Tag Archives: discovery

Iris

If creativity is a conversation and life is a season.
There’s no time to be dumbstruck for it’s a gift to be breathing.
We wear the books that we’re reading.
Some pages get dog-eared because we’re so consumed by our contents.
If a fore word gives direction you’ll be able to cut through the treason.
If the grass is always greener, are we green-eyed, hungry or ambitious?
Things don’t always add up when we get the vision.
The glass is never half or half when we find a source and leave the tap dripping.

Sometimes I wonder…
If wisdom is knowledge, is food for thought, is logic the knife and the fork?
Do we consume pain and pleasure with our hands or heart?

I wonder….

If life is an art and we are a creation, are we, as a translation of a recurring translation, to consider that we are life imitating art, what some call inspiration?
If that is the case we are painters, life drawing.
Our collages are collisions of the crass, the clean, the common and the convenient.
When wonder is water, why do some stop drinking?
When our palette dries we do.

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Filed under Just Living

Flagged Offside (52/7)

United 92 away

I was just young and black, in gold and green cuffs.
Sent to the wolves, a young cub full of cereal.
I was a serial offender, great pretender
Midfield or defender, I couldn’t remember
I just handed out oranges.
Water boy before The Waterboy
The captain was the manager’s son
A right little Lord Fauntleroy
Bib master, ball boy, cone king
Occasional substitute, should have swapped oranges for another fruit
Dammit I was everything!

Was there something they weren’t telling me?

King of the spelling bee wasn’t helping me
This thing called football required a different type of memory
I could dance better than any white kid raised on chicken, rum and reggae
I had the running man perfect but with a ball?
Ermmm okay…
I was not Steve Staunton or Stan Collymore
Ladies and gentleman in one game I nearly scored
I was young a foolish villa fan
But could I run with a ball?
Could I hit it true like I gave a damn?
Not even Obama would say Yes He Can!

For St Faith and St Laurence I was offside on the touch line
A whole lotta heart not skill was my punch line
When I tried to read the game I was tongue tied
Aston Villa couldn’t inspire pride
When they passed to me they looked petrified
Why couldn’t the clumsy demon be exorcised?
I was too much of a saint to pray abusive parents drank pesticide
Wearing claret on my sleeve I became blue
Praise would be wonder land but cats just asked
Who…are …you?

I am the black Vinnie Jones
A Roy keen to see red
Devil in a new shirt
Not that ugly black red and green striped
Muller branded
Would look better if puked yoghurt was splashed at.

Villa Park will never will be better than my hell on hallowed turf
Old Trafford is more than a theatre
When I watch them I am a dreamer
Scoring Hughes screamers
Weaving the blood of ogres with Ryan’s wing wizardry
My long legs will be David Gower’s bat on a tricky wicket
When that ball comes I’ll know where to stick it
Call me Michael Ricketts and you might hear crickets
I will be a chocolate Alex Ferguson with the master plan
12 years old I will be the man because I am
A United fan

They’ll no longer scold chocolate green and gold.
Paid my dues in the freezing cold
If I tackle you, reach for that 3 digit call
999, see you at City Hospital
Not arrogant just better, yes I’m that bold
I’m a united fan, don’t you know
Trap a ball, head it
Let’s take it slow
One day I might have Tor Andre’s flow
I might score a great goal or swing and slip
Then again…. running for number 10 …
I might just end …in the premiership

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Filed under 52 Week Challenge

Love Letters from the Hood vol 4.

I school you like black folk being shown the boondocks
Every time I tick your boom box
My second hand ruins clocks
With cold play the room the rocks
My motion is curt so I sniff Cobaine
Get you high and ready for my purple reign
In principle I’m weather vain
So blow me like the winds of indoctrination
See I lay you then lay claim to you
You are my patent
You’re micro soft to my bad apple
Peach queen,
Your juices energise my saddle
Reducing Ginuwine’s first line to babble
Said I’m not bachelor and
Your bad ass is making this soft boy harder
The way you rub so incisively
Decisively,
You thrilling me killin’ me
Said I’m so anxious
I’m trippin’
I’m stumbling
My lips are fumbling like a nervous young bomber
Mama, Mama, Mama
Martyr this moment
This is just a second row hit,
Don’t come till we hit the back of the line
You’re a serial killer with your tongue tied
Around my hung rhyme
My epic piece
Not written with a biro in hieroglyphics
I got a fountain pen
Recognise the thesis,
Acknowledge me like Romulus and Remus
And
When
You…
Respect the architect, like Guru and his nuances
I’ll show you,
You already knew what the blue print is
Yeah I got reasonable doubt like Hova did
I ain’t mad atcha cos I’m fallin just the same
Caressing those white cliffs of dover
I don’t want this to be a once hung
Over
Like Suge Knight trying to sign Vanilla ice
I need more than 20 stories
36 chambers
Most definitely
I want us to be the new danger
See a quiet dog may bite hard
But a real man guards the keys to a heart
Will you fight for this love
Or just watch the throne
I don’t want to be alone
Princess…

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Filed under Collaborations

Salt Shaker

What if Shakespeare was a stray cat?

Would it be a gay cat

Happy or homo

Two tails or normal

Hormonal, territorial or zonal

what if Shakespeare was a feline

would be ironclad or a shemale

telling tails of great pussy or just giving it

Selling great lines like punchline raps over a DJ scratch

Or just scratch and wounding every record made

What if Shakespeare was a stray cat

Would he be a junglist pugilist or into dubstep and grime

Would he even know to rhyme

Would he be giving it that rub a dub style

Blanched soul or measure for measure be a bore

Would he hamming it for the days of yore like a porky child

Or would he be buckwild like the leopard with neon spots

A sabre tooth who bit his style to confound the have nots

A couplet like Romeo and Juliet as his lines never met

Could we join the dots and understand his free style

In battle would he be really be riled,

His memory defiled like a child raised by paedophiles

Would he go Lear level senile or Tyson level crazy

Would he ride a beat or just beat up his lady,

I don’t think so see Shakespeare could’ve been Zulu

Spinning lines like voodoo tales of sincerity

Hynotising ear drums with verily verily,

Ye lords and ladies merrily

Before switching to yoruba listen to j.cole’s who dat

Scribing F ye polizia and burying it in a saltimine

We hold him high cos he assaults minds with a fools cap

Only then do we realise that his words were preserved cos he was never a stray

Just lyrically aux fais cool cat

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Filed under Random Poetics

beat again

My tongue’s tip flicks, flinches and convulses around melodic pulses

I gnaw at the beat root, energising my ions for the time of the spinning pulsar

Under the wings of doves and vultures I find riffs, licks and bricks of tongues

See I draw with my lungs because I breathe through the paper

I read my blueprint in red because my ribs caged her

Engaged the light like a mannequin clothed in logos and brands

Dismembering logical progressions because my perfection is inflection

Flawed excellence grounded in the moment of inspection

In junction, I reflect on conjecture like a medusa concerned for the health of her snakes

While I find my mete to raise the stakes a Medusa will pant evil for eons

Seeing promotion to lady of the lake I sold my Medusa self reflection and made her my pantheons first level

But that was merely shaping my wood with a Junior bevel and I needed flames

Even with a cold flow life ain’t cool runnings just because you’re at the winter games

Even if you share the status of your King James

Who dares frames so take a picture of a pun

Cos all I be is, a theist conceived by the drum

Received by the hum,

And still my tongues tip flips flash licks and straddles lexical prisms

To break my heart would mean long division so I sleep with my art for kicks

Rocks like statutes of New York liberties still standing I look good with the nicks

Rising like offspring of the Phoenix not needing canned-heat from the suns

As the Stan of standards in stanzas as I read I become living ecstasy

The pen was never purposed as an X to be, so while I live, there will be no full stop

So while I live, there will be no full stop

While I live, when my lid goes pop and my ink leaves to reign with the clouds staining like tar

Know that my beat root has seed to and you’ve just been blessed by the rhythmic harvest of my spinning pulsar

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Filed under Relationships