clouded yellow wish


Enter a caption

yellow my mellow,
why are these wishes so hollow?
chipped as cheap tricks on flowery pots,
stoned as color in the light of elusive spectrums,
grinning at the disgust of deeds blackening,

yellow my mellow,
why are you a fundamental purge of beauty in standing lies,
pale in the mountains of caucasia…
where beast ate beast…
in incest and blue sittings of cold bloods,

as in the mag spreads,
or bleaching of tones to dance as they,
to evolve in straight defined genetic mutations,
a deformation of peach on sun rays,

oh these lies are true sights now.
brute in favour…of the illusion…
dark is just not favourable,
it is cornered as natural beauty….
with less will to stand by its side

but oh yes!
yellow the true beauty,
easy on eye seen as 1 and 0,
worthy to be saved from a flight of stair by a superhero,
light as an angel,
beautiful as snow,
pure as its color….
such milky compliments sets the strings of belonging beauty,
never longing the melanin…
only in when true separations roam,

yellow my mellow,
my people are conditioned…
and they believe they are under no spell,
no illusion to ridicule the darkest of black,
scorned as beauty in figments….
why choose to be black….
when the mulato offer is in effect?
choose yellow….it is as good as white.
and it has proven,


Game of fathers

Don’t leave them young,
Just after they see the sun,
And smell the taste of life,
Before they palms open the gift,
And craft a dream and change,
Before they voice is heard,
They tears are wiped and they smile is made bright,

Don’t leave them before …
They crawl and hang on to curtains,
Before they wobble…
And lose steps,
And finally stand as the blood and breath of yours,
Listen to the mumble of loose wording,
The difference of day and night,
All night, sleep all day,
Be there, not as a part-time partner,
Loving when love is sexy,
Don’t help out,
Be there in they mini tournaments and play,
Scribble with them,
And laugh with them.

Just don’t leave them…
Before they first kiss,
Crush and heartache,
Before they get it right
Or wrong,
Teach them to account for they actions,
to love with they souls,
Teach them to be better than you,
To Reach for the sky and beyond,
Support them in they dreams and visions,
Be there when they fall,
And things crumble,
When celebrations unfold and they collect they hard work,

Don’t leave them…
Before they walk the alta,
Before they commit and move out,
Before the I dos,
And grand offsprings are birthed,
Be there as a pillar and strength,
Life gets complicated,
Love changes color too,
But don’t leave them to need you,
And wish you were there,
Don’t let mothers father these young,
Step up and be a Man.

letter 2 love : december winter


to my dearest whom my soul yearns to die for,
psychotic and toxic my soul lay naked to vulnerable thorns of days we died,
shaken by external lavar,

i know we burn as one,
like paint games in extreme chills,
hell and heaven our dual friends,
they stay at opposite sides,
as now seems as end,

when only sunday we began….
intoxicated by after life on shamballa shores,

these nights are strange… as December,
a hollow celebration…
the blame game…our less smiles gag,

i hate you, i love you,
i am confused by poles of ends cornered;
magnetic pulls to the deep side of misery…
we are our misery..

like the spills of moments lost,
its all bad…is this it?
the day before Monday,
the day i slit your soul and hope you die with me,
tragic i see the cliff…
and hope we float,

like odd days before shapes,
before age and hasty nows and never,
obliged by floating fever,
we are sick together,
such a dark virus called love promised us worst days,
we are our worst,
pulling at ends hoping to die in the winter….
but here we are on the floor dying….

Appearing for the eye


appearances are so important lately; we are perceived by sight before we speak. because of the conditioning of outlooks, what is neat, tidy and importantly beautiful or acceptable. the frame of mind generates a similar look. I’ve just only noticed it. as much as the expectation has variety; the choices are just within a circular look. but for men there’s not really much options of expressions, i mean black men. we have a solid look which we think represent our more “natural” look. which is decent to the looking eye.
though it is mistaken, we have accepted it and the choice is without any analysis or deeper understanding. we cut our hair to look tidy and presentable; that is a common idea we share which we are under the same illusion; of it is ours, the bald or German cut, including the movember; the new frenzy of grooming beards. mere fashion statements accepted to normal men, anything else goes through a succession of ridiculing. a defense mechanism to protect the idea of how to look as a man; a black man actually. standard proccessure nothing out of the normal. we consider the “rasta” to be more afrikan and outrageous, i agree to the idea, not so much of the practice. the rebelion is quite delicate and generates a warm impression about the natural black man. but the rasta is outside the scope of your daily black man, by system exclusion. they don’t fall on the agreed appearance of tidy.
this appearance is enforced by corporate companies; well most companies include appearances in their staff hand book and implications of code breakage. the punishment of insubordinate behavior is brutal. also the cutting of hair really short is prominent in the military. as the reason is frail. but through research I’ve stumble into some eye opening information about slaves in conquered states; slaves had hair cut as a form of punishment and decrease their power, this would serve to keep the slaves timid and more easily controlled.

because hair left uncut help raise your kundalini energy; which increases your intuition and tranquility. while we are consumed by fashion and the state of accepted notions the true reality is we are just under control, obeying the commands….
there is nothing natural about us, the idea we have about hair, real kinky hair is suppressed because of its benefits. we are just caught in the web of condemning our true image as we were made out to be. we have distanced ourselves from such matters because we think we have a stand as afrikan men, we think our actions and lifestyles have anything to do with being afrikan,
we believe these choices we generate are from within us but we are just subliminally participating in the genocide of our nature. but the idea of keeping your natural outlook shouldn’t stand alone, as part of the process of identity and building a core spiritual being ; meditation, ingestion and practice; should be in place to achieve the ideal image of self. not this residual image that is just appearing for the eye.

conditioned to survive


i know its too late…
but im proud of you…
for rubbing these rocks to make fire…..
carefully choosing which seeds to ingest,
which to heal a wound..
and which fur to wear this winter,
which contellation to converse with,

taking and giving routes to the far deep,
i know the rock climb almost killed you,
like the God flood…..
and swayed genocide,
odds against the soul of the sun,
i know…

i’m proud of you…
for wearing this melanin outfit with style,
carrying the grief of last week,
single parent and undone,
shannanigans of modern ex communions,

i know the insult is heavy,
as vicious abuse from everyday,
over in-secure fitters…
craving blood drip in innocence,
i know they laugh when you trip snooping for love,

shallow they are,
caught in the web of division in class,
slave mullato mind trick,
i feel you…..its crazie to take another deep breathe,

every day is a lost cause;
damaging your mind for nickle bags,
but im proud of you,
for pulling your pants and stepping up,
when stereo types are today’s surround sounds,
negative vibrations of men that live for skirts,
dozing off in deppression and slave head collisions,4
i know its hard being black and sober,
when reality is an incidental sphere;
like prejudice defeats pride;
and we have in bulk,
its insane how we come up and regenerate;
against all odds,
and they still confused how we keep on.

memory box


Don’t open it…
it has all of yesterday….
filled with fractured pictures…
of once upon smile,
when sweet nothings meant more,

like twinkle Orion and dark matter,
breezed in
common communion,
and difference…
like those pants and that T-shirt,
i liked them,
now i like you more,

out with the old,
like fresh kisses that blow the blues,
stimulated in hardships,
tap dancing through the variance,
like that Indian dress no longer constant,
like poetry online last line,
life lines, on the floor backs breaking,
stolen glances of new love sparkling,
we took deep breathes,
worst nights turned memories kept,