For John Olscamp, Pedro Angel Serrano, Morgan, Byron, Adam Evans, Keith (CSBS) & Wes Nolan

...the ability to compose poems became part of a gentleman's education, and the custom of writing a verse in preparation for death developed. As a result of all this, the relationship between the samurai and poetry writing became nearly inseparable.
Hiroaki Sato

 

 

Coo ¡Ya! dun/can you decode my visual conversation/you getz your eJAHcaTION/Runnin ras rhythmic hieroglyphics/AYO! check my the shit/Stealthin visual writs/Like I.B.C. shit/I gotz phatty mackdaddy tips en post-its...

One
Honour
Nuh
Daye Mondaye
Come the sun up on this daye and Marsa rang John up on his celly,
     ...Come bring your cotton over to Hillside and so we can hookup...

...strike em quick on poles en mailboxes/we bumbrush them/reconstruct the Sic one's Double or Nuthin/protect one from the elements of the jungle/music calls us/we brag wiph/poems de-sung/cluster this town wiph smashin taggs/

...Woht?...

of bruthas markin up tHe dUNG/convert the dungle to Mogadishu/or is you/New Palestine/our kind/the alteration of settlass creation/Gaza the Cook st. nekgaz/top strikers/human versions of SQoUMpTon/hidden in the belly of locas/

...I said...

assembly of urban reservations/more grafs for our bruhs' culture/suss me this conjecture/all our loved ones/will they kill or author for our future

...Holdup.... Yo! YO! Ima turn that down, mayn. I can't hear...
...it's Marsa... Ayo, I said come down...
...AH BWOOEY!!!!, sup, witchu, dawg...
...Just bangin that elbow, ri?
...yeah, yeah, word... I can suffer that shit. You like what I dropped, fo? what chu up to...
...fuc, yo, come find out. I got all you want, spar...
...You come here, spar...
...Awo...
...smashin, I'll see yuh...

John practiced his swangs en flex en watched Baron sit bare slappin his fat ting watchin Transformers on the television. He pulled so hard that it could cut from the force of his pump.
Niggas is just like crabs...
          I've been tryin to do that all night and daye
Dey daye is close en heaven calls = cos truth masters equality.
     Marsa, could come all the way to Fernwood from Hillside for it. He loved his head like cotton. He plays and plays wiph the locks and fuzz. Think carefully. Clearity. As his thought of his flesh came to reality next to him. On top of him.
     Once awhile ago, yesterdaye, Baron was just sitting up on the hide abed in his wifebeater with his naked ass half sticking out from his trousers. He drunk. John a bit blunted. Next Baron had cocoa butter all over his back, and that was now bare, and he was on his back, and John was spreadin it all over him.
     This version = space has 3 dimensions of movement and so does time.
     But who was this one? Sitting in his chair with a stiff one and no learning to make love worth jazzysm. This kid. He spit gobs of liquid from his grill and take it back in and blow cool air on John's skin. Kid flash through his dome like anti-nightmare of bad knockin and good temptation. Was he the same one? No foreign invasions with this Baron one, spar.
     Cheating on his duke with this Baron.
     Hot licks.
     He showed up, all screwfaced and innocent, in a wifebeater, after breakin into the apt. next door. He beat that kid on the corner next door.
Cha!
     Chocolate from a scared Baron. Here's some oil for your busted nose gon a scab.
Coo yuh! Every tongue got to confess and he kissed his back. And... Baron just look at his dick. Is this the poetic love verse of post 2nd reconstruction? Was this the way? Drunk fucs of denial. Head games and liquid evidence crusted on towels.
     Talk in your sleep. Role over and hold him.
He squatted in the tub, half full, as John poured water on over his head. The blood ran away from his face and fists. Mellow the tude of the negro. His cotton brings him to prophecy.
     His sound drops tones and he flexes between his legs. A jinn's flava comes to the semi tone. Can he miss the 36 points and suss the pleasure of 12 and one tone.
     Cut, cutting, to cut some one, to out do them physically = musically. Can he learn him love without the shuffle and dialect? The boys go to cum and the men last for the rapture. Dead beats in asses expand to numbness. Slowin rolls to fit the measure. Their pleasure. He went from calling his brutha boy to man to niggah and now he feels better. Where's their view at 910? Shoot up en watch the dicks tumble -- come Mondaye, they woke and got the call from Marsa wanting to drop by for a taste of the tude.
     Break sample this masculinity. The war had settled the turfs up by divinity. Yoroba, ilah, Buddah, Swords -- and Jedus a blaze. Peel a cap of cream in that head he got and gave.
     Crooked swordsmen. He kissed him. He kissed. The reconstruction would not forget him. But is this the place to do this for the sake of the babies? New seeds to live forever and ever. Their lovers. They lovers?
     Our prophets and warriors never liked girls and women are hard to find. Did Duke and Billy ever make love to solidify the tension or would that decay the composition? Why would it be heresy to even consider it? Ask this of the profits.

     As he reflects upon kickin his brown Native ass out the door for the milky way. We cut back and forth from the pleasure zone of one tone to the other.
          His eyes were watchin....
     Brown to Black to Mocha in speed of a plunge. Engineer this version to agony beyond diversion. Boom him sonic with slack bassy drums dubbed to Senegal and Amharic spits from Ethihiphopia. This is the full out knuckle pound come to body bang to the single tone, fluctuated with feather like fingering, across your homey's body. Suffer me. Feel me. Honeyeyed G. Scrumptious G-d is in his bruhs body. He won't kneel to... but he'll stand to... and talk to... from their arms touchin the legs, that leg, so slow bruh. Roll with me bruh. Give me that arm round us, bruh. Can I forget that ass? and get all up in that head. His fingers are caught in the cotton.
     Suspect thinkin of warparties come to begun the seduction to Baron's beat in synchronization with John's mutual intentions. Make them manifest in thick fist wrapped in a battery of caresses.
     Baron suggesses,
     -You seen Marsa, lately-
     -Not for longso, naw-
     -Can I crash here, tonight-
     -Woht you think, Baron-
     -I nuh kno-
     -Sho-
     Play the elbow with the company of a 40 sac with thanks to the mules. Honeyeyed Mondaye was gentle as the midnight stompin of the Sundaye.
     Lounge with me
     With some Sensi Star jr..
          We'll chill to Roots Manuva and that Equilibrium elbow.
     ...come Mondaye and this week will be our daye.
John speed dials Marsa up on his celly.
     ...Ayo, my duke...
     ...Yo, bigup wohtup...
     ...It's me...
     ...Yeah, I'm bout 15 mins away, beau...
     ...oh, well, I got shit to do. So I got to jet, mayn...
     ...I got us some 40's fo...
     ...aaaaah, I cayn, spar. I really got shit to do. It just came about like that...
     ...oh, yeah...
     ...come holla at me... ah....
Sleepin, now, in the corner of the hide abed; him smellin like chocolate. Baron's ass was hidden jus to the tip by the blanket. So John follow his back up along the spine to his...
     Confess
          bail on the new flesh for an old soul.
     Baron's Ojibwai heart feel so good. ...that's how niggah got dey freedome. John went next to him.
     ....ayo, Ima be busy for awhile. Holla at me Thursdaye, ayite...
     ...yeah, sure... peace out...
     ...peace...

©2002 Lawrence Ytzhak Braithwaite - Contributor's Bio