Sunday, February 09, 2014


sometimes i read others' words that make me want to use them, appropriate them, because they fit me so right...recent spoils include someting to the effect of "...i’ll fuck you with questions until you cum with answers..." and wherever i read the original wordage, it was all i read on the page so i cyah say no more about it, except that line jump out at my eye+mind and make me feel to wash foot and jump in 1time; had to run with it for a minute, trying to express someting i try telling before, seemingly in vain; hopefully this help me say it so the harden understand...
i's a truthsayer. lie slayer. the 1ting i demand, non-negotiable, is complete honesty. i’ll fuck you with questions until you cum with answers you eh know you have. and if i choose you, make the most of your good fortune; let me consume you, swallow you, whole, cock+mind. doh 'fraid. a muse this powerful, worth losing yourself to, for what she make you make better...
with that off my chest, related news: for 3canal carnival show2014 grimeee not only will i get my own bamsee-spotlight to perform to my absolute favourite canals-tune, ah love it (ah love it, ah love it), i also get to perform roger bonair-agard's chantuel hymns from his tarnish and masquerade, and lemme tell you, is panties, 1time; this fucking poem so good it make me wanna write a poem about how fucking good this poem is; even delivering at a whisper bring me to tears+winery; still jealous i eh write these words meself. i admit this may not be full[y]/accurate txt because i sadly doh own a copy of this collection, just read it years ago and right now working from a show script, but it too brilliant to not share whaever i have of it...enjoy.

i lost my virginity   to calypso
to the songs of slaves
the ghost of souls
that disappear with language lost
my grandfather's french-african patois
never sang to me

except through these songs - l'overture's dream
rhyming its way hard through steelband
and the repartee of african ballad
griot story made freedom song
my waist learned to move
with the whip   with the song   with the prayer
with the silent acquiescence of my grandfather's tongue
phasing out his own creole
for the victorian flourish of his father's hand
through the ghost of a language lost
i learned the stroke of a sweet fuck
a soul taking up residence in music
surviving life as a squatter in redeemed people's songs

i lost my virginity
to the echo and the crackle of the cane brulee
first declaration of emancipation
bacchanalian festival
turned revolt turned african turned lost tongue
turned the still raging fire
hollowing out the soul of the oil drum
to revive africa as a stubborn tenant
in a european mask

we learned how to fuck like this
this 'sweet wine'
like surreptitious like uprising
like make more africans while massa sleep
make more drums to replace the ones banned
more tongues to sing the ones cut out
and made to drop useless
on the cocoa floor - the tongue
my grandfather replaced with the black foot dance
of the coffee bean
and the bois of the gayelle
and the future for his children
and the land that he left

this is how we learn to move
slow figure eight from waist down
put the heartbeat into the grind
and jouvert and dimanche gras
we learn to move like sand
shift like the chatter of forbidden tongues

or the movement of waistlines through impossible emotions
and remember these tongues

through steelpan and calypso
we learned to live
under the shadows
of our grandfather's tongues
in the middle of the night
in the stomp of the shango ritual
in the silence of ash wednesday
in the chaos of the savannah dust
in love and lust
and the eternal stroking of the hips
we learned to move
we learned to move
we learned to move
and still have the language to prove it.

walk good.


Blogger crazyfool said...

incredible poetry. move(d) indeed. and yuh pretty fine with yuh words as well 'truthsayer'... thanks for sharing.

6:40 pm  
Blogger m.jamesphotography said...

I'm in awe..I always enjoy reading your blogs..thanks for is always a treat

11:17 pm  

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