she dreams).
Eyes shut, yet their beauty
Still rifles through me.
Saturday, 19 December 2009
Wednesday, 9 December 2009
Nostalgia
Nostalgia
I am the love for Golliw**s
Churchill’s cigar and British bulldogs.
My definitions of multi-culture you know,
Are entwined with the Black and White Minstrel Show.
I am the recollection of a Britain that was Great,
That described those unlike us as looking like apes.
Shops selling books that sow
Seeds in images like Tintin in the Congo.
I proclaim God’s blessing with right and privilege.
My nations morality hedged
Between good and evil’s worth…
Just check the Codrington plantations connection to the English Church.
The word Society branded into dark skin,
Yet still I’m the one who wants to define racism.
I am the love of all things past.
Oh how the world changes much too fast.
There was a time we took from all.
Now minds hark back to before the Empires fall,
To glories that still infuse our psyche.
Our minds twisted by what made us mighty.
Give us this day our daily bread
And sugar in tea from West African dead.
Let’s mock the image in Robinson’s jam,
And stereotype crimes into racial bands.
The police can search 8 times more likely,
Those we think don’t belong in Blighty.
Political correctness gone mad in the media.
Check the print and the lies I feed you.
White bankers pass the buck on a recession,
To the familiar tune of the immigration question.
And if someone says I’ve got racist trends,
I’ll simply reply that I’ve got black friends.
In times of crisis, or even plenty,
I’m Nostalgia.....the blood on British society.
I am the love for Golliw**s
Churchill’s cigar and British bulldogs.
My definitions of multi-culture you know,
Are entwined with the Black and White Minstrel Show.
I am the recollection of a Britain that was Great,
That described those unlike us as looking like apes.
Shops selling books that sow
Seeds in images like Tintin in the Congo.
I proclaim God’s blessing with right and privilege.
My nations morality hedged
Between good and evil’s worth…
Just check the Codrington plantations connection to the English Church.
The word Society branded into dark skin,
Yet still I’m the one who wants to define racism.
I am the love of all things past.
Oh how the world changes much too fast.
There was a time we took from all.
Now minds hark back to before the Empires fall,
To glories that still infuse our psyche.
Our minds twisted by what made us mighty.
Give us this day our daily bread
And sugar in tea from West African dead.
Let’s mock the image in Robinson’s jam,
And stereotype crimes into racial bands.
The police can search 8 times more likely,
Those we think don’t belong in Blighty.
Political correctness gone mad in the media.
Check the print and the lies I feed you.
White bankers pass the buck on a recession,
To the familiar tune of the immigration question.
And if someone says I’ve got racist trends,
I’ll simply reply that I’ve got black friends.
In times of crisis, or even plenty,
I’m Nostalgia.....the blood on British society.
Wednesday, 16 September 2009
Mineral (mine-her-all)
Leopold’s ghost still resides
In chips and sims which hide
Within mobile phones
Made from the bones
Of Congolese men
And raped women.
Minerals mined
To pleasure western minds
With material treasures
Hark bark to Belgian pleasures.
Lost hands from children line forest floors
If not enough rubber poured
Into the casts of tyres.
Hear mothers cry
As every European advance in technology
Still comes at the cost of African solidarity.
The bomb that made Hiroshima boil
Came from Uranium beneath Congo’s soil.
Millions dying at the hands of Belgium
The invasion of whom started World War One.
Britain aligned once more with evil.
And this just the prequel
To humanitarian disaster
That saw the West throw love after
The gorilla’s plight. But we missed
The fate of the humans in the midst.
Power on your cell phone, but enter
A start up message that maybe I should text ya,
With love
Blood
And tears,
From Congo for all these years.
In chips and sims which hide
Within mobile phones
Made from the bones
Of Congolese men
And raped women.
Minerals mined
To pleasure western minds
With material treasures
Hark bark to Belgian pleasures.
Lost hands from children line forest floors
If not enough rubber poured
Into the casts of tyres.
Hear mothers cry
As every European advance in technology
Still comes at the cost of African solidarity.
The bomb that made Hiroshima boil
Came from Uranium beneath Congo’s soil.
Millions dying at the hands of Belgium
The invasion of whom started World War One.
Britain aligned once more with evil.
And this just the prequel
To humanitarian disaster
That saw the West throw love after
The gorilla’s plight. But we missed
The fate of the humans in the midst.
Power on your cell phone, but enter
A start up message that maybe I should text ya,
With love
Blood
And tears,
From Congo for all these years.
Tuesday, 23 June 2009
SAY NO GO
this poem deals with sexual violence, following Channel 4's Dispatches TV programme last night "Rape in the City", which has been on my mind all day.
so please do not continue if you may find this upsetting.
SAY NO GO
Can’t say no.
Can’t say go.
Relentless pressure applied to a soul,
Viewed only as having three accessible holes.
Something so British about an orderly queue,
Waiting patiently in line to penetrate youth.
Boys so weak that they’re thinking they’re strong.
If their mother or sister, would they then see it wrong?
At maturity they’ll claim to be reformed men,
But the girl will see their faces again and again.
Muffled tears rain on concrete steps,
Blood laced briefs that were once best kept.
Tricked from friendship and circles of trust
To satisfy growing urges of adolescent lust,
A code of silence and mistrust of the police,
So no deterrent to ejaculated release.
A princess viewed as flesh and a slut,
Like a special topping ordered from PizzaHut.
Is it girls or themselves that the boys most hate?
Ask them… they don’t even see it as rape.
http://www.channel4.com/programmes/dispatches/articles/rape-in-the-city
http://www.channel4.com/programmes/dispatches/catch-up#2925408
so please do not continue if you may find this upsetting.
SAY NO GO
Can’t say no.
Can’t say go.
Relentless pressure applied to a soul,
Viewed only as having three accessible holes.
Something so British about an orderly queue,
Waiting patiently in line to penetrate youth.
Boys so weak that they’re thinking they’re strong.
If their mother or sister, would they then see it wrong?
At maturity they’ll claim to be reformed men,
But the girl will see their faces again and again.
Muffled tears rain on concrete steps,
Blood laced briefs that were once best kept.
Tricked from friendship and circles of trust
To satisfy growing urges of adolescent lust,
A code of silence and mistrust of the police,
So no deterrent to ejaculated release.
A princess viewed as flesh and a slut,
Like a special topping ordered from PizzaHut.
Is it girls or themselves that the boys most hate?
Ask them… they don’t even see it as rape.
http://www.channel4.com/pr
http://www.channel4.com/pr
Saturday, 20 June 2009
My Write
Some wonder at my style of writing,
Passionate and full of fighting,
They choose to leave my issues be,
And not talk of betterment and equality…
I respect their desire to leave my subjects
Alone, and deal with life’s sweet objects
At home. I’ll not comment on others reality,
Except for those as pale as me.
I have the right,
To judge the wrong in white.
Passionate and full of fighting,
They choose to leave my issues be,
And not talk of betterment and equality…
I respect their desire to leave my subjects
Alone, and deal with life’s sweet objects
At home. I’ll not comment on others reality,
Except for those as pale as me.
I have the right,
To judge the wrong in white.
Saturday, 13 June 2009
Mother land
on the premise that all of humanity is descended from East Africans...
Many years ago
My African ancestors strolled
From the mother land.
A band
Of men, women and children
Whose looks over time and descendents
Paled to cope with cold. And as we weathered,
My people became coloured.
We settled many places
And became many shades of white races.
Our character carried this pioneer spirit that didn’t recognise
The rights of others. We named this trait “civilised”.
Our link to nature lost,
We invented religion at the cost
Of forgetting the earth
Is bound in spiritual worth
With She, our ancestral Queen, the Great Mystery.
Instead, we worshipped ourselves and called our faith His-story.
We proclaimed a God in our own image
And invented in Him our desire for rage.
Ignoring His son’s life of Peace. Without shame
We bestowed gifts upon ourselves in His name.
Gifts of green, but not of nature.
Instead the colour of ink on white-like-us-paper.
Our beliefs in God, ourselves and greed
Were able to justify that others should bleed.
Journeys began across land and sea.
Found old places and called it “discovery”.
Indigenous peoples viewed as a different class,
Yet we hadn’t recognised ourselves from our past.
What should have been a family reunion
Instead became butchery after Sunday communion.
Ships that should have united all in ancestry
Stole kin from lands and transported them to slavery.
Spread Christian beliefs across African nations,
A Caucasian Jesus inventing racial discrimination.
Beauty took form in what was white and European.
De-beautified Queens raped among sugar cane in the Caribbean.
Isolated a people that rose and beat us
So that now we even bus
White tourists onto Haitian segregated sands
Denying distant relatives the riches of their lands,
As the wealthy bathe away from poor,
More Africans hit with an apartheid law.
We created empires that butchered a family,
Then called it a Commonwealth in the name of equality,
But to member states I’m humbly suggesting,
It’s like a child staying with the father who molested him.
Wind back our evolution to the start of the tree.
Truth of the matter would f*ck up the BNP.
From Africa our ancestors were born,
And now, as white, we pass scorn
Over brothers and sisters we don’t view as equal.
When we left our Mother, we were infested with evil.
Many years ago
My African ancestors strolled
From the mother land.
A band
Of men, women and children
Whose looks over time and descendents
Paled to cope with cold. And as we weathered,
My people became coloured.
We settled many places
And became many shades of white races.
Our character carried this pioneer spirit that didn’t recognise
The rights of others. We named this trait “civilised”.
Our link to nature lost,
We invented religion at the cost
Of forgetting the earth
Is bound in spiritual worth
With She, our ancestral Queen, the Great Mystery.
Instead, we worshipped ourselves and called our faith His-story.
We proclaimed a God in our own image
And invented in Him our desire for rage.
Ignoring His son’s life of Peace. Without shame
We bestowed gifts upon ourselves in His name.
Gifts of green, but not of nature.
Instead the colour of ink on white-like-us-paper.
Our beliefs in God, ourselves and greed
Were able to justify that others should bleed.
Journeys began across land and sea.
Found old places and called it “discovery”.
Indigenous peoples viewed as a different class,
Yet we hadn’t recognised ourselves from our past.
What should have been a family reunion
Instead became butchery after Sunday communion.
Ships that should have united all in ancestry
Stole kin from lands and transported them to slavery.
Spread Christian beliefs across African nations,
A Caucasian Jesus inventing racial discrimination.
Beauty took form in what was white and European.
De-beautified Queens raped among sugar cane in the Caribbean.
Isolated a people that rose and beat us
So that now we even bus
White tourists onto Haitian segregated sands
Denying distant relatives the riches of their lands,
As the wealthy bathe away from poor,
More Africans hit with an apartheid law.
We created empires that butchered a family,
Then called it a Commonwealth in the name of equality,
But to member states I’m humbly suggesting,
It’s like a child staying with the father who molested him.
Wind back our evolution to the start of the tree.
Truth of the matter would f*ck up the BNP.
From Africa our ancestors were born,
And now, as white, we pass scorn
Over brothers and sisters we don’t view as equal.
When we left our Mother, we were infested with evil.
Saturday, 30 May 2009
Poetry is Dead
The truth is, was it ever alive to me?
Does a love of words define poetry?
Whether academical
Classical
Performance vocal
Or in your face Slam. The total
To me it’s more than the sum of the parts.
Not just clever words you learned to impart.
I love what wordsmiths are saying
So long as the messages they’re laying
Are something that needs to be said.
If not, poetry is dead.
Teach me with your rhymes.
I don’t want to hear your humorous lines
Written from a position of privilege,
While others suffer through your ignorance.
For music I'll take empowerment from India.Arie
And hip hop like it was supposed to be.
My passion rides on it as a medium for wearing
Stories from those whose passion is sharing
Lessons in life that need to be heard.
A fight or demand in the power of word.
Spit false talk dressed up as a thriller,
I just receive you as a lyrical killer.
Does a love of words define poetry?
Whether academical
Classical
Performance vocal
Or in your face Slam. The total
To me it’s more than the sum of the parts.
Not just clever words you learned to impart.
I love what wordsmiths are saying
So long as the messages they’re laying
Are something that needs to be said.
If not, poetry is dead.
Teach me with your rhymes.
I don’t want to hear your humorous lines
Written from a position of privilege,
While others suffer through your ignorance.
For music I'll take empowerment from India.Arie
And hip hop like it was supposed to be.
My passion rides on it as a medium for wearing
Stories from those whose passion is sharing
Lessons in life that need to be heard.
A fight or demand in the power of word.
Spit false talk dressed up as a thriller,
I just receive you as a lyrical killer.
Sunday, 3 May 2009
The Predator
Its her eyes that grab me first.
I see her curse
If she gets beat.
This girl is living defensive heat.
The rest of her life on hold.
An expression ice cold.
Diving on every loose ball.
Basketball is her whole.
Leaping out of bounds to save it.
Supercharged, this game, she craves it.
Whatever affects her at home,
Within this rectangle she's in her zone.
This is her patch.
Off it, her catch
Is life's problems with which she deals.
On the court, for her, basketball heals.
Every frustration in her life
Is slashed with a knife.
For four quarters
She's not a daughter
A woman
A human
Black or white
She's right
Where she wants to be,
High on intensity.
Athletic
Body magic.
Outside of those skinny or fat debates,
She trains and looks at what she ate,
To highly tune her machine,
Strong yet lean.
Proud to look in the mirror
Knowing she's honed herself for superior
Definition to beat herself and her competitors.
That's why on the court she feels better than ya.
No late nights, drugs, or partying.
The epitome of discipline.
And you pay the price for her self control,
When her game reveals to you her soul.
Bookshelf
Forces in victory
Write history.
The stories from the vanquished
Are forgotten and vanish.
The views we are seeing
Are mostly European.
Hidden away from bookshop shelves
Lie tales no one tells.
Ask the Herero people how European's tried
To rid Africa of them in a genocide.
Voices call for a British spirit
With only room for whites within it.
Recollections of the Blitz mentality,
Overlook the inequality
Suffered by men and women of the Caribbean.
The British West Indies Regiment was seeing
2000 casualties in World War One.
A war you'd think only the white man won.
Hitlers tyranny
Had no sympathy
For dark skin.
Unknown the numbers of black deaths within
Nazi camps of concentration
Or Germany's policy of mixed race sterilisation.
African American GI's suffering a disparity of executions
Compared with whites (who also did the shooting).
Two thousand women of the Maasai
Told by courts that they lie
When claiming they were raped
By British soldiers in their own state.
Stories which lack prominence.
Many through a lack of evidence.
Yet one thing we know of western cultures
Is they document facts like data vultures,
But still we have to push and prise,
To open the truth of history's eyes.
Lingerie Gifts
She gets lingerie gifts
Tongues in a kiss.
Roses in bouquets,
Chocolates and sundaes.
Candles and scents,
On jewellery, money's spent.
Oh such a sweet Valentine.
But she thinks of the other times.
The days she wants peace.
Desires to be released
From the gifts she needs.
Like bandages to stop her bleed.
Ice packs on her eyes
That dark glasses have to hide.
Make up on swollen cheeks,
Repairs to broken teeth.
Tissue for a bleeding nose,
Patching up whatever shows.
Oh sweet Valentine's control.
Ownership of her dying soul
She Writes
She writes...
Her soul pens herself to the pages
As she has done throughout her ages.
The antidote to the venom of sin
That she defied from within.
Secret tears that dripped onto paper
Dotted around ink that when read later
Marked milestones in living.
All her giving
Begins in words formed in images inside
A mind that stood tall and didn’t hide
When others would have crumbled.
Not for her a rage that rumbled
Or bitterness eating at purity.
Her pureness is what got through to me.
Hours spent pouring out masterpieces
That when she releases
Onto ears and eyes
The silence is from those mesmerised.
At times like these I’m speechless,
When I see her audience so impressed
The tears she fought away in write
Appear joyfully in my eyes... she sees me wipe
Them as I’m moved beyond words.
Her heart spoke. My soul heard.
Her soul pens herself to the pages
As she has done throughout her ages.
The antidote to the venom of sin
That she defied from within.
Secret tears that dripped onto paper
Dotted around ink that when read later
Marked milestones in living.
All her giving
Begins in words formed in images inside
A mind that stood tall and didn’t hide
When others would have crumbled.
Not for her a rage that rumbled
Or bitterness eating at purity.
Her pureness is what got through to me.
Hours spent pouring out masterpieces
That when she releases
Onto ears and eyes
The silence is from those mesmerised.
At times like these I’m speechless,
When I see her audience so impressed
The tears she fought away in write
Appear joyfully in my eyes... she sees me wipe
Them as I’m moved beyond words.
Her heart spoke. My soul heard.
Say What
Too many people settle for what love isn't,
Ends in a truck load of what is
Misery.
The mystery
Is recognition of what truly is,
And not the thinking it is, when it isn't.
Ends in a truck load of what is
Misery.
The mystery
Is recognition of what truly is,
And not the thinking it is, when it isn't.
Sum
If attitudes were a maths equation,
We'd never solve the calculation.
If life experiences were all the same
Maybe we could judge and blame.
If differences were celebrated in people,
We'd see individuals all as equal.
Instead our answer to humanity's sum,
Is profile and label. Many = One.
We'd never solve the calculation.
If life experiences were all the same
Maybe we could judge and blame.
If differences were celebrated in people,
We'd see individuals all as equal.
Instead our answer to humanity's sum,
Is profile and label. Many = One.
Love and Basketball
Make words, once written on paper,
Kiss wood, pulps originator.
Words now stretched around composites,
Bounce lives to round positives.
Confused? I'm talking future ballin',
These written words are Baden, Molten and Spalding.
Spinning inside caressing fingers on strong hands
Reaching from athletic woman and athletic man.
Potential that lay hidden
Grows from the essence of mental discipline
Of one.
You won
When you understood you had to respect yourself
Before giving love to everyone else.
When the game of Air and 23,
Inside a rectangle set you free.
Post codes representing home and away gyms,
Not reasons for beef and disrespecting.
Your own empowerment
Showed what power was meant
To be as your shot release
Scored hope... and peace.
Kiss wood, pulps originator.
Words now stretched around composites,
Bounce lives to round positives.
Confused? I'm talking future ballin',
These written words are Baden, Molten and Spalding.
Spinning inside caressing fingers on strong hands
Reaching from athletic woman and athletic man.
Potential that lay hidden
Grows from the essence of mental discipline
Of one.
You won
When you understood you had to respect yourself
Before giving love to everyone else.
When the game of Air and 23,
Inside a rectangle set you free.
Post codes representing home and away gyms,
Not reasons for beef and disrespecting.
Your own empowerment
Showed what power was meant
To be as your shot release
Scored hope... and peace.
Saturday, 2 May 2009
FLASH
Been a while since I picked up my pen.
Didn't have an idea of when
I'd find inspiration or the need to write
Words that I use as weapons to fight.
I guess I'm just pissed at the taking of life.
Beautiful young men gone in the flash of a knife.
Suddenly the media is full of experts,
You know, white middle class fools who spurt
Opinions left, right and centre.
Politicians follow the same old agenda
Pleasing majority voters and mandates
Calling for national service and out of touch debates.
The only reason the press are vexed...
Is everyone's scared white middle England is next.
Worried at the prospect that little Nigel and Penelope
Might listen to hip hop and end up in casualty.
Let me add my Slo twist to the story,
And wind back so called care in society
To times when middle classes didn't want to know.
Life back then was about being able to show
That tea rooms were for those who aspired to be.
That's right, this is total recall on history.
The compassionate loved their sugar and tea
Enough to shackle millions into slavery.
Not even a blind eye tried to look and reason
With the African holocaust going on in the Caribbean.
So beware of the caring.
On apparent sleeve wearing
Sits inherited profits of enslavement, rape and death.
And now they point fingers at young mens' last breaths,
Ignoring the legacies they sowed
When Africa's blood flowed.
Blue uniforms in armored waistcoats,
An institutionalised gang that gloats.
Given power that goes unchecked.
Part of the problem, but they're supposed to protect.
Like ants, they become a cloned collective
That takes on the prejudices from a eurocentric perspective.
Their policy on the beat born from the same fear,
That hysterically germinates between the ears
Of white middle England...
Self-proclaimed right middle England.
Politicians pack out the House of Commons
To discuss their pay and similar problems,
But the debate on the murder of youth,
Saw Parliament empty...there lies the truth.
More lies than truth.
So dies our youth.
Victims from a sharp blade
Poisoned by deadly white shade.
On the handle, embedded DNA imprints
From a nation's guilty finger prints
Didn't have an idea of when
I'd find inspiration or the need to write
Words that I use as weapons to fight.
I guess I'm just pissed at the taking of life.
Beautiful young men gone in the flash of a knife.
Suddenly the media is full of experts,
You know, white middle class fools who spurt
Opinions left, right and centre.
Politicians follow the same old agenda
Pleasing majority voters and mandates
Calling for national service and out of touch debates.
The only reason the press are vexed...
Is everyone's scared white middle England is next.
Worried at the prospect that little Nigel and Penelope
Might listen to hip hop and end up in casualty.
Let me add my Slo twist to the story,
And wind back so called care in society
To times when middle classes didn't want to know.
Life back then was about being able to show
That tea rooms were for those who aspired to be.
That's right, this is total recall on history.
The compassionate loved their sugar and tea
Enough to shackle millions into slavery.
Not even a blind eye tried to look and reason
With the African holocaust going on in the Caribbean.
So beware of the caring.
On apparent sleeve wearing
Sits inherited profits of enslavement, rape and death.
And now they point fingers at young mens' last breaths,
Ignoring the legacies they sowed
When Africa's blood flowed.
Blue uniforms in armored waistcoats,
An institutionalised gang that gloats.
Given power that goes unchecked.
Part of the problem, but they're supposed to protect.
Like ants, they become a cloned collective
That takes on the prejudices from a eurocentric perspective.
Their policy on the beat born from the same fear,
That hysterically germinates between the ears
Of white middle England...
Self-proclaimed right middle England.
Politicians pack out the House of Commons
To discuss their pay and similar problems,
But the debate on the murder of youth,
Saw Parliament empty...there lies the truth.
More lies than truth.
So dies our youth.
Victims from a sharp blade
Poisoned by deadly white shade.
On the handle, embedded DNA imprints
From a nation's guilty finger prints
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