My Soul, Your Eyes

You'll Always Be My Thunder

2011-08-04T03:25:00.002-05:00

FTW ('deuces' instrumental)

2011-03-06T21:00:00.000-05:00

when you see your best friend ridin roun in ma car... uh oohhh, that was your bad
when you see us in the club an we buyin out the bar... uh oohhh, that was your bad
cause you passed on your chance to come get wid a star... uh oohhh, that was your bad
cause i don't get mad, i get a move on... bad, bad, that was your bad.

i know tyga told ya, too often women lie
i always get burned, dunno why i try
i know i played some games, i know i used to cheat
but does that mean that i can never turn a new leaf?
cause every time i think i found the one to run wit
she always turning out to be the fucking wrong chick
that over-sprung chick, that 'just for fun' chick
or 'the onee that's run around wit everyone' trick.
and every time i plan to settle down wit one girl
i fuckin have to settle, so it's fuck the world
cuz i can't take the drama, i swear i can't do this
these bitches fuckin wit my head has left me so clueless.
so you can crawl back to whatever man you came from
ima just do me, oh yeah it's game on
so pass that pack of smokes, order another round
i throw my deuces up, then pull the index down.

when you see your best friend ridin roun in ma car... uh oohhh, that was your bad

when you see us in the club an we buyin out the bar... uh oohhh, that was your bad

cause you passed on your chance to come get wid a star... uh oohhh, that was your bad

cause i don't get mad, i get a move on... bad, bad, that was your bad.

and oohh, the irony,
i ironed out my problems and now you got your eye on me.
pay you no attention an now you tryna buy it b?
but you should stay quiet cuz for you to try it is suicIde and it will be embarrassing.
told you i was over you now you wanna get under me
it's over you keep tryin, what are you, a plunger, b?
keep on pressin an pressuring, bring back up this shit,
but i told you i flushed it, an ima keep it movin...
see i gave up and forgave you for all of the lies you made up
i may not, again, if you keep tryna make up
excuses, for all of the times that you have faked up
flaked out, went out, widout me and tried to clown me.

playin games wit my emotions, you griimey babay

but my heart is not an xbox, don't try me laday...
so you an your crew can go do whatever you do,
cuz i'm movin on, finally, and thas widout you.

when you see your best friend ridin roun in ma car... uh oohhh, that was your bad

when you see us in the club an we buyin out the bar... uh oohhh, that was your bad

cause you passed on your chance to come get wid a star... uh oohhh, that was your bad

cause i don't get mad, i get a move on... bad, bad, that was your bad.

see i've never been impressed by an empress thas prissy

and dishonest, she's pretty but dis bitch is as bomb as,

obama's approval after 3 years up in that office

(barely present) i really wish that she would fuckin stop dis.

these mind games, i wasn't the one to ever start this

but i'll end it, and right here is where i'll fuckin drop it.

been dere, fucked dat, who's next up on the menu?

come piss me off some more an let me show you what my pen do.

no matter what you say, you're just like everybody else

a hypocrite behind all of your whistles and your bells

then wondering why you have so much trouble finding men too...

i can't believe your nerve, but here, come let me tell you:

you fat, drippy, droopy, sloppy, dropping off the map

and that's a fact, that's why they ain never call you back. (uh)

so i hoope when i'm ridin your frieend up in my riide
you don't mind, so fuck off, please, if you'd be so kind.

Corpse Pose Repose: Frodo

2010-12-25T20:58:00.000-05:00

Birds antiphonal chatter dances

heavily on the sea breeze washing into

my room. They sound sublimely beautiful

vomiting out their bright heart-songs

stained with the memory of your glaring

absence from my side. They assault

my mind over and over again

through the fleshy blooms of my ears,

until they bleed detritus over the still

morning; and I, still mourning, and

pregnant with emotion, ejaculate tears

into my sheets, and ink unto the page.

I drift off. Only later do I awake

from my reality and find, your precious

resurrection in these few lines.

Wallflower

2010-12-15T09:23:00.001-05:00

She is beautiful!
She is the wallflower
and there are none like her.
Standing precisely, left of centre
with a nice smile
and nice... shoes.
She tries to blend in
but I see her,
and she is beautiful.
She is the wallflower.

Deliverance (A Calabash Composition)

2010-12-13T09:18:00.000-05:00

I am here to contribute what little I have in the hope of saving even one...

They come
with eager hearts and thirsty souls,
dragging hollow carcasses, bleached skulls and dry bones,
wrapped all in pretence.
They build bonfires on the sand,
making sport
as they prepare to raze our crucified Saviour.

Forgive them, my Lord, for they know not what they do.
They have sat and listened to so many false prophets
preaching deceit--their pedantry,
honey-dipped in their ignorance.
They opiate the masses
with wool so exquisite, it gilds the eyes...
only they do not know it.

They praise a golden calf,
as it simply licks its cud,
content.

They come
with heads bowed in deference,
as though the still-present emptiness were part of it
and they were grateful.

I turn in disgust
for these are not my people.
And I am no Moses.

The Wrong One

2010-12-03T14:31:00.001-05:00

I
sitting at this table, sipping fine white wine, chilling with you, you an you
waiting for the end of that finite line between friends and lovers, and then what we gon do, do, do
'cause girl i gotta confess that right now my heart's beating kinda like 1,2 1,2 1,2
and i'm really not too sure but i'm kinda thinking it might be beating for you (just you)
so i'm cheesing, must be the alcohol, but i'm feeling like a tool (yeah a tool)
and i'm uh... and i'm open, must be your smile, but i'm feeling like a fool (oh fool)
'cause it's, so hard to play it cool
when you got me so fired up
wired up
set, set, ready to blow
ready to go
already ready to know
if i told you i wanna break your back, realign your spine if you'd let me
if i told you by the end of the night i guarantee you'll be mine if you'd bet me
if i told you i could love you so bad it'd be good, love you so good it'd be bad, and that you'd have to be mad to forget me, if you'd let me...
'cause girl i wont lie
i really can't deny that right now my mind is racing
pacing
chasing, pipe dreams
and as i fiend
i realise at last
that i'm moving too fast
and that i need to slow
down.

II
cause girl i'm genuine, but like ginuwine
i'm so anxious
these words rolling about a hundred per minute
thoughts flowing about a thousand per second
and my secret weapon is words,
but distance is hers,
so she stay afar even though she got her own car
and the only time we link is when we out with friends at a bar, or a club, or at school,
man, this shit is bizarre...
all i want is one night to hold with her in my arms;
or maybe one night to get you out in the open
cause that kiss was magical, sorry to put it out in the open
but you know how long i was hopin for that shit to just happen?
shit, this aint rappin
this is poetry, who knew that could happen?
with only one taste of your lips i could slip, trip, split open my lip
and find myself surrounded by it, your attention
find myself drowning in it, my affection
and suddenly, i. can't. breathe and what i. need. is simply...
you.

III
already whipped and i aint even got the puss yet,
told me come over, had no choice but to push 'jet'
on my jalopy, turn that shit into a rocket
she got me in her pocket
and i aint even got to c*@k it, d*@k it, s*@k it,
f*@k it
whatever you call it, i want it
so bad, and i know that she knows that.
but try as i might to resist my mind always goes back,
to that night, and that dress, and them lips, and them hips, in my whip,
aww, fuck it, lemme close that chapter
resist the throes of the rapture, of you, and what i wanna do when i catch ya.
cause before i get too deep girl, there's sumpn i gotta ask ya:
do you ever think of me when i'm not there?
do your knees get weak when i get near?
does the sight, sound, smell, thought of me etch a permanent smile on the canvas of your face that can only be replaced by the thought that i do care?
cause if i don't, then it's already too late for me,
and i dunno that you can set a date and just wait for me
til i come down from cloud nine, in due time
and that's fine, and dandy, and divine
but the thought of me and you is simply so sublime that, what i'm really trying to ask is...
lady, will you be mine?

To the critics: Why I Hate you small people

2010-11-20T15:48:00.000-05:00

fuck you!
ok, so maybe my jamaica is a cliche to you
but i don't have to justify shit, so screw you too.
call me upitty, i don't care;
criticising what you don't know, and can't write...
and it's funny, you probably never even intended the sleight
but i can't get rid of your darkness, i can only shed light.
pay attention, how i take time
and write lines
to clear the air, sometimes just to clear my mind;
you try to read between lines and get CRUSHED,
you get trapped behind them, you're stuck
imprisoned. your mind is your cell because you lack imagination
your critique bears no fruit because your thoughts are a wasteland
trying to place me on the ground over by where you stand,
but we've never been equal, and we never will be
so forget it! keep trying to understand
i just stand over you, rod in my hand
schooling you in the ways of art, love and life.
it's truth, and i live it...
your bullshit gets me livid, and i love it.
because you only reinforce that you can't reach these heights.
you can't sit at the summit of truth and feel peace,
it all has to be coloured by the disease of your degrees.
it all has to be bullshit perspective, a directive to look in all directions
but the one pointing to the fact that sometimes it's just a rehash.
sometimes it's not new to talk about where i'm from
because it's already all been done,
but sometimes people just forget and need a reminder;
and some people are ignorant and want to know
so take of the blinders, for god's sake, goddamnit...
and you know what, i blame you and 'The UWI'.
because it should be called 'U and Dem',
since you and dem colluding to create cookie-cutter shapes
of artsy-fart people that can only pretend to relate
when all they're doing is mimicking each other
in bad prose and worse opinions...
so you and your educated crew can all get fucked!
because i don't care, i don't need a university degree
to tell me how to feel
or to know what's reality and when it's all me.
so i'll keep doing my thing... talking my talk
with that little dutty swagger in my walk,
and when these words finally find their mark
you gon know is you i talking to
and that my poetry is to be felt, not judged...
and you gon know that i just told you
to fuck off.

Why I Love Winter

2010-11-17T09:11:00.007-05:00

Winter is my favourite season because it destroys the world, and allows it to make itself anew.

Why I Believe in Love

2010-11-15T13:36:00.000-05:00

I
I've never met a woman
who could wash me off my feet
and captivate me;
who could take my breath
even as she takes my heart;
who could break me down
or elevate me
at will
with but a wink.

I've never met a woman
who could stimulate my mind more than my body
and invite me into her head before her pants;
who could teach me the meaning of 'sensual' and 'love-making'
rather than lust and sex;
who could free me and allow me to be myself
without fear of judgement,
while opening up completely
without fear of her own diminution.

I've never met a woman who could give
the best and worst of her
and like ambrosia,
nourish my soul to godhood.

I've never met a woman
who was more suited to being called
a lady.

Truly, i had never met a Woman
worth meeting
before You.

ii
But more than the good you do to, and for, me,
it's Your way of catching me off-guard and unprepared,
pants below ankles,
withered manhood dangling
precariously
from waist;

it's how You always find me
at precisely those moments,
when i most need, and most try,
to vainly sling blind bravado
to mask my own impotence;

it's Your way of divining my attacks,
parrying my blows
and piercing my armour
to strike at the heart of the matter,
disarming and emasculating as You go,
to take what very little worth i have left;

it's Your erasing
the last vestige of the man i once was--
the pride i vowed to shatter, the ego
i was myself to have destroyed;

it's You
stealing the best of me
and leaving me as helpless and naked
as a new-born;

it is Your way,
Your way of showing me i am utterly inept,
of knowing me too well for me to lie,
Your way of suckling me like a babe on Your breast
to nurse me back to life
after all this has been accomplished,
after You have taken everything that is good in me
as Your prize;

it's Your way of rendering me a child before a Woman;

yes, it is Your way
of doing this
so effortlessly, so unconsciously
that makes my shame that much worse;
it is Your way of knowing me too well
for me to hide my deficiencies,
the flaws in my composition;
it is all this,
which makes You
the only Woman i have ever loved.

A Coach for A Queen (Series)

2010-10-27T00:00:00.000-05:00

1. (Insomnia)
I slept not last night
so caught in disports of you...
my, spring already!

2. (Lady)
spring always follows
the slumber of wintry night,
let's dawn together.

3. (New England in autumn)

We fall together

hues change as our spirits leave

ah! crushed underfoot.

4. (Kwan)
We were left for dead
neath the ice-covered river
Will we see the sun?

5. (Wishful Thinking: La petite mort)
Now I'm become death
I died in your lap and saw
bliss: a thousand suns!

6. (A Coach for A Queen, Milady)
My heart's my carriage
my words are my currency.
Will you ride with me?

Je vais vous présenter... 'A Coach for A Queen'

2010-10-24T16:50:00.003-05:00

So today I'd like to unveil a new project (finally!) I've been working on the last few days: what, in the coming days, should evolve into a series of poems entitled 'A Coach for A Queen'--at this point they're all haikus, but who knows, I might employ another form.

Fortunately, being back at school is starting to provide what appears to be the necessary impetus for me to imbibe and transcribe inspiration--the desire to procrastinate! (Suddenly, there's an urgency to do everything but schoolwork, so of course I retreat into my passions.)

These are just the first two, but I'm developing and refining others, so keep an eye out. And thanks again for your continued patience, All!
--
1. (Insomnia)
I slept not last night
so caught in disports of you...
my, spring already!

2. (Lady)
spring always follows
the slumber of wintry night,
let's dawn together.

...

Update

2010-10-07T00:53:00.001-05:00

Once again I'm writing a post that is not a poem...

I just want to apologise to all of my readers for being absent for so long. At first I really was just very busy, but in the last few weeks I've found myself fallen victim to that infamous malaise known as writer's block.
I ask that you please bear with me; I am, at the moment, working on channelling the old creative juices back into my art. Hopefully in the coming days I will be able to crank out a real update... something worth publishing.

Thanks for your patience!

A Sob And A Tear (for Patti-Ann)

2010-08-20T22:36:00.003-05:00

I heard someone say,

"I wish I could take the pain away,

And put things back

Like they were before."

I sit sighing to myself,

Emotions sitting on a shelf,

Heart on sleeve,

Wondering where now from here.

I inwardly repeat the words,

I just uttered and it hurts,

Knowing I know

Just not what to do.

It's so hard to get off my chest,

At first a joke, a simple jest,

Three friends talking

Underneath a tree.

I took on their private fears,

The weighty burden mine to share,

Like friends should do

In great times of need.

I know she wasn't my best friends,

BFF's until the end,

Nor sister, schoolmate,

Daughter or darling dear.

But I knew her and she knew me,

And that knowledge passes sufficiently,

To tug heart strings

And invoke sorrowful tears.

To make it worse,

I feel it for the friends it hurts,

And wish that I

Could take their pain away.

But now the tragic news at last,

A scar that mars a gentle past,

No future now,

Just present anxiety.

The pain of loss is theirs to bear,

And though I know I can't be there,

I'd gladly take their pain

To set their minds at ease.

But through their trials I'll carry them,

From these sorrows new strength will stem,

And we'll leave one set of footprints

In our wake.

They'll never forget you, Patti-Ann,

And on my word as a man,

I pledge to try

And help to get them through.

But no one ever really dies,

And though there are still tears to cry,

You're smiling at the end

As you did back at the start.

So rest yourself now in peace,

For you life's struggles are at ease,

But know you'll forever have

A place within our hearts.

On Maturity

2010-08-18T13:46:00.019-05:00

It just occurred to me that looking/being young, but feeling within myself that I should be ten years older, is actually a gift. I mean, people don’t seem necessarily to mature, but rather, simply, to get older… i.e. more confirmed in whatever stance they may have already taken. If by 30 we’re supposed to be fully settled into ‘life’, then if I settle in at 20, I have a ten-year head-start (right?). That’s important for many people (life is banefully short, after all), but especially for a writer, since it takes so long to read enough to experience and choose (a) style(s), to formulate the story/stories to tell, to endure howsoever many rejection letters are issued before being swept up in the sweet euphoria of triumph, acceptance, of dreams coming to fruition--like a dog being fed in the obscene hours of morning after being forgot all night.

20 is not such a bad age or stage; older people are just envious of the promise of youth, so young but so potent, that they wish they had done more—that’s why they say, "you’re too young”—because they hope to deter you, stave you off for as long as possible. They hope to give themselves a chance to retire quietly or to live on past glories for a blink longer, until they are rendered irrelevant, and the youth finally rise up in fiery vengeance to claim their place.

It’s an old dance, ancient and primal as the belly of the earth.

Or: the youth grow restless, fearing the onset of the crippling old age that they witness in their forebears; still the elders hold out as long as possible. Caught between death and incontinence, they ponder the unknown ("What will happen to me after I stop working?" or "What happens to us when we die?"). So programmed for productivity are we, so unaware that we’ve made ourselves resources rather than exploiters of them, we humans are afraid of not—not doing, not saying, just thinking… or worse, just being. Fearing the unknown in these things, fearing a lack of control of everything around us (the birthright from ‘God’ to which we are so used—tending animals, farming the land, and controlling all), we subconsciously endorse greed, subjugate our fellow men and develop pride in the name of this ‘divine decree’.

The youth want it all, the elders want to retain it all, and the wise ones sit back and observe this circus of shadows in an age of the gross. They are revered only insofar as they cannot be disregarded as ‘loony’; the wiser ones relish the corruption of the system—they frolic in the shambles, rejoicing as the matrix breaks down, or sit on the sidelines like benched football players on the losing team, pensive and penitent about the loss, but not. Still the wisest ones exit the big top, shirts drenched in clown tears, miens stinking of decaying life… they smile and welcome the change, but cry through the victory because they know it’s transient, and the cycle will be continued for another generation, equally frail and equally misguided.

The youth despair only at the passage of time, before they choose between irrelevance or death, whether extending from a blessed life or continuous hardships... still fewer despair as they choose the gifted curse of ‘wisdom’. (If they’re lucky, the sweet ones die young.)

But the cycle of impatience continues, as the youth rise and destroy the ways of the old, replacing them with their own kingdoms and the spoils of their own conquests. Each man, by his non-conformance, is given a chance to be his own Atillah or Alexander, and so each man seizes the opportunity for elevation.

We are all already our own gods, even if we fail to see it.

False prophets chant down true revelation as falser ones elevate the unattainable. We rob ourselves of our own power, our own self-reliance, and willingly take the opiates even as we are subjugated. We are then exploited by those only wise enough to pass the dutch without sampling, as they take a different drug and prepare for the ritual slaughter of those in the way of their ambition. They kill to claim what should belong to all, and the former stewards must be killed in order for them to share. It is a wonderfully irreverent and redundant circle of viciousness. This cannibalistic parricide is our legacy, our human nature. We endure and learn only so much from our antecedents as we need to overtake them…

A beautiful thing this life is.

Continence

2010-08-16T13:08:00.000-05:00

I
I try to write,
to liberate a poem
from the dense marble
of vocabulary cluttering my
head.

II
I try to write,
and yet nothing comes;
still my pen leaks impotence,
as anxious and disregarded as
my cock.

III
I try to write,
yet the words, my head,
are as constricted, as vacuous
as the dessicated, forgotten pipes
of my scrotum.

IV
I try to write;
   my pen is uncooperative,
   however, and your supple womb,
   oh my page, must yet wait, must yet lust,
   for my inky release.

V
I. want. to. write.
    but my pen, yearning to ejaculate
    the sweet, unfurled-comma mess of my
    ink-sperm, cannot, will not, know liberation
    until my impatient body has.

(Still not quite pleased with the title of this piece, so if you have any suggestions, post it as a comment or message it to me for a chance to rename this poem. Thanks in advance guys!)

Where'd you go?

2010-08-06T14:50:00.000-05:00

I looked at a picture
of myself as a boy today,
and I cried.

On Assholes

2010-08-02T02:03:00.000-05:00

Respect
assholes.

And I mean that: respect assholes;
not the fake ones
who are vonny jerks but who can, really, conjure consciences
like ichor out of stone
when thrice invoked, and the spell is broken
and blood-hot life fills and swells and shatters their gargoylian
edifice.
I'm talking about the real assholes.

Respect assholes.
Because they carry a burden that you could neither comprehend
nor carry;
and because respect requires neither love nor hate,
only acknowledgement that something difficult has been undertaken
and that anything less than respect would unfairly diminish
the struggle of triumph.

Respect, assholes.
For to truly so be
requires not simply an acute awareness of the emotional depth of others,
but also a tenacious detachment from the cares such understanding brings.
Feeling is easy; how often do we understand?
Consider: Empathy is a fundamental feature of humanity, life,
the right to share in and be moved by the experiences of like beings.
And consider: Assholes are permanently estranged from empathy,
and by extension
the joy of others' triumphs, the pride of others' resilience, the warmth
of another's heart.
To be an asshole is to be lonely, foreign
and blindly hated.
And though assholes only have themselves to blame, at the end of the day
they have only themselves.

So the next time an asshole hurts your feelings
remember he may very well be maimed and withered,
waiting for a Godot
to teach him better.

Respect,

Assholes.

Corpse Pose Repose: A New Leaf (for Ricon and President Barack Obama)

2010-07-20T23:17:00.000-05:00

I
Laying down, emotionally,
poetically, charged,
Reggae poetry and caged bird Black Her-story
ringing in my ears and burning in my mind,
I allow my eyes to fall shut,
allow reminiscence to wash over me,
and as I inhale deeply, slowly,
I reach for my pen, my notebook,
and turn over a new leaf.

II
I am transported now;
A broken mental movie picture reel begins to play
a single scene, spliff burned at both ends
so I do not remember
how I got here, or when I left.
Through the stale haze of ganja smoke and time
I remember your unmoving face, hyper vividly
and its brilliance burns my eyes
like gazing upon the Face of God.
You stand on those steps, transfixed
And I am at your side
lost, but expectant
like a silly sentry, dumb but awaiting your orders.
I am suddenly reminded of my body
and I breathe faster now;
as the memory fades
like the books I have been reading, my mind lies open
and I turn over a new leaf.

III
Never will I understand what happened to you or your world that night.
But at recalling moment and television and announcement and reception
even now a nameless power seizes me
and I am jolted from the reverie
by three waves of electricity, powerful
like a rejection of the Christ, communicated
from my head down my spine
and my cock gets stiff and screams a soundless salute
I am returned to that inscrutable but infinitely unforgettable point
when a Half-Black Half-White Half-Christian Half-realist Idealist embodiment of the American experience and epitome of the nation's dream who came from Halfway between the Ghetto and the Suburbs left to go Halfway around his world to study and serve in the North*
was rendered whole.
But describing my experience that night requires more feeling
than I can eke out of every scorching, quivering cell of my body
And more words than I can find or fit on this page
So I turn over a new leaf.

IV
In your skin you carried the fulfilment of a People's Hope
Your shimmering eyes reflected in their dance the bacchanalia without you
The free-struggling tears that gilded your face melted years of confusion
The cacophony of your solemn silence spoke volumes to me of your victory
I stood outside myself as a foreign thing wrestling to understand
You took my ignorance and you enveloped me within yourself
You let me borrow your heart to feel and your eyes to see
Thank you for including me in a history not my own but of me
You spoke me into words on the page as the World turned over a new leaf

--
* Altered due to Blogger formatting; it was critical that the line didn't break. (Original line reads--"... to go Halfway around his world to study in Massachusetts and serve in New York")

Sticks and Stones

2010-07-18T20:01:00.000-05:00

I’m sorry, for being one of those dead weight friends

Said I gave you nothing, you right, you a self-made man.

Anything you want, you just take with two hands,

No mice and men, I know you stay on track with your plan,

A wish and a can

Do, only hope and dreams in your hands,

And I can see it clear, like I just fit a new lens

On my spectacles, you work like a spectator sport

And I just sit on the sidelines, spectator of sorts.

And cheer you on and hope you win all of them awards,

Positions and success, I know you been working for it.

But trust I wont ask you for anything when you get on,

Cause though I supported you more than I could ever let on,

You never saw it the same and thought you were just the one I went ahead and took set on, made fun of, even tried to get gone

But son you know you dead wrong, I mean you no good? (How could you?)

Still it's my fault--I probably shoulda done more, huh?

And its funny cause money aint everything

But to date, you can't see it

Hope you learn the lesson 'fore too late.

I wish you well, hope that you earn it and that you do great

But when your friends are gone I hope that your money will remain.

But who am I to tell you materialism aint too great?

The fundamental final aim isn't to get too paid?

Glossing over bald spots like they never happened

I can see it in your eyes that you wish it really hadn't

But that's not my fault... and that's how it is.

Sorry for the negative encouragement.

But honestly, I appreciate the honesty, that you had the balls to be straight on with me

Is that what courage is?

It hurts, but it's funny when true feelings come out
I guess you had a lot of steam to really blow out the spout,

Couldn't believe my ears when the words fell from your mouth

But it's my turn, and I've got some shit to say to you now:

Putting you down was me lifting you up

I know it sucks, but I've seen it man and trust, life can be tough.

And it's not that I believe you don't know all this stuff,

But I wish I'd been reminded when my shit had got rough.

Life is a struggle, I bear that knowledge daily

And though we all manage this hefty burden ably

I really think you should mind what you say to people more carefully

'Cause it only defines the pain in a way set out more clearly,

I'm signing this sincerely...

So, so long my friend

And go long; it's in the air, I see you waiting for it down at the end.

I'm sorry I couldn't give more material things,

But here's what I know: how to mine gold from a mind with a pen.

Peace.

NB/ So you might have noticed a previous post by the same name, but I felt so strongly about this topic that I wound up writing too separate pieces--the first post, meant to be performed as a dub poem, and the other (above), which became the lyrics to my latest song (the one you may hear playing right now).

Guilt

2010-07-16T00:35:00.001-05:00

Dog outside barks angrily, helplessly
As I listen to the awful cacophony of knife on plate, pot on sink, drink on lip
My stomach grumbles, my head pounds
I feel sick at the sickness in my core
As though I would only eat what I throw up
Nothing flows from me
I am not well

I am not myself when she's not around

Update

2010-07-13T23:45:00.000-05:00

Hey All,

I want to sincerely apologise for the lack of updates lately. If you know about this blog, you know I pride myself on providing you with regular updates (several weekly). However, I've recently re-committed myself to improving my craft and as such, I've decided to read more (both poetry and prose) to inform and diversify my own work, as well as to spend more time refining each piece. Of course that means a little more time completing and posting them, but I'll still be banging them out... and hopefully the improvements will show in the work.

Also, don't think I forgot my 'spoken word' series--it's just that, unfortunately, my laptop crashed recently, along with all my recorded work (and the webcam I used to use *tear*). I'll still try to get the videos up, but there's going to be a bit of a delay =[

Anyway, you can (hopefully) just enjoy the music on the blog, re-view what's already here, and keep an eye out for new posts. Hopefully we will keep moving from strength to strength.

'Nuff love, an' respeck!

Sticks and Stones

2010-06-30T06:18:00.010-05:00

Words said in anger, said in haste, once spoken can never ever be replaced;

they can never be reclaimed; they just hang there in space

like little suns, as bodies involved continue to move like clockwork

grounded in place, by gravity

of the situation

laced, with the sweet rum, of—

malaise, bitterness and vitriol.

And all, the while, the, sensation

of catharsis floods the senses

as you start this, invective of the heartless

on the one you want to hurt.

But the schizophrenia of this sado-masochistic dance,

juxtaposed with a Mother Theresa stance,

gives rise to the plight—

(of wanting to do right, while relishing another’s pain

even as it wipes the smile from your face).

But though your gain is slight, that person's pain is trite,

and you think nothing of breaking angel’s wings.

Shattered bones exposed like a moth body,

wings plucked in flight;

or a butterfly pressed in a notebook…

To preserve its beauty.

Yet to preserve that beauty, that feeling,

an innocent must be killed.

Martyr blood splashed on the wall, dried, peeling,

but made out in fine print a warning, a hint—

“I feel not. Don’t fuck with me!”

Words don't just hurt, they kill.

"Kind words can be short and easy to speak, but
their echoes are truly endless." – Mother Theresa

A few more aphorisms...

2010-06-24T13:59:00.009-05:00

People don't grow up, they just grow.

Thinking is a forgotten art.

I've always preferred the abstract to the specific--something about it just seems more useful.

Ignorance is the spice of life.

A handsome face is a flurry of complementary contradictions.

Polymathy requires that one become a vanity mirror.

Solo - Performance

2010-06-21T10:59:00.005-05:00

(Sorry about the audio/video mismatch; I'm trying to see if I can get it resolved.)

Intro. to Dub Poetry

2010-06-19T16:28:00.007-05:00

My first attempts at haikus

2010-06-08T23:30:00.008-05:00

The Great fall of Man
Came with a warning message:
'Twas technology

Blackberry killed us-
The moment we stop speaking
Break Pandora's box

storm clouds gather nigh

ischuretic, for thirsty

tongues there's but one drop

The red "L's" come out when the sun shines brighter

The Untitled

2010-06-06T12:15:00.005-05:00

I want:

A place where we can meet as fellows
To sit and share life, passion and perspective intermingling.

A place where different hearts cut from the same cloth
Reassemble in a glorious miscellany
That shouts to the heavens and whispers to the soul.

Where minds are invited to be perplexed
Or beckoned to be soothed by art, photography and text.
Render unto Caesar that which is his, and unto this Forum your art.
Do you know of such a place? Tell me and inspire a heart;
Show it to me, and I'll show you Elysium.

ii

Send me your heroes.
I am not one to be subjugated by virtuous voodoo
But the pin prick of an artist’s bristled brush
Should be enough to salve my spirit into submission

Do you know a place
Where Dionysus
Might rest his goblet upon a table?

Do not denounce
Your laurels but for this story book;
For it may not open without you
And what a shame for all those tiny landscapes,
Should they stay locked, without their page’s back.

Originally published to 'At Art Words' as a collaborative piece by myself and Missy Ricco (the creator of AAW). Much thanks, Missy.
Here's the link: The Untitled

bum.bo.klaat.

2010-05-30T13:04:00.006-05:00

They can't understand. They stand on the outside looking in, trying to ascribe meaning and enhance comprehension. They fail, miserably. They try to apply it, pluralize it, formalise it, institutionalise it, trend it, spend it, pronounce it, understand it... but they can't. They always fail, miserably.

Where did it come from? Even we aren't sure. But consensus is senseless, because they that own it neither know nor care. It is a necessary evil, a fundamental right, a beautiful expression. It is.

Say it, shout it, bark it, spit it, whisper it, pretty it up, dog it down, modify the klaat outta it... It is ours to spend, ours to defend. We control it, and couldn't get rid of it even if we wanted to. Infinitely renewable, utterly limitless, moving from strength to strength... Ugly to some, invisible to others, it is something shared, something local. Of so much we borrow, hope to own, alter, this is our own. This is our legacy. It is the spirit of the Tainos, it is European invasion, it is the subjugated's perseverance, it is musical subculture, it is international recognition, it is social reform. It is Garvey and his movement, Bob and his guitar, Lisa and her smile, Bolt and his cleats, Dudus and his presidency. It is Us.

It joins us, even where there is so much separation. Jamaicans appreciate this: to be Jamaican is to belong to a nation of ghosts - it is to belong to a people with a fractured past, an unintelligible present, and a systematically uncoordinated future. To be Jamaican is to understand the fact of 'multiple Jamaicas'. To be Jamaican is to understand that there is no understanding, there is no classification. To be Jamaican is to know there is no 'typical', there is no benchmark. To be Jamaican is to belong to a group of wholly unique people with no embodiment to be found in any one person, group, class or ambition. There is no 'Jamaican dream'... there is no 'union jack'. We have symbols, but what symbolises us? We have lore, but stick-to-it-iveness requires conscious forgetfulness, and we have not seen need for stories for a long time. It is Us, now.

Some countries have fine monuments, some have impressive history. Jamaica has perseverance, hard work and ambition. The will of fire - the will to persevere and persist against all odds - is bequeathed at birth. Innovation is developed, survivalism is bred, impossible is deconstructed. We push limits, we do what shouldn't be possible. We break records, set trends, grow. The small island of wood and water boasts a big voice in concrete jungles and athletic arenas and glass-lined boardrooms alike. 'Out of many, one people'; 'no problem'; 'likkle but tallawah' - these are all our mottos. These are all Jamaica. Each little drop joins the wave of the thundering flood. It is Jamaican. It is Us, as we are.

Xaymaca... Jamaica... J’maica... Jumayca... Jamyaica... 876...

Call it what you want. We already do. But know that you caan box up wi

bum.

bo.

klaat.

Solo

2010-05-28T12:30:00.009-05:00

Now it's a tragedy?

Oh, what a travesty.
It's sick! how suddenly everyone wanna try and talk back to me,
It's disgusting!
The constant scrambling and the clustering,
Closing ranks, opening hearts... minds.
Say it's your time
And suddenly EVERYONE has got time,
A circle-jerk of mimes, painted-face actors,
silently signing...
I alone speak.
But the conversation is incomplete.
Dual monologues.
They act. I see them but I don't FEEL them.
I write. They read, butfail to comprehend,
They don't SEE me... can't see me.
Entertainment... fodder...
Don't patronise me now.
Smiling and laughing, silently,
Hollow words fall from hollow cheeks
on deaf ears.
I cried for help,
And you danced around, signing, oblivious.
Utter incomprehension of the spoken turmoil,
of an isolated mind.
You squandered the chance - YOU are to blame.
([Yes,] Fingers pointed hurt more than blades pushed, nozzles directed;
feel the full force of the PINPRICK of my...
... pain.)
No one wants to feel loss; it's selfish desire that actuates us,
Not uncoditional love of others, but love of self.
Life is a struggle we strive to be released from...
You hold on selfishly,
denying the moment, and ignoring the writing on the wall.
Then in the end it's time to close ranks and try to shut out fear of the,
unknown??
It's pathetic!
Save it!
In the end, we all die alone.

Third World

2010-05-25T12:30:00.002-05:00

We always thought it was one world, one heart.
We thought all men had equal chance to be equal before god
and Man;
We didn't know some were more equal than others.
They spoke of liberty, equality, brotherhood,
the pursuit of happiness.
Our heads spun, giddy, with the promise of revolution,
of a better life.
We came with our everything, and more.
We heard the promise of streets lined with gold,
and came with hearts lined with dreams.
We packed it all in-
ambition, intellect, xiwang, grace;
we packed it all in two suitcases.
We gave up our families, security, comfort,
all sense of stability.
We gave our lives, howsoever tempestuous, to better ourselves,
and to better them in turn.
But they create us as they interpret us,
and we are remade in their image.
They call us third world;
they are first, but we didn't know it was a race.
We gave up ambivalence in our countries
to be second-class citizens in theirs.
We traded one pair of shackles for another.
They promised us progress,
And we believed them.

(NB. I'm proud to say I read this piece to my first major audience during an open mic session at the Calabash International Literary Festival.)

Jamaica, 1962

2010-05-23T12:30:00.004-05:00

My country is alive.
I can feel it, living.
And my city, I can feel it healing.
As though from a deep, protracted slumber,
It has awakened.
My world breathes, deeply,
a long inhalation to cleanse its internals,
reverberating in every household
and stirring the hearts of a nation to action.
It has disturbed the muck... it has forced eyes to the ocean of history, future, hopes and dreams.
All but too late,
we have seen the reflection of our fatal errors, and been disgusted.
We have decided to take a stand.
Enough has truly become enough.

The people shake off the acquired inertia of hopelessness,

the complacency of getting by but not getting ahead,

the unaccountability of remaining silent as reckless drivers take the wheel.

We have realised, only with the eyes of the world affixed:

Pride is alive.

Nationalism is alive.
Jamaica is alive.

That little animal lying in the Caribbean

has awakened.

The wait is over... the time is now!

What's left?

2010-05-22T12:30:00.003-05:00

What do we do when it's not enough?
Will it alone suffice when times get rough?
Will it feed and shelter us, clothe and protect us?
When there's a disconnect, will it provide the nexus?
When things falter around us, will it stand firm?
Do we compromise on it or take it on its own terms?
Through hardships, will it really be there to conquer all?
Will it lift us up where we belong when we stumble and fall?
When we are forsaken, will it be our support beam?
Can we count on it to keep us on track to our dreams?
Will it guide us when we're unsure of what comes next?
And when it's gone, I gotta know: what do we have left?

--
For Kwan.

Intrigue

2010-05-20T23:06:00.005-05:00

Greeted
by a girl (no, a woman)
with a quiet smile,
poised strength,
a graceful energy.
I haunt
her gliding steps
with a lingering eye.
Her interest
in an imperfect me
is captivating.
I can't
venture there
with her... I know that.
But she is like a schoolgirl
who has tagged me.
Smiling, I freeze;
I wonder,
what is her name?

A few aphorisms...

2010-05-18T03:39:00.002-05:00

What is a mind if not made up?

Words, they come easy... it's the feeling that's the hard part.

Elevators reveal the true nature of man.

The sweet ones die young... the rough are cursed with long life and inglorious deaths.

A library is the mind's garage; books are the mechanics.

Lose your glasses - lose your vision; lose your temper - lose a friend; lose your mind - lose it all.

What say you?

2010-05-17T21:59:00.004-05:00

The wave of 'change' that recently swept America has now made its way to our [Jamaica's] shores, as well as the shores of several other countries - e.g. Britain, China, Thailand. Is it scary that this 'wave' is happening, along with more frequent and dramatic natural disasters, as 2012 (the 'troubling' end of the Mayan calendar, and supposed end of the world) approaches? Or is it a sign that the Earth, like its inhabitants, is tired of the corruption and is simply aching for change as we step into a new, and brighter, future? What say you?

Stage Exit

2010-05-11T01:57:00.000-05:00

If I were to commit suicide
and explain exactly why I died,
this would be the note, stretched wide,
you'd find laid out by my side.
I would probably apologise,
and tell my mother to dry her eyes.
I'd wish she had another to take my place,
one who wouldn't do something so base.
I'd tell her I loved her, and wish I'd done
more to be a better son.
I'd tell my fathers it's not their fault,
but that their fight should come to a halt.
I say I know they did the best one can
to try to make me a good man.
I'd say I loved and respected them above all
and like them, tried always to walk with head tall.
My sisters I would thank for all the help
as I grew up to man from whelp.
I'd tell them kindly not to cry
and, though hurtful, every brother dies.
To my friends, all you guys and girls
made it a truly lovely world.
I'd thank you for the time we shared
and say, for you, always I cared.
To my enemies, even though I'm gone,
know that my memory still lives on.
Even if you keep hating me,
know I tried to love you sublimely.
God, I'm sorry I couldn't wait.
I'm sorry I couldn't have more faith.
On my back you rested the globe,
and tested my limits like you did with Job.
And it's not that you gave more than I could bear,
but I, selfishly, got tired of feeling the worst for wear.
Diana, always beautiful and strong,
you were what kept me going for so long.
Huntress, goddess, star divine,
I cherish the time that you were mine.
I wish I had done more from the start,
and though I failed us, you are my heart.
Don't hate me, don't blame yourself. I'm watching over you,
just keep loving everyone like you always do.

To you all, I'm sorry. I know it pains,
but we'll someday be together again.
My presence is still in the sky and earth,
and death is, after all, only part of rebirth.
You made my time spend truly amazing.
I LOVE YOU ALL.
Signed,
Jason.

An unorthodox post...

2010-05-05T13:14:00.002-05:00

I know this blog is (has been) dedicated solely to my writings, but I couldn't not post this simply for that reason. I mean, I write, among other things, poems, about many things; however, I am quite pleased to say this is the first poem I've ever had written about, and dedicated to, me. I thank you, unnamed poet(ess)!

Jason Alliman

his looks are so distinct

his eyes as big and bright as my heart for his love

his nose bent more perfectly than the curves of a right angle

his lips can no longer be parted from my sight, for i so desire their sex appeal

his mind is so brilliant, so complex

his thoughts are as defined as a black hole

his love and presence are surpassed by no other

Manic-Depressive

2010-05-05T12:46:00.001-05:00

I know you're tired of hurting.
I know you're tired of pain.
Your breath is short, your body is weak.
Your chest burns and your heart aches.
You're weeping; I see your struggles.
You're finished; I understand.

But it will get better.
The moon paints a tragic light; the darkness is sorrowful.
The stillness is disquieting
Now.
But the dawn brings with it prospects of salvation.
Colours hue the sky,
rending past from future, rendering old things new.
The world yawns and fills its lungs; drawing life into itself,
it crawls from its stagnating shell.
The change is necessary, beautiful, welcome.
The singular is dualised; but jekylling,
the other must hyde.

Distinct... pure...
Let not the dark seep into your days.
Let the past as yesterday... and suffer no regret.
Rebirth will come when the birds stop chirping.

Freak Show

2010-05-01T03:29:00.000-05:00

My problem is that I exist outside myself,

outside my emotions.

It all has become so cliché – I have become so cliché,

that with all my experiences fitting a mould predefined,

I can no longer serve as point of reference for my own disingenuousness.

I know what emotion goes where… pre-empting, I fail to feel them.

They’re simply building blocks, playthings for an idle mind.

And people, actors playing parts.

I sit in the audience, uncomfortable with the masquerade,

Wondering if they’ll discover my charade.

Will they find my ticket stub in my pocket?

I furiously play my part.

Heart melting

2010-04-30T02:08:00.001-05:00

And in my excitement,
my weakness,
I scrambled to devise
what was rendered only
as a shoddy apology.
A salve for a corpse,
a bandage for a bullet wound,
I approached former rashness
with arrogance.
At once repentant
And disingenuous,
my continued thoughtlessness
undermined my efforts at sincerity.
Days of reflection, wasted.
I belched an apology -
my naked regret,
from one corner of my mouth
While laughing out the other;
still unthinking
I isolated us further.

I'm sorry.

When my spirits are low

2010-04-30T02:07:00.002-05:00

When my spirits are low,

That is when the poetry flows.

Experience resonates within the quiet depths of my soul,

And the reverberation evokes emotion.

These emotions, though they abate with time,

Still leave bittersweet traces in the recesses of my mind.

The conglomeration of these,

When swelled to excess

And recalled in repose,

Are what gave us the Wordsworthian rose:

“Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feeling,”

Which, after being ejaculated, leave me reeling.

The words scrawled on the page are not mine;

I simply provide the medium.

I sit back and watch as art is made

So sweet, so sublime.

Once it is done,

And the page has been fully satisfied by the ink of my pen,

I lay back, spent; I’m gone.

The feeling ebbs away,

I drift off, fatigued,

And my soul is at peace

Where the angels play.

Queen of the Damned (pure)

2010-04-19T13:43:00.004-05:00

Just Jody - The Intricate Mind: A -Typical:
"Her love was A-typical.
The kind of love that opened doors,
pulled out chairs,
and never forgot a birthday ."

Her love was A-typical.

The kind of love that opened doors,

pulled out chairs,

and never forgot a birthday.

The kind of love that took hold of hands,

took hold of hips,

and took hold of the reigns.

Her kind of love didn't ever involve P.D.A.s,

couldn't,

because it made people uncomfortable... judgemental... oppressive.

So she took her love,

took it underground,

into the sewers and gutters, away from people.

She took it where she wouldn't be judged,

wouldn't make others uncomfortable,

and where she could be loved in return.

She took her love, into the dark, out of consideration.

But she left the door ajar.

Queen of the Damned (developed)

2010-04-18T11:21:00.003-05:00

Her love was A-typical.
The kind of love that opened doors,
pulled out chairs,
and never forgot a birthday.
The kind of love that took hold of hands,
took hold of hips,
and took hold of the reigns.
Her kind of love didn't ever involve P.D.A.s,
couldn't,
because it made people uncomfortable... judgemental... oppressive.
So she took her love,
took it underground,
into the sewers and gutters, away from people.
She took it where she wouldn't be judged,
wouldn't make others uncomfortable,
and where she could be loved in return.
She took her love, into the dark, out of consideration.
But she left the door ajar.

Sadly, hers was the kind of love people on the outside,
normal people,
considered dirty.
Hers was the kind of love that escaped neat categorisation,
that refused to check any one box,
that outsiders couldn't understand.
They peered through the door,
and didn't like what was brewing under their noses,
what so offended their eyes.
Hers was the kind of love that loved to love,
but others loved to hate.
And in their ignorance, they shut her out.
They tried to control, dictate, how she loved,
defined her in ways and terms they could understand,
made her in an image reconcilable with themselves.
They couldn't beat her, so they joined her to them.
They made themselves her points of reference.

They ravaged her, demonized her, ridiculed her.
They made her exotic, a fantasy;
they made her carnal and lusty.
They tried to take her love,
tried to make her sterile.
But she loved from the purest place,
was devoted and faithful,
and when she loved, she loved hard.
She refused to be defined on their terms,
refused to have her love sterilised or her options limited.
She embraced her love, all of it.
She accepted her difference and turned this acceptance inward on herself.
She learned to love herself.
She revolted against the controls they set for her,
and they were revolted.
She started a revolution, a rebirth,
in the light of the underground.
She drew others to her with her love,
and there they dwell, still,
typically A-typical,
never far removed,
laughing, loving, living.

Always take pleasure from the simple things in life.

2010-04-16T19:14:00.001-05:00

So, a little dubious with regard to some recent medical problems, and feeling… ‘odd’ (for lack of a better word) within my own body, I’ve suddenly become (acutely) aware of my own mortality. That’s not to say that I suspected that I wouldn’t die, or that I would particularly mind dying right now, it’s just that I can feel the unpredictability of death, the palpability of its imminence (it's always ‘just around the corner’-ness), as well as its complete lack of regard for the plans of mice and men. I can see in my skin, feel in the pressure building in my head, taste on the air, hear in the dulled sounds of life going on all around me, that I can plan and achieve as much as possible but one day, probably without my expecting it, I will cease to exist. I can want to live long, or want to marry my girlfriend, or want to have a child, or want to be successful, but none of that is really within my control. I still have to work within the time I have, which is never more certain than the moment that just passed.

Tick tock… time may be running out, but it’s also running ahead. It’s refreshing. Every moment I exist, I move as much away from death as I do towards it. I exist, for the moment.

But the revelation of my mortality is also a realisation of how much I’ve planned and wanted in my life, and how much I’ve failed. It is also an awakening to my own pride and megalomania – I have honestly always thought I was destined for amazing things (maybe it’s the ‘Jason’ in me, maybe it’s the ‘Leo’ in me, or maybe it’s just the ‘me’ in me). But at twenty, could it be time to admit it’s probably all a fantasy life dreamed up? In a few months, I’ll be a full-fledged ‘adult’, yet I’m no Vivaldi, Shakespeare or Drake. I’ve had a few notable accomplishments in my own small world, but I was supposed to be doing amazing things! I mean, good things I’ve done, great things may or may not be unfolding, but amazing things… not looking so likely. At twenty, my greatest achievements are getting a scholarship to university and not becoming an alcoholic. And while these are good things, things of which I am proud, I’ve already put that scholarship in my past (and out of mind… for the most part) and am not 100% certain I won’t, if given the time and chance, become an alcoholic (though I’m resisting that like the plague).

The fact is, if I died right now I would have contributed nothing tangible and worthwhile to the world (NB/ not my world). This is a troubling thought for someone whose aim in life, whose raison d’être, was leaving a mark on the world. If I died this moment, I would have failed; my life would have been a waste. I would never become ‘somebody’ and I would slowly be forgotten as inevitably as the ocean claims sand from the shore. If I die now, I would have failed. But I would never know the difference. My pride and ambitions would die with me, and be reclaimed by the ocean of collective consciousness that is the oneness of all things, just as quickly as my mind and body. That’s a refreshing thought.

So if I don't ‘become someone’, if I won't, I shall strive to kill my pride and live each day for the beauty of each moment. I will listen to the dullness muffling life, I will taste transience in the air, and shakes hands every moment with the competing forces of life and death that dance about me. I will complete this sentence… or not; I will complete a thought… or not; I will make a mark… or not; I will exist. And only by appreciating the beauty of uncertainty, the unpredictability of existence, will I conquer death. Only then will I have lived.

“Planners are the most prideful things in existence, for to so operate, they must necessarily act under the assumption that they are somehow above the tides of mortality that constantly batter the shores of existence.”

My Mind, Your Eyes

2010-04-11T18:29:00.007-05:00

Where do you turn when your house is not a home?
The life you love is gone, your family shatters,
you're all alone.
Crying doesn't help, lying doesn't help, dying is but one step,

away,

but won't come yet.

You're too broken to even fight back,

to feel anger... heartbreak... sadness.

You ghost around yourself, your life, your world,

a silent observer as it all unfurls.

Unconnected, in every way,

to friends, family, everything...

Night becomes day,

You try to find your way,

but tomorrow forever remains, next day...

same bullshit.

But not for two things, right now I would end it:

my heart, and that sadly,

someone would probably follow,

just to nag me.

Stop!

"Think of the implications of rash actions by two factions and likely reactions and what lacks to both backs when, pressed to a wall, in a corner, are you sure now? so you're sure? wow. can you discern how, you want to proceed? sure, it is your deed. but you sure it's not the weed? I'm sure he's not my seed. I'm not sure just what I need, but I've had all I can stand... all that I can sit... all that I can spit... all of this is it? all of this is shit! I'd rather take a hit, of the chronic, a sip of gin and tonic. my mind's racing; it's sonic. my mind's aching, demonic. don't worry, I'm on it. don't worry, I'm in it. and no, I can't mend it. don't worry, I'll end it..."

But...

Do I love them enough to just not,

not try, not react,

and just stop?

Fretting so much that those around,

might just burst,

but it's the not caring that makes the pain so much worse.

My heart is too empty for empathy

It hurts.

Prison is a matter of location.

I've been trapped in this world, my mind,

for who knows how long...

Whether I'm in or I'm out, there or here,

off, on, right, wrong,

it doesn't matter.

I'll continue to wait and take what I get.

Sadly, a joke of cruel fate;

I just won't die yet...

"A mind is a terrible thing to waste... but an even more terrible thing to use."

Clown Tears and Life Bane

2010-04-11T13:28:00.003-05:00

Fuck!

Life is so empty.

I walk with a blank stare past grey flowers and dying bees and see
nothing.
I observe pathetically as days become nights,
Nights become long,
And I repeatedly crack and repair.

Everything betrays me.
Birds scream, school sucks, girls lie, god disappoints, friends forsake,
and I analyse the use out of emotions.
I long to feel good again.
But most days all I know is hate-
I hate my parents, my friends, the people on tv, god, myself.
I want to know joy, happiness... genuine, again.
I don't ask for much. I don't want to be care-free.
I just want to feel like me again.

I want to remember love, and passion, and ambition.

... I haven't felt like me in a long time.

I stay inert.
Life doesn't go on.
Time does.
When will it end?
God, when will it end?

Make Love, Not War

2010-04-03T17:31:00.000-05:00

Track Link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4wq_jIeSj2M

I got a right to tell ya I’m a lover not a fighter

But I fight for your love, baby, I’m a rida

People say, ‘make love, not war’,

But I’m a soldier; the battlefield is my floor.

You can be the good team; I’ll be the insurgent.

I’ll surge in good; work out the cut like I’m a surgeon.

Pick your favourite weapon, love, do your worst…

My tool’s cocked and loaded, ready to burst.

It’s on again,

Time for tactical positioning,

Push out your chest and stick up your chin

And hold tight, girl, now let’s begin.

…

Taking no prisoners, we get right into it.

I’m cherishing the chance; I’m here to do it, do it, do it.

As I touched down, she didn’t wait to hear go,

She went aheeaad and attacked… now that’s a low blow.

So I stood on up and fired right back…

Fell back and watched her defence start to crack.

Dived in her trenches, got grimey and gritty,

Didn’t come to play fight I came to sack her city,

So I surged inside, set fire to her walls…

She mounted my tower then I watched her fall.

She made her last stand; things came to a head…

Before I could react… we both lay dead.

It was an epic struggle, clash of the titans,

We pounded on each other like we really were fighting.

I went all out ‘til I could hardly breathe,

And even when it got rough she didn’t want to leave.

She fought like a champ for rounds one, two, three…

And by round four we had both claimed victory.

It doesn’t matter what you call it, love or war…

‘Cause everything gets killed that steps through my door.

Beat, once again, by SWM: http://www.youtube.com/user/streetworkmusic?blend=1&ob=4#p/u/50/9C7KUvRggTY

Girl

2010-04-02T00:12:00.007-05:00

Track Link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vHBBVyFvp1c

Me version: Girl you are a star and girl I,

… Know that you’re my heart and girl I,

Kept you with me from the start and girl I,

… Know that I will never part from ya. (x2)

Girl version: Boy you are a star and boy I,

… Know that you’re my heart and boy I,

Been beside you from the start and boy I,

… Know that there is no one else for ya.

(So, so, so boy I…)

*If any female singers are reading this, maybe you could hook this part up for me... I can't sing, so I figure a nice female voice'd make it sound better*

Yeah… I looove when she sing to me,

Showed me love when other bitches were just tryna screw me

She di best I ever had, I swear

‘Fore Drake sang the song she was already there.

I know she’ll hold me down, mhmm, I’ll bet,

I can tell you this girl hasn’t let me down yet.

… yeeaah, her back, her neck,

Her ass, her breast all mine to caress.

… Ugh, and it’s not just the sex,

She knows my mind and she loves how I flex.

Keep me standing tall, always there to support

So even if I fall off, I’m never coming up short.

… So I dedicate this track to her,

‘Cause when the music stops I’m headed right back to her…

She pulls my focus, all else is a blur.

So me without her, you know that won’t occur.

… and girl I,

… Know that you’re my heart and girl I,

Kept you with me from the start and girl I,

… Know that I will never part from ya. (x2)

Beat by SWM: http://www.youtube.com/user/StreetworkMusic#p/u/6/npGtXXT7yh0

Green, Gold & Black

2010-04-01T00:15:00.006-05:00

Track Link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k6bSWS5VxfA

Ok, I get it, let me think, where should I start this?
Light the kush first, blow, smoke, cloud, dark lips.
Blazing hot, shining bright, looking like I’m star kissed.
But Kanye flow, you would think that I was heartless.
Take a closer look, ‘cause you will never see
A Jamaican rapper with a flow quite a tight as me…
Lyrics quite as bright as me… An’ I’m a titan, see,
I’m a Percy Jackson, lighting wielding, mother-flippin’ G.
Initially, you’ll see it’s my country on my back
J.A. rap with US flow, you’d think they never heard of that.
And though you’ll never hear that I’m killin’ nigs or slinging crack,
In another minute I’ma show you how I murda tracks.

Green is for that sticky bubonic chronic, that shit is mean
Gold it makes the world go round, that shit never gets old…
Black is for the nation’s pride, that’s ridin’ on my back
So I will never fall, and I will never slack.

I’ma touch the sky, spread my wings, no Icarus.
H1N1 flow, I’ma make you feel so sick of this.
Crackin’ funny bones, ‘cause my rhyymes so ridiculous…
Steamrollin’ rappers, they gon have to call ‘em Sisyphus.
Never been a rapper, but the game is getting’ lame
So I might as well drop this track, revive it in my name.
I’m chasin’ after fame… I’m drillin’ all these dames,
They blowing on my whistle, you should call me Major Payne.
You crazy if you think, that, you could ever pin me…
Down, when it’s clear I monopolise distinctly.
I’m jumping over rappers and I’m living on the edge, see
Claiming mine, and pwn-ing all; demanding that you king me.
Not playing games though I think that I’m a winning fiend,
I’m using crappy rappers and I’m wiping the game clean.
Check ‘em all, it’s funny ‘cause of how I mate they queens,
She begging for a piece of me, I leave it in her spleen.

Green is for that sticky bubonic chronic, that shit is mean
Gold it makes the world go round, that shit never gets old…
Black is for the nation’s pride, that’s ridin’ on my back
So I will never fall, and I will never slack

Ok, I get it, let me think, where should I start this?
Light the kush first, blow, smoke, cloud, dark lips.
Blazing hot, oh so bright, looking like I’m star kissed.
But Kanye flow, you would think that I was heartless.
Take a closer look, ‘cause you will never see
A Jamaican rapper with a flow quite a tight as me…
Lyrics quite as bright as me… An’ I’m a titan, see,
I’m a Percy Jackson, lighting wielding, mother-flippin’ G.
Initially, you’ll see it’s my country on my back
J.A. rap, US flow, you’d think they never heard of that.
And though you’ll never hear that I’m killin’ nigs or slinging crack,
In another second I’ma show you how we murda tracks.

Green is for that sticky bubonic chronic, that shit is mean
Gold it makes the world go round, that shit never gets old…
Black is for the nation’s pride, that’s ridin’ on my back
So I will never fall, and I will never slack.

Beat by SWM: http://www.youtube.com/user/StreetworkMusic#p/u/60/2OlZaeZlsFQ

The Getaway (WestCoast Beat FreeWrite)

2010-03-27T10:20:00.007-05:00

Track Link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y23VAjhG8QA

I’ma ride this beat til the wheels fall off

And I’ma tap her ass til the weave crawl off

I’m checkin out they lyrics and these peeps all soft

I’ma show em how it’s done, pass my weed :cough cough:

… you got a story to tell, I’m telling you something, got a story to sell

… to all these rappers tryna fake sick, gimme one min, I’ma take ya back to basics.

chiilin in the beast with bas, pablo and andy

with 4 50 bags of that sticky cotton candy

crush it out, roll it up, take 2 hits

i'm tellin you those half centuries lick wi fi six.

me an pablo in the front, got so damn annoyed

cuz bas an andy started acting so paranoid…

but in a min or 2,

me an pabs saw the bright lights in the rear view.

so i drop the break, start the car, stepped on the gas

an pablo asked me, 'how you start it so faas?'

racing down the hill, car behind just wouldn't stop

we were there wondering which neighbour had called the cops

so we jet home, park the car, turn out the lights

and that's when we saw it was the neighbour's headlights.

sight for sore eyes after one wild fright

that sticky green caused one helluva wild night.

Beat by SWM: http://www.youtube.com/user/StreetworkMusic#p/u/32/_InbSgG38eQ

The Strings of the Universe

2010-03-22T19:02:00.002-05:00

I have sat at the banquet table of the ancients, dined with luminaries, read with contemporaries... I am knowledge; within me is the faint but unmistakable understanding of the unity of all things. I am of this world yet not with it. I do not yet understand, but I have stopped seeking; I am resigned to listening, thinking, waiting. 'God' is a chimera, the ultimate parable of the Enlightened. Transcendence is in serenity, in stringing together all the pieces of the Universe within Oneself, in quietly understanding the inter-connectedness of all things, in knowing that the cumulative knowledge and power of existence is at once in everything at all times. Be like the river! Be still and flow: Listen not to the overt strivings of the world, but to the secret whisperings of your heart. He who is no more, who is at rest, is everything. Each individual is inherently endowed with the power to work wonders... Each man is a new Messiah.

It is an enflaming experience to surrender oneself to the Oneness of all things, the unitary beauty of things that were, are and will be. All knowledge exists within the universal consciousness. Thought results from, and belongs to, the collective experience of the singular human mind. But while the Mind is oceanic – expansive, deep, constant but powerful, and most importantly, conglobulated – Man, the individual embodiment and experience, is granular – like sand, each of us dwells within the collective but do not cohere, sharing time and space, but striving after our own purpose. And like sand may be struck by lightning so as to become glass: pure, transparent and hollow, we may each gather within Ourselves the power that is the understanding of the inter-connectedness of all things – the Strings of the Universe – and we too may then become pure, transparent and hollow, free from the pressures of the world, disembodied and liberated; He who accomplishes this will cease to be granular, but rather become oceanic. He who understands the true nature of things will become, in Himself, a miracle.

...

My Soul, Your Eyes

2010-03-20T16:08:00.022-05:00

Track Link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ve-dcU5EWOg

(8) When I write lines, I shed my tears through this pen,

So I can ease my mind and become Jason again.

When I write lines, my heart bleeds; my blood is the ink,

So as emotions overflow I fill your cup and you drink.

When I write lines, I clear my mental canvass of all trouble,

And manifest in truth what was there only in the subtle.

When I write lines, I strip down and bare my soul on the page…

I perform art, and the world’s eyes become as my stage.

Because the world isn’t kind, and it can make you evil,

I plant a sinister mind on orthographic easels.

To avoid doing what, I might turn to regret,

I compose works that, help me learn to forget.

When you see me faded, it’s to hide that I’m jaded

And that innocence no longer inhabits in my head.

So when I lose my way… I turn to what I know,

I pack my bags, hop in my words and head out on the road.

(8)…

But when the bars run out, and the music stops,

I’m at the start, weight is on and my shoulders drop.

My smile belies the sado-masochism within,

And mask the nihilistic thoughts fuelling revenge.

So I take the pain that’s been eating me recently,

And lay it out on a page ever so peacefully.

To all the people who see and wanna beef with me,

Know that karmic reprisals are coming unceasingly.

(8)…

So why do I write… why do I etch lines,

It’s because I’m starving and ready to go get mine.

The time has come to share my thoughts with the world,

I’m tired of being supported by just only my girl.

So I keep verbal rifles set to amazing,

And know that my words are the X factor to my Jason.

And when weed stopped being self-prescribed medication,

I expressed my hurt through positive lyrical vibrations.

Beat by SWM:

http://www.youtube.com/user/StreetworkMusic#p/u/56/zIfDZ_ww0CY

----------Penumbra (Silhouette of Love)----------

2010-03-19T15:15:00.002-05:00

They will spit in your face, and abuse you.

You will be misunderstood,

And criticised, and crucified,

All because you bleed black when they see red.

It will cut deep, and you will hurt.

They will tell you you’re wrong

When you know you are right,

And when you go left,

They’ll tell you you’ve gone.

You will plead with them,

To just see what you see.

The Genius of Art

2010-03-19T00:06:00.000-05:00

The genius of art is not in conceiving a novel concept, formulating a bold idea or conceptualizing an innovative theory, it is projecting the images from the mind's eye into the world; artistic brilliance is lifting the images of the mental canvas and supplanting them into the realm of other men, breathing life into what was already known, but waiting to be acknowledged.

RaInBoWs AnD uNiCoRnS

2010-03-17T09:19:00.011-05:00

(The first poem, 'RAINBOWS AND UNICORNS', was written by Steven Grennell; the second poem, 'Rainbows and Unicorns', was written by me, and was inspired by the first.)

RAINBOWS AND UNICORNS
Her curly, unkempt hair falls over her beady eyes,
Slightly smearing, her square, oversized spectacles.
Her shoes clearly too big for her size,
Acquired from homeless garbage receptacles.
She quickly disguises her shattered look,
As she looks up to face the class,
Her soft hands, cradle an old tattered book,
In preparation for the upcoming task.
As she opens her mouth to speak,
Her classmates start giggling in anticipation.
“At 3 o’clock on Friday last week,
My friend the elf took me on a magical vacation.”
Well, the class registered nothing she said after;
Not of rainbows, or fairies or unicorns.”
Because they had all burst into laughter,
Ignoring the tears falling on her uniform.
“It’s true!” she yells, her anger flaring,
Yet her statements are disregarded.
Whilst the teacher stands in disbelief staring,
And the children fire insults “crazy!” “retarded!”
So she runs; with eyes filled with tears,
Away from the cries of “insane!”
Away from the embodiment of her fears,
Away from the ache, from the pain.
Until she falls face down,
Blood mixing with tears and sweat.
Covered in dust from toe to crown,
Heart covered in sadness and regret.
Wishing for a place of peace,
A place where “sanity” wasn’t necessary.
And her mind drifts slowly off at ease,
Back to her secret sanctuary.
A place filled with happiness and serenity,
Void of hatred, suffering and strife.
Where the sun shines for an eternity,
An escape from the realities of life.
A reflection of whatever her brain shows,
And with closed eyes she smiles to herself.
Within her paradise of unicorns and rainbows,
And peace, with her friend, the elf.

- Steven Grennell

Rainbows and Unicorns
The next day at a quarter past 10,
She stands to face the class again.
And as her heart races within her chest,
She examines the bloodstains on her dress.
She remembers the pain of yesterday,
The tears she shed when she ran away.
After three years of enduring days like those,
Only today does she strain to recompose,
To bravely look up to face the class,
And prepare herself for the imposing task.

She once again cradles her tattered book,
As her classmates condescend to fix a look.
She breathes deep, and peers down with a blank stare,
As she prepares to read what is writ there.
No more sadness, no more tears,
No more anger, no more fear…
She opens her mouth and begins to speak,
And tunes out the whispers, “crazy!” “freak!”

“My daddy beat me again yesterday.
He said we had another game to play.
He stroked my side, hungrily grabbed my curls,
He told me I’d been a bad girl.
As the blood on my face mixed with my tears, his sweat,
My heart is again filled with sadness and regret.”

“Wishing to stop daddy, wanting a place of peace,
My mind searching now for a place of ease,
I remember I have a secret sanctuary for myself,
So I drift off to ride unicorns and rainbows with my friend, the elf.”

As she ends, she realises all is still,
And in the silent class even the teacher feels a chill…

Like I need a needle in my arm...

2010-03-10T12:49:00.002-05:00

As a man of eclectic artistic taste, particularly as regards my music, I can safely assert never having been able to stay focused on any particular genre for more than a few weeks or months. Under-stimulated and over-curious, I find myself constantly searching not for the next big thing, or even for any specific thing, but for powerful and moving art generally. When it comes to my music, I seek words and sounds that resonate; I seek music that doesn’t just touch the ears or mind, but that penetrates to the soul and leaves an impression. Needless to say, 'moving' doesn’t take just one form, and profundity can be found in a myriad of places. However, the unfortunate thing about my particular inclination is that art, even the most sublime sights and sounds, can only resonate so much before being dulled by the passage of time – this is why I can never have a favourite genre or any one genre to which I consistently listen. The message invariably loses power, the sound becomes repetitive, I grow accustomed and unappreciative, and I forget the feeling I experienced when I first heard the piece.

But now I can safely say I’ve found something different, something that breaks that cycle and that has devilishly left me fiending for more. The reason: what I’ve termed ‘genre-dub’ (so called, because while the genre may change – reggae, jazz, rock, the Jamaican dub element is fundamental and pervasive). Perhaps because I’m Jamaican, and intelligent local music that whispers directly in my ear has been rare; perhaps because the sounds and messages of genre-dub are distinct from the majority of music being broadcast today; perhaps because of some teenage fascination with the music that I developed and never quite outgrew… perhaps because of nothing articulable at all, I have been recently and thoroughly captivated by the sounds of genre-dub. In essence, the music has hit and I’ve felt no pain, save for when the record stops spinning and the needle is lifted from my arm.

Though neither a new genre, nor one to which I am a stranger (I’ve been captivated by Protoje’s lyrical witticism, Cezar’s inspirational messages and Tessanne Chin’s powerful vocals, all with uniquely Jamaican sounds, for years), the recent proliferation in mainstream media of the infectious neo-genre that is genre-dub, and its subsequently heightened availability, has left me feeling like a child at Christmas. I eagerly sample from this smorgasbord, chasing musical high after musical high, with the vague understanding that tomorrow looms on the horizon, but hoping the treats I acquire today will serve for a long time to come.

Thus, in spite of what anyone else may say or feel, and regardless of how long or how well genre-dub thrives, at least for me, genre-dub has been and will remain one of the most powerful and endearing forms of art I have yet witnessed. So to the artistes I’ve been bringing from back in the day – Protoje, Cezar, Tessanne Chin – and to the artistes by whom I’ve recently been impressed and captivated – EvaFlow, Jah9, Jason Worton – let the musical lion paw gwaan crawb up di ting. ‘J.A.’ needs to ‘KEEP ON’ having an ‘INFLOW’ (and outpouring) of ‘MESSENGER’s to issue ‘WARNING’s and wake-up calls to the mundane, complacent and inane. To these artistes and others, keep making that good… great, music!

“In the question of creation, you are greater than the noun. Be the verb, the action word that put the power to the soun’, ‘Cause you could burn dis to di groun’…” – Jah9

“J.A…. Tell dem seh no matter what a talk, an’ no matter what a spark, yow a ya suh a mi heart” - Protoje

Mami's Home (Explicit Content)

2010-03-10T00:36:00.002-05:00

Who told her to enter my room?

She should have known

I could hardly wait.

And as she closed the door,

I opened her up.

For months I had longed

To feel her again,

The warmth of her body

Her wet on my skin.

I tore her down there.

A hand on her neck, one on her waist

My tongue, pushed between her parted lips.

Now one hand beneath her shirt,

The other under her skirt.

I squeezed, and thrust

And as her nipples stood,

My fingers sank.

In, out, in, out.

Who told her to enter my room?

Her muscles clenched,

My fingers drenched,

I sucked on her neck,

As her eyes rolled back.

Her jaw slacked

And she uttered a body-shaking moan.

Her breathing short,

My panting hard,

I couldn’t wait anymore.

I had to have her now.

I lifted her skirt, then her,

Right there, against the door

And pressed her up like poster.

Throbbing against her moist hip lips,

Her nails sunk hungrily in back,

I struck into her as deep as I could.

Who told her to enter my room?

Her hip lips parted,

As my head swelled.

Her sweat flowing,

My muscles rippled,

Her jaw dropped down, eyes turned up.

I pressed my lips to hers,

As she dripped down my leg.

I thrust into her

Again… and again… and again.

She moaned incessantly,

And her neck strings tensed

While her hip lips devoured me.

Who told her to enter my room?

She shut her eyes.

Her body tensed.

She let out an inaudible moan,

Then a scream!

She shook violently against my frame,

And gushed down the wall, unto the floor.

Who told her to enter my room?

But who told me to enter her?

Because as she went,

She beckoned me to follow.

As I thrust, she shook,

And I travelled the spectrum of sensations.

First wet,

Then velvety,

Then electric,

Then fiery,

Then… nothing.

I shut my eyes, and died.

… Then I exploded!

I exhaled, and ejaculated.

I throbbed thrice

And she felt me fill her up.

In an instant we were both on the floor

Panting, yet sublimely satisfied,

As I wondered,

Who could have stopped her from entering my room?

LoveMaking

2010-03-09T20:58:00.000-05:00

Lay you down

Will my lips on yours

Trickle kisses across your body.

Breathe the warmth of your skin

Taste the scent of you hair

Touch your heartbeat.

Clutch your racing pulse

Drink in your sighs

Lap the love from your eyes.

Spread your fears

Enter your passion

And caress your soul.

Wipe your crystal tears

Shed milky mine

Take refuge in your skin.

That’s what it feels like

When you and I

Are lovemaking.

Hookah

2010-02-21T19:53:00.000-05:00

We gon burn it all away

'Til the last moist leaf is gone

And nothing but the last bit of ash remains.

We gon burn it all away

While the feeling takes root

And our minds take wings and roam free.

We gon burn it all away

As the fragrance fills the place

And the smoke curls through the evening air.

We gon burn it all away

And let the music reverberate

As inspiration descends from lofty places.

We gon burn it all away

As family and friends congregate

And life, love and joy inform the whole scene.

We gon burn it all away

'Til the frenzy slowly dies away

And quiet contemplation is all that is left.

We gon burn it all away

And leave the rest for ano'er day.

We gon burn it all away 'til the last line is writ.

A Message to the Jamaican Youth (particularly to those who emigrate): Why You were born to be different.

2010-02-17T01:44:00.001-05:00

Some of us were born to maintain stability: born to uphold the status quo, work hard and get ahead. Some of us were born not to ask too many questions, disturb the apple cart, divert others, cause problems, get into problems, knock the system, stand apart, explore the fearsome unknown, fall too far from the tree, leave our country, risk life and limb, go off to discover an identity, be battered and bruised, be rejected, be too different. Some of us were born simply to cohere. Some of us were born to be proud, unquestioning Jamaicans.

Others of us were not meant for this path. They were born to challenge everything, question everything, want to know, need to know, gain everything, lose everything, be rejected, be dejected, be depressed, be at a loss, be lost, go explore, fight the system, improve the system, create a new system, stand alone, be alone, go somewhere and find an identity, get destroyed, leave our country, return and change our country. This message is for all, but it is to this second group to which I would particularly like to appeal.

My father once told me: sometimes we have to light a fire to change things. He told me this as I was learning what it is to be a man, and I will never forget these words. Before I even began to think about where life would take me, it seems my father already knew. Because, like my father, I belonged to this second group, and was born to stand apart, to suffer alone, and to challenge things. He knew life would be rough; he said it, I thought it cliché. But he knew that in this life, nothing ventured is nothing gained. He knew that life could yield the most bountiful harvests and bestow the most lavish gifts, but he also knew that there would be times that by virtue of one’s very nature, unendurable pain would have to suffered.

I’m not one to preach. Far be it from me to tell what life should or will be like. I can only relate experiences. I am young, but I have tirelessly sought experience. And I have found it. I have prospered, and I have ventured, and I have been battered, and I have been sent back home. I have been blessed. I have been seen through situations solely by idealism, confidence, and what my mother calls ‘a mother’s prayer’. I have also found myself mired on life’s rocky shores among other broken vessels like myself. I have risen to take my place, but I am yet to board the sweet chariot that will take me home to the golden shores awaiting those among us who will dare to take the road less travelled.

Life has brought me to a point – I have been hardened and sharpened; I have been filed and fashioned into a blade. I have become a razor’s edge. I now look for something to cut. The path I travel is yet again a different one; I must find a new way. And I wait…

Yet you, you are different. You, to whom those before you must now defer, will rise and take their place. You do not yet know the jewels you carry within your breasts; the gems that are your minds; the miracle-workers that are your hands; or the sword and shield that are your unyielding attitudes. You have often been ridiculed, ridiculed others, excelled, been lonely, felt different… foreign. You have not much been taught by those who understand you, by those to whom you can relate. You have been pressured, criticised, ostracised, and left wanting. You hunger in a way that few others seem to understand, and you need as few others do. You have wondered why not conformity? Why not quiet, controlled ascent to this world’s common comforts. Why you?

Let me be the first to tell you: welcome. You are not alone, you never have been, and henceforth, will feel so no longer. Those who came before you have waited, patiently and knowingly in the quiet, waited for you to come of age… waited to explain to you, nurture you and teach you. Those before you well understand the meaning of difference. Not all are willing to support you, not overtly, but all stand, willing or unwillingly, beside you. Those like you, who could not help but dwell apart, now stand and watch, mesmerised by the beauty and strength you possess. They too have felt the yearnings for more, have tasted the fruits of their own labours, and relished the glories of their own victories. But they have known hurt, pain. Some utilise it, and continue along the path; some cannot bear it, and lay beaten with former glories in tow. All now look to you, with the pride of a father and the love of a mother, and know why you are special. They silently cheer for you, quietly encourage you, and wait patiently to help carry you over. They, in their quiet way, heap their hopes and their dreams, aspirations and fears, unto you… and they love you. It is these gifts and burdens you bear, these feelings that pressure you. And it will be these things that drive you.

I am not far before you, but I would like to give to you this message. I have but few words, and fewer experiences… yet I would like to speak to you as some of you have never been spoken to before. I would like to leave with you these few words that will hopefully help you along your path, as I follow mine. Before slipping into the shadow ranks of those who were once like you, and those would see you take your places as kings and queens in this world, I would just like to say:

Remember, first and foremost, you are never alone. Though you may not always see your help, it is always there when you need it most.

You are not the first, and you will not be the last. You are destined for greatness, yes, but so are others. Wait your turn, settle for nothing less than you desire, and you will be rewarded. Rob another of his chance and forever live in fear, knowing you have forfeited your own birthright.

Remain confident, not arrogant. Be proud, not haughty. Challenge everything, but accept that which you cannot change. Be sceptical, not cynical. Live hard, die well. Remember clichés became so for a reason. Know that amazing lies inside you, regardless of what you think; believe in it, and there will nothing stopping you but yourself.

Love passionately. Know that while fairytales are beautiful thoughts, they remain stories for a reason. Give yourself wholeheartedly to whomever you love, but bear in mind love is compromise. Think of people as puzzle pieces – each has his excess and recess. It hurts when the pieces to the puzzle don’t fit, but the right piece will help you see the big picture.

Dream boundlessly. You are so great a force that the only thing stopping you is you. Disregard naysayers and those who would mock your dreams. Imagination is a tool; use it. Nothing ventured is nothing gained, and those who dream the biggest are rewarded greatest when it all comes to fruition.

Live without regrets. Every experience, good or bad, will inform how you proceed tomorrow. You alone know how much you can bear. You alone are responsible for your actions. Do nothing that will compromise who you are fundamentally, and you will be able to look at yourself in the mirror without pangs of remorse or disgust. Learn from everything, waste no time thinking on what could or should have been, only what you will enact into being. Regrets only weigh you down, learning helps you soar.

Be your best ALWAYS. When you are content with who you are, nothing can disturb your peace of mind. There will be better, and there will be worse than you. The only way to find equilibrium is to be your best for yourself. You will fail at times, you will at times stray. It is in your nature to question and experiment. Sometimes you will reach a positive outcome, other times you will not. Only you can put yourself back together when it all falls apart. It will be hard, but stay focused and you will find a way. Finally, I will not lie to you – you will plan well, but when things go awry, as they invariably will, you will hurt. But bear in mind pain is inversive – it helps you to know that bliss must be on the other side. Learn from it, grow, and one day when you have gained the world, remember from where you started. Then you will take your place among those who have come before you.

Diana

2010-01-07T15:30:00.001-05:00

In vain I lay

Trying to recreate

The sounds of my lost love’s cooing.

I rack my brain

Struggling to remember

The tickle of her nose against my neck.

I cannot now remember it

But I once adored

The fragrance of her hair,

The scent of her skin,

The strength of her body,

The beauty of her movements.

In vain I spend hours of recollection

Trying to regain memories long gone and slow to return.

I only vaguely remember

The hold of her playful gaiety,

And death and rebirth in her eyes.

How mistaken was I

To think myself the hunter, her the prey.

For like a true practitioner of the craft

She lay in wait, insidious and potent.

And while I cavorted,

She watched me in silence as I played my game.

Allowing herself to be chased,

She secretly set her trap, which would later take my breath

And – impishly – steal my heart.

Like her great namesake, she dwelt high above

And forever stands apart.

My Bella Luna, she reflected all the radiance,

All the intensity, of my fiery effusions.

But she kept a secret, and continued to dwell apart.

Masked by my unrestrained illuminations

Her far side, draped in darkness, worked assiduously.

She encouraged the chase,

Ushering me to her door.

And I, thinking myself the cleverest of the lot,

Pressured the breach and forced myself inward.

Quickly, cunningly, I prevailed upon her,

Until I found myself let in to her sanctum, the recesses of her composition.

I thought myself victorious,

Another unwitting prey conquered at last.

I revelled in the brine and blood of this latest victim.

I stood above her, smiling, my sword and shield bared.

But as I prepared to withdraw my Trojan spear

That had so lately, unfailingly, pierced her heart,

Something peculiar happened –

The young goddess took aim with her bow

And before long, loosed love’s arrow.

The animal I had slain was illusory,

The victory a mere pretence.

And now, in its place, she stood transformed,

The true master in this deadly game.

Without knowing how or from where,

I found myself stilled, paralysed by my own poison.

She approached me, silently

And at my curious defeat, she merely smiled

That impish smile like one who knows too much.

She lay me down in the grass of a clearing

And nursed my trepidation and unfeeling

With a calm and gentle hand.

Her own wound, quickly repaired,

Stood a testament to her power.

She conquered my war-like urges

With her dulcet manner.

She quelled my restless fire

And extinguished me in her quiet ocean.

I bathed in her font, drank from her chalice.

And tasted for the first time,

Love’s respite from the worries of the world.

She became my teacher, my guide,

My mother, my child,

My friend, my wife, my goddess, my muse…

My love.

We frolicked as kindred spirits,

Untouched and unconcerned by the travails of the world.

She taught me the pleasures of love, of learning, of exploration

And of living.

I unloaded all my cares, discharged them to her,

And she received them dutifully.

She questioned me, challenged me, moved me;

But always dwelt apart,

A curious observer in a foreign world.

She stayed by me always,

And fortified me against the world – against my own railings.

She tore me down

Swept me up

Engulfed, and became controlled by me.

We were one and wanted for nothing.

We were at peace…

That was before my own urgings crept in quietly,

Pushing me to once again sprout wings

And once again patrol the skies in my solitary way.

I became enraptured by own selfish desire,

My longing to seek the sun, like a moth to a flame,

And give life to my dormant passions.

I erupted one last time, in my fiery way,

Shrugging off the shackles of the penitential ball and chain.

And like one waking from an opium-induced sleep,

I groggily set off to find my way about the world again.

I took to my wings, setting off once again to conquer and explore,

To strive and to soar.

But still, I keep with me the memory of her always,

Knowing that one day soon I will return,

And if she will have me,

Endear myself to her once more,

Bound by the steely ring of eternity.

Whatever you want the title to be...

2009-12-21T23:57:00.000-05:00

Have you ever loved someone so much,

You'd give an arm for?

Not the expression,

No, literally give an arm for...

Well I have,

And she made me take off my armour,

Bare my heart and soul,

Just in order to charm her.

But what do I do,

When I've become the cause of her pain,

The cause of her tears,

That precipitate like rain?

Please tell me...

'Cause right now I'm going insane.

How do I tell her I'm sorry

For all I've ever done?

Explain I can't be with her

But love her

And know that she's still the one?

I bear no delusion

There'll be a resolution;

I don't expect

We'll have a neat, tidy conclusion.

So all I ask,

From behind this shattered illusion,

Is that you'll keep me in your heart,

Free from all intrusion.

Keep me in your heart,

A memory pure as glass.

Remember me as I was,

Not my mistakes, but rather

Our pristine past.

Think of the halcyon days,

Back when we used to play,

When love was still fun,

Pretty,

Witty,

And ever so gay.

Think when I would pinch your nose,

And you would giggle;

Think when it was still innocent,

A touch was still just a tickle.

Think of my smile,

At the sight of your approach.

A me still worthy,

And free from all reproach.

Remember me thus,

And I'll remember you.

In my heart,

I'll sear the imprint of just us two.

Remember me thus,

And a heart free from pain,

And a love immortal,

Will be your gain.

All of this I promise...

... Forget it.

We can't change life;

Come on, let's be honest.

I wish I could take your pain,

Bear it like a cross of wood,

And simply be the man,

You always knew that I could...

I wish I could be the person,

That God said we all should.

But I can't.

So as I write,

I pledge to make a brand-new start.

To a new beginning,

Here are even the pieces

To your broken heart.

And even though it hurts

'Cause the pieces to the puzzle don't fit,

Here's your cardio-collage... and my pride-

I'm about to swallow it.

I can't be perfect,

I'll neither think nor purport,

But I can try,

With a little help and lots of support.

I needed time to grow,

To think, heal, and just to be.

Can't swear I'm finished

But I'm here, so let's watch and see.

And when I'm gone for good,

All I ask

Is that you remember me...

Mind's Eye On Love

2009-12-13T06:21:00.000-05:00

I kiss your lips, and hearken unto you,

As though a prostrate worshipper at the entrance of your temple.

I thirst for the waters flowing from your font,

Cascading in the unexplored depths,

Of that untamed realm of the ancients.

Generations compounded,

Culminating in perfection that closes full in you:

A perfect flower – a blood-red rose, gilded by a golden lotus.

I enter, and encounter the nameless goddess.

She waits, ready, outstretched arms to embrace within.

One step forward, two, the union is…

A single tear, at once abolished

Oneness is attained – liberation!

Bathed in the indescribable light divine, peering into the impenetrable depths,

Illuminating the foundations of the world, of life, of Man…

Washed in love, movement ceases and thirst is no more,

The union is perfected.

Four eyes close, as one.

For a single instant in eternity,

A single blink of the providential eye,

The two souls become intertwined as one.

It lasts but a moment…

But the union is perfect.

Moonlight Sonata

2009-12-11T02:17:00.001-05:00

[Chorus]: Sitting in my room,

Skeletons in my closet,

Ghosts up under my bed,

Clock warps as I watch it.

The creaky window shutter

Bangs one more time,

And just to calm my nerves

I use one more line.

Instantly in a world

That is oh so dark

But my mind still shine

I have one more spark.

I recline, count the time

With my pen in my hand

And I try to reflect

On all the things that went wrong.

“I ask myself, ‘Why’?”…

‘They Don’t Care About Us’

I think it’s only ‘Human Nature’

To just ‘Beat It’ all up

Or to beat her ass up

…More like beat my ass up

Wait, what’s my next line?

Shit, I don’t give a fuck!

Now I’m stuck…

[Chorus] Sitting in my room,

Skeletons in my closet,

Ghosts up under my bed,

Clock warps as I watch it.

The creaky window shutter

Bangs one more time,

And just to calm my nerves

I use one more line.

‘3 A.M.’ in the morning

A ‘Drug Ballad’ starts to play

Myriad demon voices

Start to chant the night away.

I can’t get no sleep

In this cold, cold room…

So I take a deep breath

Close the door to my tomb.

Nightmares dance in my head

In a little turn-style

When I pop these ‘Purple Pills’

I ‘Rabbit Run’ for ‘8 Mile’

“I’ll ‘Kill You’, little bitch!”

… “I’ll ‘Soldier’ on ‘til I die”

I take a puff and I twitch

Now smoke’s coming from my eyes

Start to slit my wrists…

“Think I’m going ‘Insane’”

“But I think I kinda like it,

Now I can’t feel the pain”

It’s just ‘The Way I Am’

Always been in my heart

What the fuck am I saying?!

Straight ‘Criminal’ from the start!

[Chorus] Sitting in my room,

Skeletons in my closet,

Ghosts up under my bed,

Clock warps as I watch it.

The creaky window shutter

Bangs one more time,

And just to calm my nerves

I use one more line.

As I get fully blazed

I stare at the purple ceiling

I inhale the white glass

I just lost all feeling…

‘Tha Block… Is Hot’

But I got my ‘Shine’ on

This world’s a metal band

But my mind’s a diamond

I think I’m ‘Misunderstood’

Always ‘Playing with Fire’

But while my ‘Birds Flying High’

I’m just getting higher.

My thoughts… rush back

My brain ‘bout to bust

But even if my skull crack

Survival is a must…

To live to see next year

Gotta make it through next week

But I got no paddle

And I’m floating up the creek

I need one more line

These demons they got a plan

See, ‘I Feel Like Dying’

But now I’m a ‘Grown Man’.

[And still I’m just…]

[Chorus] Sitting in my room,

Skeletons in my closet,

Ghosts up under my bed,

Clock warps as I watch it.

The creaky window shutter

Bangs one more time,

And just to calm my nerves

I use one more line.

Why fight?

2009-12-01T15:36:00.000-05:00

It is, it seems, human nature to fight, and to fight against. Never mind the virtues preached by faith and religion about peace, charity or ‘turning the other cheek’; they are preached for the very reason that they are taught – they are not innate. I have, in the past few weeks, read several books dealing with various aspects and views of human nature. The one I am at this moment reading (this is liable to change at any time, according to my preference), The Fire Next Time, by James Baldwin, talks about the fight brought by Black Americans to their White counterparts during the Civil Rights Movement. He talks about the struggle Black Americans faced, fighting for their rights to be considered Americans, as well as the fight White America put up to preserve the crumbling, unjust, needless status quo. The Civil Rights Movement was an indisputably noble cause, worthy of risking life and limb. They had a reason to fight, as do many who have fought in the past. But would they still have fought if they did not have that cause for which to fight?

From the beginning of our history laid out in Genesis, Eve fought God, God fought the Serpent, Cain fought Abel, and the fight has continued evermore. Heads of tribes have fought each other, as have Pharaohs and slaves, nations and other nations, and consumers and vendors. Some of these causes have been worthy of fighting, others more dubious; yet others have been utterly pointless and bitter. Man has, it seems, a propensity to vent his feral instincts in the form of fighting – peaceful or vicious, necessary or not. It is, it seems, human nature to fight – for a cause or just be|cause. We as a species have actively tried to domesticate ourselves, to breed and train out all our animal instincts, as we do with our pets. The baby will turn to fighting its brother for the last drop of milk, rather than share; the child will turn to mindless, albeit ‘unrealistic’ cartoon violence in SpongeBob rather than the equally fatuous Teletubbies(?); the man will set designs upon his colleague’s job before contenting himself with living within his pay grade and enjoying the love and warmth of his family; infirm geriatrics will, when no other cause exists, simply fight death. Observing the spectrum of human interactions, it is, it seems, human nature to fight.

I now find myself in an utterly useless, but necessary, struggle with what are at this moment the forces of evil, the bane of my personal serenity – Digicel. This battle is over a measly $1200 ‘free’ credit I was to have received for purchasing, what I am proud to say, is the cheapest phone currently being sold by that company. However, while I could simply add that much credit myself, I decided to take a more (in my view) principled stand and fight for what is, in every sense, mine. Many others would have turned away at the thought of having to make seven calls (three unsuccessful), speaking to four representatives, receiving a promised return call from one supervisor (which never came), having to call back to speak to a separate supervisor, and now having to await another promised return call (about which, incidentally, I apparently need to ‘remind’ the supervisor, as the time he stipulated has passed). Chances are this is what the company is counting on (I am, possibly, jaded by the grand conspiracies concocted by insurance companies and exposed by the fictions of John Grisham) – but this is precisely why I choose to fight. After all, it is, it seems, human nature to fight.

In the face of certain headache, which I already feel coming on, I have decided to persevere, and fight. I neither need nor want the credit anymore. I could also have chosen much more worthwhile outlets for venting what now appears my innate, inherent, insatiable, illogical desire, my struggle, to fight. Far from a physical tussle with the head of that annoyingly unnecessary but (by modern standards) unconquerable beast that is a cell phone service provider, I chosen to return fire literarily. I have chosen to abandon the lessons taught by my virtuous, good-natured mother to ‘turn the other cheek’, and write. I have chosen to go looking for a fight. Perhaps it is I am what some would consider unoccupied (common [almost always derogatory] parlance for which is ‘idle’); perhaps it is because I am tired of being trampled on and run over by a company that would, if we valued our peace of mind and ourselves as a people, be long vanquished along with all its competitors; perhaps it is because I long for the halcyon days when one’s word was still one’s bond, and the risk of violation would light a fire under a person to make good; but perhaps still (and most likely) it is simply because I am human, uniquely and personally stamped from birth, to be a fighter, to set fires, and to change things. It is that immutable spirit that inspired Bogle and Nanny, Ghandi and William of Orange, that inspired American Blacks and still inspires Afghani ‘militants’; perhaps it is that spirit, that fire that longs to burn, that has caused me to vent and to write. It is an utterly useless cause fighting for ‘free’ credit that will be gone in a few days, requiring energy on which my time would perhaps be better spent (on studying, maybe?); but it, is seems, human nature to fight – for a good cause, a bad cause, a religious cause, a romantic cause, a fatal cause, a trivial cause, a useless cause, a ‘free’ cause… but a cause. I choose to fight.