Nocturnal Submissions

Once

DJ_BlackAngus — Sat, 19 Jul 2008 06:50:36 GMT

Once upon a time I was a happy lad, full of adventure, dapper, debonair, damn good-looking (devil-may-care) Once upon a time, aeons ago, it seems, I was happy, in love, and everything was wine and roses Then I faced reality, woke up, saw deception everywhere, gave up hope when love forsook me, pawned my bass and bought another suit, took the college radio station off the console and started listening to Muzak and NPR I realised beauty was an illusion, and rejecting all illusions, closed my mind to miracles, sold out, bought in, accepted boredom as my lot in life I’ll be dead soon

Thanatopsis

DJ_BlackAngus — Fri, 18 Jul 2008 05:51:14 GMT

Once dead, do we lie grinning in the dirt Or do our spirits fly back to their source? Do eyes stitched shut rip open with the force Of trying to deny our fatal hurt? Deceased, do we lay shouting underground Though blue lips sealed with mortuary twine Do voices carry through the knotty pine As rotting flesh draws worms from all around? Do we simply lie there and relax? Or rigid and immobile, do we still Try valiantly to claw to surface air Refusing to accept the morbid facts Refusing to embrace the cursed chill Eternal loneliness too much to bear?

On Sorrow

DJ_BlackAngus — Fri, 18 Jul 2008 04:18:47 GMT

There is a certain savage beauty to be found in sorrow. Oh, yes, sorrow can be beautiful—can you comprehend that? Sorrow can bring people together much the same as happiness does, as passion does, and perhaps even more often, more fully, than either. Not everyone has experienced ecstasy; not all have been struck dumb by desire or been desired themselves, but sorrow, anguish, are inescapable realities of this life. Unable to avoid it, I therefore study it, have become well acquainted with it, and will eventually conquer it. Dealing with it head-on cleanses, liberates, and ultimately, empowers. Were it not for sorrow, which has sapped my will and blurred my vision too many times to count, you might never have read my words. Undiluted joy seldom inspires me: rather, it is the things that go "bump" in the night, that cause me to toss and turn in twisted sheets; it is the salty residue of sweat and tears, the dying gasps of sunlight surrendering to darkness, which prompts me to put pen to paper or digits to keys. Who among you could appreciate the good without an awareness of the evil? What would “white” be, with no “black” as its antithesis, or life, without death? Without suffering—without an innate ability to sense it in others who endure it just as poignantly as I—life might be so much duller.

immolation

DJ_BlackAngus — Wed, 16 Jul 2008 04:02:32 GMT

Before the day breaks cold wake with me and with a poet’s knowing smile, feed me fantasy by eastward-facing windows. Let the weariness fall from us like the robes we’ve long forgotten and let us go home in smoke in the fire foaled by sunrise

IM interrupt

DJ_BlackAngus — Tue, 15 Jul 2008 04:28:24 GMT

Computer screen glows balefully like something gone bump in the night, still displaying secret thoughts recently, finally voiced Disconnected chat leaves necessary things un-communicated queries unanswered Caught unawares, that call, that cry interrupted mid-thought, one sighs, attempts re-connexion utters a curse under one’s breath and unfulfilled, still questing, eventually drifts into uneasy sleep

Insomnia

DJ_BlackAngus — Tue, 08 Jul 2008 08:50:41 GMT

Life's no dream. I feel twisted; I know more about sheep than any sane man should or any sick man would. Brown, grey, black, and dirty white Wild and too damn woolly And every one making dumb, imploring cries And still their numbers mount Look! Too many flocks, too many sheep to count. I feel I must though there's no ewes and though I'd rather take a snooze. Eight hundred thousand ninety one, Eight hundred thousand ninety two: this won't do. But dammit and confound it all, there's no Ny-tol.

Lamia

DJ_BlackAngus — Mon, 30 Jun 2008 17:20:10 GMT

She emanated the stuff of apocalypse. She called my name softly, and I turned on my barstool to face the young lady with whom I'd arranged this first real-life date; thus far, we'd only communicated via email and telephone. I hadn't really known what to expect. She was stunning: “the stuff of apocalypse” is the best I can do to capture what cannot be described in words. Gazing up into almond-shaped orbs full of life and brimming with an intoxicating mixture of humour, wisdom, and wry innocence, I was speechless for what could have only been a scant second or two. I stood to greet her, intending to murmur any pleasing combination of words that might buy me time to regain my composure, and she opened her arms to embrace me, throwing me once again for a loop. I held her for a brief moment, able only to concentrate on the sublime intimacy our proximity created. In the space of what—a minute, I had been eviscerated, died, and was reborn. I probably sound like some failed student of Keats or Donne's poetry, and that wouldn’t be a completely unfair assessment (although I passed with an A), but only one who’d earned her knowing smile could understand. We exited the cafe, and on our way through the Commons, decided to sit and talk for a while. Knowing how seldom young women get to talk about themselves—generally, I think, they're forced to listen to their dates' innumerable accomplishments and exploits—with a genuine desire to know I asked about her family, her childhood, her work, between general conversation about television, society, and politics. I confess I still talked more than she, so skilful was she at redirecting conversation from herself; I think she was so secure in herself, she preferred to talk about other things. Ever the egotist, however much it embarrasses me, I indulged her. I remember every detail about her, though little of what we said, but we shared volumes through words, gestures, and looks before the March sun began its swift descent through the clouds and twilight became chilly. We resumed walking, eventually finding our way into a Japanese restaurant where between the tiny cups of sake and healthy orders of sushi we chain-smoked Pall-Malls and chatted animatedly for hours. I couldn't take my eyes off her: her amber-black hair, her exquisite shoulders (a term I never thought I'd use—they're just shoulders, right?), her clever mind, her well-toned arms (one with a gorgeous tattoo which encircled it just above the biceps); everything she was intrigued me, but nothing more than her eyes—oh, those enigmatic eyes! I fervently hoped I was not staring at her with a lecher's reptilian desire, that I wasn't drooling or babbling nonsense. Again, I tried to listen more than speak, to avoid sounding foolish and to hear as much as I could of her voice. I was lost! I believe I carried myself with pride and honour, since she laughed with me and never seemed bored. I assume I behaved like a gentleman, but I cannot be sure; the possibility that I could have been otherwise still nags at me from time to time. However, no matter: what is done cannot be undone . . . We sauntered from dinner to a cosy little bookstore where we had dessert, and after a time, eventually arrived at her apartment, where she'd offered me the couch for the night. We sat on the couch, watching "Blackula", and she let me put my arm around her as she nestled closer to me. I thrilled to her closeness, the honour of being able to spend the evening in her presence finally hitting home, and after she hugged me goodnight and retired to her bedroom (flashing that Cheshire cat smile), I lay down to doze, a grin etched on my face. I dreamed dark dreams that night, which I've since tried to capture in poetry, and though the poems are undoubtedly among my best—they fall way short of the mark. I doubt I will ever know what exactly happened while I lay there sleeping, or even recall why the visions I had then, and every sleeping period since, disturb me so much, ending as they did with me shooting bolt upright in the dark, sweat-drenched, silent tears flowing freely from my eyes. I woke up at twilight the next day to find her gone, a hastily scrawled note wishing me ‘fantastic journeys,’ left behind, and I departed her apartment in silence, locking the door behind me. * * * I've tried calling her since then, to ask why I haven't heard from her, since our rendezvous was, in her words, "eminently satisfying," but the phone number has been disconnected; the notes I send are returned unopened, stamped, "not at this address"; her profile deleted; and her AOL account is no more. I have new appetites now, unspeakable desires I would never before have considered, let alone sought to indulge, so completely inexplicable I no longer bother trying to impose logic upon them; instead, I revel in them in darkness, unobserved. Questions haunt me, but no answers exist, so, unfulfilled and with only one night of wonder to remember, I stalk restlessly into the twilit emptiness of the future, her voice still echoing in my ears.

random thought

DJ_BlackAngus — Wed, 25 Jun 2008 22:21:22 GMT

Heaven is pretty little girl with pink bow in her hair full of irrepressible charm and witticisms, reminding me: “Daddy, as long as you’re living, your baby I’ll be.” 02 Apr 08

island in the storm

DJ_BlackAngus — Fri, 02 May 2008 17:21:48 GMT

skies coloured like new rust or weak oolong tea rain derision with vengeance on poor, sodden me: my clothing is dripping; my hair's a wet mane: I pump my fist angrily, still raging, still vain, for it seems Gaia’s fury would drown me, tonight in cold waters righteous, undiminished in might but dauntless and sombre, I trudge through the downpour from truck, around puddles, up steps, to front door suppressing a sneeze, with sighs I ring bell and feel reverberations like it's my own death knell After moments like eons I make to depart then she flings wide the door, then her arms, and her heart . . . pulls me o’er the threshold with a world-weary smile tugs my every stitch off and onto the tile without words: all we trade are desirous stares: and my leaden soul lifts; I abandon all my cares content for a short while to push pain out of mind, my depression and loneliness for now left behind between mounds of pillows and layers of sheets we sample each flavour and impress with our feats forgotten, the burden of lost innocence, rediscovered in the instant we rise, crest and tense . . . the time we spend basking in post-coital calm with the reverence of penitents who chant Christian psalms is a time far too fleeting, and then suddenly, gone I must wake from illusion and put armour back on, emerge from new havens into merciless dark back into deep waters patrolled by the sharks, to cold, empty truck behind curtains of rain back to The World that would drive me insane, were it not for this island where I briefly rest-- I snap back to reality—am I cursed? Am I blessed? © black angus

Twitch

DJ_BlackAngus — Fri, 02 May 2008 16:29:40 GMT

4 a.m., that breathless hour of the early morn-- when the spirit is its weakest, when shaking hands spill coffee and red-rimmed eyes await the dawn. Somewhere several blocks away a siren screams A single sustained not of pain abruptly cut off; silence. ©black angus. All rights reserved.

...

DJ_BlackAngus — Sun, 13 Apr 2008 22:03:37 GMT

perhaps unfortunately, my heart belongs nowhere. my heart is claimed by none; no one wants it. It’s like sailing the sea in a boat that never finds land: I just want to find a sheltered cove, drop anchor, and rest easy for a while, but perhaps I want too much. Perhaps it is better to want nothing.

Azrarel’s lament

DJ_BlackAngus — Sun, 13 Apr 2008 21:52:31 GMT

O how I wish I was less than I am, less than I am, a man perhaps, or a nanny goat then I could run amok in the streets and sewers under skies the colour of turpentine and weak tea, free from foreknowledge through fettered by fate Then I could revel in pain and confusion, suffer in silence, wander in rage, or follow biological imperatives to rut and bear offspring, pass water, drink whiskey, or nibble on grass My world would be colours and motion, be random, facetious, contrary and fair at the drop of a dime and I could be soldier or slave, or give milk and bleat helplessly as my teats were yanked dry emotions or instinct would propel me through days filled with agony or maybe joy and thanksgiving My life would be mine, my choices for truth and my ideas of faith decided by me, no protocol followed or needed, submission or mastery there for the taking and in the end Death would take me and I could have rest. ©06.06.1999 ___________________________________ from The Columbia Encyclopedia, Sixth Edition | Date: 2007 Azrael [Heb.,=help of god], in the Qur'an, angel of death, who severs the soul from the body. The name and the concept were borrowed from Judaism.

Qs, no As

DJ_BlackAngus — Sun, 13 Apr 2008 21:47:57 GMT

What meaning, in my daughter's eyes that shines through salty tears I wipe? What meaning, in my poetry, between each tattered phrase I type? And I am free to challenge now the emptiness that is my life? Perhaps now I can comprehend the lover’s kiss, the hidden knife I am mortal and divine; the choice is mine to heal or sin If I commit to any course I won’t seek absolution then.

the dissed and dismissed daddy drives empty durango.

DJ_BlackAngus — Fri, 21 Mar 2008 01:59:17 GMT

Though my life is now chaotic and incomplete, my heart completely shattered by my wife’s deceit, though bruised, battered, scarred by this big defeat I’m still a funny motherfucker that you’d love to meet. My sanity’s dependent on a funky beat-- I’m rubbernecking just to check the empty booster seat where every day my precious girl used to ride and bleat about her life, her school & friends as I cranked the heat. She’s sweet, my little angel, and I miss her so— don’t know how a doting daddy is supposed to go from kissing her to missing her in less than a week, from devoted dad and hubby to a homeless freak. I’m hell-bent for leather in my luxury ride, a behemoth of a truck with all my clothes inside, that used to hold the laughter of my bright-eyed kid who recreates or reinterprets every thing I did when I was a little boy and had a world to explore and now like me her darlin' daddy is around no more. My ex thinks she’s being cool with the visitation ‘cause she smiled and said, “Whenever!” without hesitation, but this week she's down in Jersey, for the kid’s vacation, Oh, what the fuck—I’m stuck in limbo, and there’s no salvation! © 17 feb 08

Wet Love

DJ_BlackAngus — Fri, 21 Mar 2008 01:20:23 GMT

Corner lamps throw light on rained-on pavement, turn sidewalks into surrealist paintings highlighting slippery neon streets. King junkies and hoochie mommas hold court in oily alleys, both yearning for something at twenty bucks a pop - wet love is wet love wherever one finds it, but the night is a shape-shifter bumping and grinding and pounding the heart. One burned-out lamp throws a true light on the shifting of the night. Wet love is a stalker, and hearts become slippery come neon midnight. Wet love intimidates, Creeps through jook joints where hustlers and street toughs Drink martinis and gimlets like civilised folk And paw doe-eyed squealing chanteuses too fearful to do anything but like it Wet love draws blood, Slinks drunkenly out back doors down dark passages, climbs chain-link fences and slouches toward respectable neighbourhoods where unashamed in front of drawing room picture window real man with big fists splits doting wife’s bottom lip for asking the wrong question in the wrong tone at the wrong time, mother of his children Wet love deceives, parks downtown in hotel garage smokes Nat Shermans on way up to the penthouse where a kept woman yearns for understanding Wet love is all some can hope for, down on their luck and embraced by none as strains of Frank Sinatra fade from memory and they wish they too, could do it their way © black angus and pammy jaskot

Colours of Rage

DJ_BlackAngus — Wed, 19 Mar 2008 16:51:16 GMT

Troubled eyes the shape of almonds ponder the reflection; Woolly, wiry black hair strong, proud nose generous lips— he is but another lost prince of Africa. Hot tears roll ponderously down cheeks the colour of milk chocolate— he feels alone, misunderstood But once upon a time, when he cried with rage or hid his shame in darkness, when time and tides cursed him soundly and life seemed so damn fruitless, it was her shoulders that took his burdens for a while her hands that soothed his brow, her love that made him whole— That her skin had the blush of a real peach that her hair had the texture of cornsilk, that she was but another misplaced princess of Europe mattered not a bit— we are all royalty ©2004

Restless New England Night.

DJ_BlackAngus — Wed, 19 Mar 2008 16:38:49 GMT

1.12 a.m. Broken dreams are strewn all along the highway tonight, as if some savage vengeful spirit went driving drunk on others’ despair, hell-bent for leather. Out of my car at the rest stop, I walk along in the grass on a desperate search for bright and shiny bits of hope, for something I can pick up and caress with my tired, careworn fingers and treasure until it too, is taken from me. Alas, nothing catches my eye but the light from the sodium-vapour bulbs sadly outlining everything in stark relief. I stumble down the embankment separating the road from the woods and disappear into its heart at a run, happy to lose myself in darkness. Perhaps here in the shadows, where nothing that moves is bipedal or sentient, where the noises of night cease to be the steady drone of traffic and the low rumble of trucks is but a memory, I might find peace, at least for a little while. Beneath the forgiving boughs of a tree just recently begun flowering despite this cold and merciless winter I recline, in the hopes of accessing the beautiful thoughts that occasionally occur amidst the chaos in my mind. I pull out the laptop and activate it, its pale blue light strangely illuminating my surroundings. I start typing. It’s through free verse that I attempt to exorcise the demons I’ve harbour and feed, that fetter me, that discourage happiness with savage whispers no one else can hear. Eventually I feel the words taking wing, insinuating themselves between me and the darkness welling up inside, stimulating my pleasure centres. Q, W, E, R, T, Y—the letters above home row welcome my tentative touch and act as my therapist, my confidante, my confessor. The flowing phrases are the conduit to a better plane of consciousness, and I sink into the screen that serves as proxy for the page; it’s through this medium that I come of age. I vent until the glowing hands of my watch read nearly three o’clock, then shut down and pack the computer and trudge the mile back to where my car awaits. I’m exhausted by my thoughts, chilled by the air, and betrayed by my stiff back and creaking joints as I clamber into the driver’s seat with a grimace, but it’s a small price to pay to feel a little better.

Dark Rivers of the Heart

DJ_BlackAngus — Wed, 09 Jan 2008 19:33:24 GMT

Time passes and memory fails and which of us was to blame ceased to matter long ago. My hands are useless talons now tightly curled upon my lap My hair remains, though white, and my rheumy eyes see little but the past. On the golden oldies station I hear that Sade song far too often, still popular among those our age, after all these wasted years; I find that, though ancient, I can still produce tears. Borne on the wind off the harbour I smell you still: Your image is still crystal clear, and lulled to sleep at night by the rain' tattoo on my roof your voice still haunts me, mocks me You're long gone but I carry you, your memory, the good times, bad times, everywhere I go, submerged or floating, on the dark rivers of my broken heart.

I must ask the question.

DJ_BlackAngus — Tue, 20 Feb 2007 06:49:31 GMT

The angels envy us, are jealous that we are corporeal, can touch, smell, laugh, love, breathe . . . If we can experience things the angels cannot if we can revel in shared ecstasy— taste the salt on a lover’s lips revel in the warmth of a cheery spring morn weep cleansing tears of grief and sorrow— Why do we choose regret? Why do we curse the days we were born, reject the legacy of life, dwell in the doldrums and deny our own existence? The clock winds down, time runs out; oblivion reclaims us all, eventually Choose again, choose to play the game while you can Why not? 05.01.99

Static Electricity

DJ_BlackAngus — Mon, 19 Feb 2007 04:40:55 GMT

(written in collaboration with Eileen Fix [ http://people.tribe.net/meowfix ]) I’ll remember static electricity dissipated by a lover's tongue, and pools of sweat gathering in languid spots hidden from view quivering, quaking, hungry for touch Lights turned out: in inky blackness guided only by hearing and heat signatures staccato breaths bear witness to their rhythms pouring, purring past lips parted wet and pouting searching through space for that others’ taste and solidity, fluidity, rigidity and softness Against the wall amidst sea scents and pheromones frenzied rhythms change pace, the natural maturation of the act influencing those rhythms leaving little doubt of the intended destination and imminent arrival On the floor after brief respite to rest, reposition, and murmur indistinct assurances of a return to form, wandering hands and questing tongues snake downward searching out new beginnings * * * you touch my mouth and I'm accelerating again ... the darkness can't hide the heat of my returning flush In counterpoint to susurrant breaths are the earnest grunts I can’t contain; I die, falling, and am reborn

15 February: A Sonnet

DJ_BlackAngus — Thu, 15 Feb 2007 15:04:36 GMT

So once again, the dreaded day's passed by and once again, it's left me feeling old It's left me disenfranchised, bitter, cold And here I will attempt tell you why: The cynicism's rampant; it's a lie when everyone's EXPECTED to make love we're flooded with the mawkish; we fake love, [then] revert to ways that make our partners cry Oh Valentine! be still, my beating heart accept from me the cliched ruby rose a chocolate, a diamond, neat bows a Hallmark verse with cookie-cutter art If I don't show my lover love each day, why bother on just one to act that way?

re-examine your outrage.

DJ_BlackAngus — Mon, 05 Dec 2005 04:25:12 GMT

We boycott South Africa until apartheid is abolished & a black man is elected president . . . but the number of American congressman of colour is woefully few, and brown folk still lose their heads behind Texas trucks or get 'em bashed in by California cops We bemoan & vilify primitive tribal African practices like female circumcision . . . but have one of the highest incidence rates of sex crimes against women in the world We feed the hungry, clothe the naked, house the dispossessed on the plains of Ethiopia & the Sudan, in war-torn Bosnia & on the Ganges' banks . . . but snarl at & spit upon our homeless countrymen (when not simply ignoring them, deftly dodging discomfort) We denounce ethnic cleansing at Babi Yar, Bergen-Belson, Chelmno, Lodz, Rwanda, Kosovo . . . but feign amnesia about we did to the red man (still smoking his tobacco, and devouring his chocolate bars), watching Cowboys trample Redskins and Rangers trounce Indians. We help the weaker Kuwaiti defend themselves against the bullying Iraqi . . . but pretend battered wives in America "ask for it". Somewhere I'm sure the devil laughs

while flags wave.

DJ_BlackAngus — Sun, 13 Nov 2005 16:05:09 GMT

I write this little ditty staring out at the sea, drinking double Dewars sours that they make me for free, but am I getting drunk from alcohol? The answer is no I’m getting tipsy off the fumes of my incredible flow, and getting angrier and weeping for the brothers I've lost because the President's insisting soldiers’ blood is the cost of the freedoms we enjoy, although I don't understand how spent plutonium shells littering the Iraqi sand, and Halliburton’s controversies, make our lives secure I don't feel our jihad's righteous, that our motives are pure We share accountability for America’s sins, as executed by a leader who miscounted to win This vitriolic open letter is for President Bush I’m walking down the razor’s edge and won’t be needing a push The words will tumble from my mouth ’til I’m arrested for thinking the whiskey fuels the fire so I guess I’ll keep drinking We’ve aided and abetted every crime you commit (our inaction, and our silence, gives you legal permit)— we witness crimes-and-misdemeanours but you’ll never be tried you're exempted from impeachment ’less good head made you lie An enigmatic smile . . . as you blame data submitted, Blame the intelligence corps, and stand there caught and outwitted Arrange the factoids and the fiction until you think that we’re wit’ it And call us unpatriotic when we find out you bullshitted And while you’re at it, wipe your ass on that ol’ parchment we love The Bill of Rights we thought inviolate, with no man above, enforce your martial laws in ways so subtle and wrong and condemn the commie bastards penning dissident songs Abuse the sacred document that’s two centuries strong And invite or threaten other sovereign nations along. I’m weepin’ deep in bourbon sours as bombs burst in midair I’m lost sleep in burning beds while you got cosy with Blair every poll in which you're slippin' lessens none of the scare the-80-proof-truth on CNN leaves you no worse for the wear So your cronies are indicted! You've got it made in the shade Working stiffs and common folk are still your pawns to be played Check to check and week to week, projected forecasts are grim We’re at your mercy, Mr Bush, and we await your next whim . . .

keep it REAL? puh-leeeze . . .

DJ_BlackAngus — Mon, 07 Nov 2005 03:45:27 GMT

I’m tired of rappers “keeping it real,” doing soft-shoe shuffles with redoubled zeal, forging images that sell ’cause they’ve got sex appeal, treating women like eye candy whenever they feel— I’m tired of rap cats with big lats & foul mouths & swelled heads smoking phat spliffs like big stiffs with dumb girls in queen beds: who needs dope-dealin' gansgtas in bulletproof vests, hoochies in videos with bulletproof chests, plug-ugly mumbling thugs with long lists of arrests and the goal of making hip hop like the Wild Wild West? What happened to lyricism? From dirty-faced kids doing time in the ghetto to Gucci & Prada 'cause the dollar’s their Geppetto, where we once waged war with words has now become a worsened plight— where once we seized the day we now just die at night our nation’s children learning all the tired stereotypes taught by would-be urban poets who grin and smoke their pipes, decreasing the peace as they increase the hype. Mixed metaphors & mixed messages are peddled to the masses— our little girls memorise the lyrics and shake their stupid asses— nodding their heads and moving their feet to the latest regurgitated Neptunes beat. “Realism” ’s not reality, just a poor substitute! Realise: most black folk own no guns & sell no drugs, have no “rap” sheets & know no thugs, don’t wanna be shot callers or playas; don’t crush-a-lot or rock new gators, don’t refer to our sisters & mothers as bitches, don’t drive brand-new Benzes & don’t roll in riches, don’t give a damn about dealers or snitches, and don’t end up shot or in staples and stitches. We aren’t each assigned a muscular crew, & when we talk of hard times, you know we speak true, because the economy’s killing all middle-classed folk— those tax reform checks were just insults—or jokes— we’re too busy starving to worry ’bout rocks, or if Jenny’s chillin’ with Ben on the mother-f!@in' block, so though they play to the audience and have it down to the letter, we grown fans of real artists’ music know better. I watch these misinformed brothers & I get enraged— they worry ’bout their street cred more than getting upstaged; they use slick post-production & pre-teen seduction, samples from classics & good liposuction, and their high school instruction goes by the wayside when they focus on Bentleys & homes at the bayside. Black stars & white trash take Hollywood quick cash, creating a backlash with low-budget mishmash; I flash back to the laugh track of old blaxploitation, while these poseurs calling themselves rappers label it ‘reparation’ . . . Like Saul said: “I’m supposed to be/ less of an MC ’cause I never sold a key? I sold my homework, when y’all [brothers] were too busy hustlin’ to do the dome-work . . . “ Keep your eyes on your daughters; these fools keep muddying waters discovered by poets & played in by toddlers— no sonnets, no odes, no quatrains or nursery rhymes: it’s just rhythmic accounts of crimes, sordid soirees & grime, but I can remember times when verses were curse-free & skill was put first—we possessed no cash thirst; we cherished the poetry. Now is the worst—we hold tight the purse, we await the next poet’s ride boxed up in a hearse, we abandon our arias, get cryptic & terse and we forget spontaneity when we hearse and rehearse . . . c2005, black angus

perchance to dream

DJ_BlackAngus — Mon, 05 Sep 2005 04:17:51 GMT

I'll sleep naked with you under white cotton sheets black silk eiderdown or old worn flannel-- it's not the sheets that command my presence, but rather, your heat and heartbeat your devil-may-care attitude your wicked little mind the siren song of air-raid horns, of cops and robbers, is but harmony to your cries, percussive punctuation to the way you writhe because little girls with heart-shaped lips and neon cynicism would without a second thought turn over tonight's earnings for a chance to mould their mojo after yours, but while they jostle each other for space on the corner between crackheads and mongrels, beggars and butchers, I'll smile, embraced and comfy between cotton sheets and sweaty arms c2005, 2002, black angus.