The Literary Maturbator

Jair , “The Literary Masturbator,,” is a poet, spoken word artist, Minister of Musings, Director of Dialogue, activist and new resident of Oakland, Ca from Los Angeles where he was a regular with PoetsJazzHouse at Sonny’s Spot http://www.poetsjazzhouse.com/ in Leimert Park.

His work has appeared in/on ION TV Presents PoetsJazzHouse, Myne Mic Radio Show, Sequoia Magazine, DownSideUp, In The Meantime “Statements of Pride Issue” GentleChaos, and ThirdThursdayLA. Read his music articles “Eargasms” at http://www.gbmnews.com/.

He is the author of the chapbook “Sacred Sensual Secrets”. Look for his upcoming book, “Touch: Poems and Other Writings of Love, Erotica, and Sensuality” and spoken word CD, “Confessions of a Literary Masturbator...”

He has appeared at/or coordinated for numerous festivals and spoken events including QBall-National Queer Arts Festival 10th Anniversary Celebration, “Is Gay Male Culture Dead?” with GuyWriters SF, The African Marketplace & Cultural Faire, Pan African Film Festival, Sabor Con Fusion, Carlotta’s Fine Art, Soulful Salon ATB Event, Los Angeles Black Book Expo, Panelist-West Hollywood Book Fair, The Love Movement, Abbot’s Habit, UnUrban’s “ReallyBigShow” 5th Street Dick’s, and many others. While at Unity Fellowship Church in Los Angeles he was founder and coordinator of the Lorde-Baldwin Learning Tree, Co-Facilitator with Frankie Lennon of “The Talking Drum” creative writing workshop, and curator of the annual “In the Beginning Was The Word” spoken word event. He is also part of the spoken word/vocal duo BettaWayz with vocalist Regi Perry and moderator of the WoubiYossi Collective http://woubiyossi.tribe.net/ an on line forum for Same Gender Loving Men of African descent and their supporters. You can connect to him on MySpace www.myspace.com/theliterarymasturbator and read his thoughts at http://theliterarymasturbator.blogspot.com/

Below you find excerpts of Jair's works.

Quake..
By The Literary Masturbator--

The earth moves under my feet
My equilibrium is shaken
Where is the balance?
I was afraid of the quake, but I realized I was safe from harm, because the tectonic shift in my life was natural and necessary, for me to see
Life…
Anew…
Until the fault lines of self-doubt and insecurity are shaken
How do you know where you stand?

Beautiful Daydream of Friday Mornin'
By The Literary Masturbator--

I caressed his cheek
Our bodies lay entangled
I could feel his heartbeat
Skin against skin
Flesh dissolving into each other
His exhaled breath softly forages the fine hairs on my chest
Flashbacks of our lovemaking filled my recollection, bombarding me with sensations
Kisses…soft, deep, loving
Affection
Intimacy
Surrender
We gave into the passion that had been building between us
I massaged his back as he lay beneath me
My hands surveyed the deep contours connecting his shoulders
My fingers solicited moans as I manipulated his vertebrae
My touch both electrified and calmed him into welcomed soulful blisses
I lay on top of him, kissing the back of his neck, stroking the freshly shaved scalp of his bald head My dreadlocks fell across him, tickling his pores, tingling his senses
My full body's weight bearing down on him
I began motioning my hips between the two crescent moons of his ass
My manhood growing, elongating, throbbing, nestling, and driving us on a journey we are taking together
He blew out the air he had been holding in his lungs
It was safe to…
Release
This was our sanctuary
Our deliverance
This was home
Turning him over on his back we again kissed, the tips of our tongues flickering against each other
Lips embracing, suckling, fulfilling long held cravings
He traced my eyebrow, cheek, nose, mustache, lips, and chin with his index finger
The softness of his touch stroked my fervor
I swallowed his finger, then two, and then three into my mouth and sucked on them
I smacked on them as if I were tasting the last of the bbq sauce from a well made rib
I gazed into the two pools of yearning that were his almond shaped eyes, they sparkled
His eyelashes fluttered like the wings of a butterfly
His closed eyelids revealed the motions of eyeballs as if they had attained the REM stage of slumber
His mouth emitted a soft hum that came from deep within, someplace sacred and profane
Spreading his legs beneath me I felt our blood engorged fruit rub against each other
Creating friction and delight, pleasure and anticipation
Producing liquid evidence of our encounter
Teeth on ear lobes and nipples we feasted
Savoring the sweet nectar of each other
He tasted of familiarity and longing, of hope and romance
He smelled of forgiveness of past hurts and vulnerability
We melted into purrs and groans, sighs and whimpers, thrusts and tightenings, tears and confidence
Laying down our burdens at our altar of yearning
It all culminated in cosmically induced bursts and exclamations, rupturing through the final wall of insecurities
I didn't want it to end, but my consciousness hastened me back to reality as I awakened from my Beautiful Daydream of Friday Mornin'…

Love The Poet

LOVE the poet

LOVE (Michelle A. Nelson) is a passionate poet, counselor, and teacher. A native of Columbia , MD , LOVE left her suburban surroundings to attend Coppin State University in Baltimore City , where she excelled in athletics and graduated in May of 2003, as a 4- year Honors Program Scholar. In 1999, as an undergraduate freshman, LOVE discovered the art of spoken word poetry. The discovery of this dynamic and cutting edge art form influenced LOVE to transform her affinity for writing poetry into a powerful and substantive spoken word performance, stimulating audiences of all ages and cultural backgrounds.

LOVE has been a featured artist twice at Joe’s Place spoken word radio (WHUR 96.3), WOLB Urban Talk Radio (1010 AM), "The Signal" WYPR Radio, WEAA 88.9 Radio, Ladies Verse V & VI (presented by Poetry for the People Baltimore), host and feature of various Torchlight Entertainment (TLE) live entertainment productions, and she is the co-creator of the "Seen But Not Heard" concert series (an all female ensemble of poets, hip- hop artists, and singers). Throughout her budding career she has worked with various artists such as: Olu Butterfly Woods, The 5thL, Jahipster, E the poet-emcee, Navasha Daya of Fertile Ground, Green Tea, Lamar Hill, Rebecca Dupas, and CSC Trilogy.

A vocal advocate for at- risk youth, LOVE has been educating and counseling this population of young people for the past three years. By combining education and experience with energetic spoken word poetry, LOVE has captivated and elevated the minds of young audiences with performance and creative writing workshops.LOVE has centered her spoken word career on social enlightenment, community outreach, and entertainment. She is the 2005 recipient of the "Ms. Poetry" People’s Poetry Award, three time National Underground Spoken Word Awards nominee (Best performer female, Community Oriented Underground Poet Award, Why didn’t I think of that poem), and she is the host of Spoken Serenity…Be Free Fridays in Baltimore, MD, and C.E.O./Founder of justLOVEpoetryink.

...So my purpose must be to release myself from all guilt and pain, listen to other poets inspire and do the same, stand on my words and appear to levitate on stage, and remember that I love to do this so display it in my name... LOVE (an excerpt from My Purpose" on her LP entitled "Love’s Journey… It Begins" )

We had the pleasure of having LOVE the poet feature at our 1st Annual Myne-A-Thon at Billie's Black and I must say, I have never seen such a performance of poets and singers combined. She along with her wife Phoenix and her friend, fellow artist Wordslave of the group Axiom were superb. They traveled a long way to help us raise funds to purchase toys for needy children and for that I commend them.

This past weekend, April 26, 2008, marked the release of LOVE the poet's third album, The Chrysalis...the Rebirth of Michelle Antoinette. She celebrated this event at The Yabba Pot in Baltimore , Md. at a weekly event called The Art of Conversation. The event was filled with wonderful poets gracing the mic, followed by LOVE accompanied by her father, G.C. Nelson on the guitar, her partner, Phoenix and Associate Producer, Rahsaan "Wordslave" Eldridge. Her performance included "The Chrysalis", as well as "Enough is Enough", "Passion Fruit Tea" and "Symphony". It was very uplifting and creative. At the end of any performance at TAOC, the audience is allowed to make comments or ask questions to the performer. LOVE was no exception. Many people in attendance felt her new album would mark a new era in how poetry is produced. The album is spectacular.

For more information on LOVE the poet or to purchase any of her albums, please visit her at http://www.blogger.com/www.myspace.com/lovethepoet, http://www.lovethepoet.com/ and http://www.blogger.com/www.myspace.com/justlovepoetryink

Unusual Baptism

Head above water
Sacrificial lamb served up for the slaughter
Praying to God my faith doesn’t falter

LOVE turning to hope floating
Above those unbeknown to me
Hating what it is I do, like I write my poetry and love femininity for you
I struggle with myself, argue within, my mind and heart aren’t always in agreement
Body heavy like cement
Existing just above the water margin
Wading in your judgment

Labeled a spiritual poet
But I am not perfect
In every poem I have a silent prayer worked in to keep me rejoicing
Praisin’ him, raisin’ my pen
Hopin’ for a annointin’ an unusual baptism
I wanna be dipped in the blue ink of my writing mechanism
I want to be committed in writing
Scribin’ my dedication every place I step in, spannin’ as wide as the ocean
But who am I kiddin’
I am drowin’ every time I spit
Lungs burnin’ sinkin’ into my watery crypt
My time in church is sporadic, my time with her makes me manic
I can’t swim so I’m frantic
Life supplies no jacket so I am in need of a self contained. under water. Breathing apparatus.
So I am not drowning just diving
In full control of my penmanship and flow
Writing until the moment I exist no mo’
Scripted not tragic
So when you eulogize my spirit it will be evident that my death mirrored my life
POETIC

© Michelle Nelson 2006

Crimes of Passion

Watching out for the cops
Watching out for the cops

Murder when eyes meet and tongues touch
My heart stops
Thank you for holding my hand and pulling from quick sand my body
Slowly caressing like you were born just for me
Fitting like puzzle pieces, waterfalls seeming endless on both sides
As tongues rise and fall in between inner thighs
Thank you for my highs through lows when our bodies intertwine in darkness like shadows
How deep does love go?
Because it’s slowly that it grows
Thank you for your sweetness because it is the sweetest I have ever known
It’s time for mind sex
By telephone wires we connect even through cordless our souls seem bound for endless friendship
We are…
You are…
Beautiful
As seen through light brown eyes
You and I both hypnotized
In trances, hot dances at midnight when music is made while your sweetness exits
Thank you for the crimes committed when we finally meet face to face
You are my sunshine through gray skies
My saving grace
Thank you

© Michelle Nelson 2007

Hip Hop’s Emergency

Hip- Hop is in a state of emergency
Hip- Hop is in a state of emergency

And I am alarmed because it concerns you and me
As we sit back silently, applauding those who speak so violently
Not saying, “Yo come sit and vibe with me” but, “Listen who’s been killed lately?”
Is the question on our lips
As more rappers read scripts forgetting that our culture still exists
In the shadows
Sisters have become hoes, bitches by even those who were birthed having estrogen hormones
And if self-degradation isn’t sad hold on it gets sadder
It’s like Hip- Hop’s a mother and someone just robbed her of her kids
Who now think sounding smart is all there really is
FORGET ABOUT ACTUALLY BEING THAT WAY
And this is everybody’s emergency
Everybody’s emergency
Since Hip- Hop’s emergence see
There are no cultural lines drawn it goes beyond beyond but sit back and look at what the world sees
A bunch of frontin’ black people parading Prada and ice while we’re in a deep freeze
And we need a paramedic because Hip- Hop bleeds and pleads for us to stop supporting the drug laced lyrics and diseased ridden cavorting that those on Hip- Hop’s front lines promote
While the white man sneaks out the back door with his coat because his job is done
This is no longer fun…
This is no longer fun
And if you don’t believe me just ask Reverend Run
We need to start supporting those who know where our roots are, who fight the machine in underground subway cars
and realize that we are fabulous regardless of the negative shit that has seeped into R&B lyrics like, “Me and my bitch”
However, we proceed on hands and knees to F.Y.E. bangin’ down doors throwin’ panties on floors all the while putting ourselves in the position mouths open like whores to personify bringing that bullshit to life
That ain’t right and it’s ridiculous that we spend a million dollars and all we get is 50 cent
We need to lace up boots, strap on parachutes, and jump from this Kamikaze mission because for this cause too many have come up missing in action
And for the masses satisfaction we depict black folks as cliques yelling out, “Fuck it, who you with!!!!”
And always quick to pull the trigger, kill another brother quick
I am Hip- Hop’s baby
Born on a Friday
Growing up to conscience lyrics from Self Destruction and Unity
And if you ask me who I am with
Just ask me who I am with
And I will say the black community
Cause
Hip- Hop is in a state of emergency
And this is our responsibility!!!

© Michelle Nelson 2006

Mental Copulation (Cheekz)

I would like to introduce you to Cheekz, also known in her circle as Mental Copulation or simply Lyric. Born and raised in Maryland, she is a proud parent of six children. Cheekz has been an out lesbian for more than 20 years and admits that her first crush was on Diana Ross. Faced with the typical prejudices of being lesbian, she decided early on to be content with who she was, finding this approach to be the easiest.

Cheekz began writing at the age of 8. After reading “The Book of Aztecs”, she proceeded to write a seven page book report for her teacher. This teacher, noticing the creativity in her writing, set about cultivating this young writer, who 30 years later has blossomed into the wonderful poetess we see today.

Cheekz is an aspiring singer as well as poet. She is currently in the studio working diligently at producing her first musical offering. Blessed with the ability to write poems at the speed of light, it is no wonder that the content of her music is derived from her own thoughts. She says the CD will be a mix of jazz tunes accompanied by a mixture of spoken word and melody.

She sees writing as a way of expressing her many ever changing moods. Self admittedly her temperament makes Cheekz hard to live with at times, but her true thoughts are always clearly express through her words. With more then 300 poems published online, her poetry can be found almost anywhere but most prominently on her group site En-Motion. Cheekz most wants the world to know that she refuses to change, settle or conform, choosing instead to write her own story, create her own path filled with love, passion and yes, even erotic messages for your reading pleasure. Her favorite genre of poetry is Lesbian Erotica, but she firmly believes this does not define her as a person. It does not make her promiscuous nor does it mean that she behaves in an unladylike manner. No, she believes her poetry comes from a place of romantic imagination that occasionally dips on the wild side.

She doesn’t seek fame and fortune, doesn’t want singing to become a job or a chore. She simply wants to tell the world what she is feeling, in hopes that it may allow you to feel something as well.

Disclaimer: The following material contains explicit content.

Love’s Hangover

I’ve been searching for a while now looking for my perfect enigma and she eludes me and then I opened my eyes and there she stood so beautiful like a ray of sunshine and such a warm smile that I was taken aback….love at first sight. I couldn’t resist but to kiss those lips and take her in my arms and melt within my exuberance at how blessed I was…the moment she took in my soul’s life-force she held me with an abandon that reckoned with such exultance my nipples rise and become taut against knowing that she will touch me. I lean back into my fantasy my want and feel her nakedness and vulnerability match my own fearless and wanton do I allow her to take me stripped to my essence to the core and I look inside her eyes to find my reflection so loving in her light keeping my body close my mind my thoughts allowing no seconds of my passion to pass between us like two ships the air I breathe becomes her mirrored caresses all over my skin her lips across my neck my shoulders my breasts I exhale and inhale feeling intoxicated and mesmerized at how she knows my body my spots my tender weaknesses never before have I felt so safe felt so right in the arms of a woman so gentle and beast like how her prowess feeds on my need my desire to be loved and wanted she guides her love inside of mine feeling the tight fit moaning against the temptation and the seduction of it my warmth enveloping her she breathes my name silently I cry out in a brilliant unison feeling her taste my Nile and her need for sweet honey harmony between my lips her fingers kissing each tip as if my life was sworn by them her tongue so skillful and magical I blissfully fall from depths unbeknownst to my lust my pink pearl her playground leaving none to chance and her propensity to make me tremble and dance without reluctance brings a heightened sense of lovemaking no other woman has shared with me the walls tumbling down the bells sounding my calm shattered against a raging climax uncontrollable I let go and surrender falling free from all restrictions against her mouth…..YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS please baby please don’t stop……my heart pounds as she enters my queendom and pounds with my waves encouraging my buck and grind thighs parting sticky and grand I am finally in the middle of a orgasmic storm …the perfect love hangover from this intoxicating elixir called her……shit…..I need to lean back and take in the moment….time for the next journey and I shall take you there as I ride…ohh yesss ooooh when we when we make beauty….damn baby….you got me got you twisted…..
Copyright 2008 © MentalCopulation

Waters…

Waters run deep within the words spilled between my pen and your nakedness
I sketch how I want you to feel
I note your breasts soft round and supple
I verbalize your buttocks firm and powerful
Leaving your mouth agape with possibilities of turning such a fantasy into reality
Your love my non fiction your cynicism my fiction
I am a literary lover of your skin and mind
Musings of making you buck and grind twist and tremble
Search and develop
A need
A desire
Your eyes my window
My soul your chaise
We embrace with pen and paper
My legs wrapped around your poetry
My clit reading every spoken word and syllable
Before you think to write them
Telling you
Narrating your wetness
You warmth
Your thighs kneading my sexual dough
I hear your silent screams
Beckoning
Pleading
Confessing
I can taste your virtue all across my lips
Sweet
Innocent
Surrendering
Knowing the only thing between us when to touch again
My deck of cards
Becomes a game of hearts
You lush my queen
I crown your king
We spoon to a moon sonata
Skin
Flesh to flesh
Ripples of quakes between my vulva
Expose my weakness to control
And I feel your sweet ancient Nile waves
Rush down my thighs and into my succulent ravine
Resting
Penetrating
Thrusting
And needing to feel once more……
The softness of my wisdom’s pearl
Between your lips….
As if I have spoken your name
And you answered

Copyright 2007© MentalCopulation

Shaylove

Shaylove

Shalona, a.k.a Shaylove, is the author of many poems and several short story collections including “The Lesbian Chronicles, Studs and the Women Who Love Them”, “Tavia", and "The Night She Touched My Soul. Her works can be found on poetry sites , among others. As some of her poems venture deep into the erotic realm of writing, she suggests that one proceed with caution when reading them if they are faint of heart. Shalona is also the Founder/CEO of Shaylove’s Mobile Notary Services and Evictions by Shaylove. Currently a sophomore in college, she resides in Pinellas Park, Florida with her three children.

A few of Shay's poems can be found at the following sites: www.kuma2.net/lit/thefilming0907.htm, www.kuma2.net/lit/thelovethatsavedme0907.htm, and you can visit her at www.myspace.com/shaylove_727mobilenotary.

Below, please find and except of "Tavia" from The Lesbian Chronicles as well as poem "The Position is Filled, No Others Need Apply":


TAVIA
by Shaylove

Moving into our new home I felt just that, at home. Each room had it's own special scent that reminded me of bits and pieces of my life as a child. For example the kitchen smelled like fresh baked apple pie like mama used to make, the bathroom smelled like freshly cut grass on a good day, the living room smelled of potpourri, my room like fresh strawberries, and my office like a print shop the ones from back in the day.

Just two years earlier I had gone through a rough break up and I call it rough because it was just that. Things in the beginning were good but usually they always are until you get to the relationship part. Then that's when it all starts to unravel. Things start to get out of hand and then depending on the person the respect gets less and less. Not to mention the abuse. I was dealing with verbal, mental, and physical abuse. No abuse that a person has to deal with is good.
Anyway, Tavia was my girlfriend; yes I am a lesbian. I'm les and I'm proud. Tavia decides one day that she wants to be grown; I call it grown because when some people start the disrespecting process well it's just that a process because now we have to go through things.

Girlfriend went out one night with her home girls and I didn't see her until the next day. She is the very reason I chose to be single and really find myself. I saved her from many things and I believe that it is the love that I had for her. Let me explain.

The Tavia that I had met years earlier was a caramel drumstick. Her skin was so smooth and soft. Her eyes well, when I looked into her eyes I saw love. One of the things that attracted me to her was her personality.

One day Tavia comes home with her face all bawled up and has attitude because she says and I quote: "what's for dinner? You mean to tell me you haven't cooked yet? Now mind you she has been out all night doing I don't know what with whom. I gave her a half smile and I walked away.

Tavia followed me into the living room. I decided that I needed to take a breather; again she came at me with a tone of voice that was just unacceptable to me. This time I ignored her as I started to watch television.

Tavia left soon after and I didn't see her for three days. Seeing how she was real grown now so I decided that it was time that we both had a little talk. As I approached her, Tavia became this person that I didn't know, now I think Tamia described it best when she said, "there's a stranger in my house." Being the good citizen that I was and seeing how I was trying to turn my life around I decided to let it go.

You see I had been to jail six times for different things each time. Now each time it wasn't my fault but then again like I told the judge none of it was. Now there was a communication gap between the two of us. Tavia and I didn't go through things like this, not at all.

I felt a gust of wind on my face; you know how it feels when you are riding in the car with the window down well that type of gust. Not once, twice, but three times. Tavia had hit me. Again being the good citizen that I am I tried so hard to let it go. By this time she had knocked me to the ground and just when I hit the ground she raised her leg up like she wanted to kick me. It was then that I got this strength. You know like when you take those pills with that caffeine in it? That foot never reached me. Jumping up off the floor I was in shock this is the first time she had ever put her hands on me. Before she had threatened me but never went through with it.

I began to think to myself: "what has happened to us?" It was then that I knew that she had lost all love for me. She had become the enemy.

Before I knew it I had reached down in between the seat of that nice new couch that I had purchased just days earlier. By this time I had forgotten all about the judge, the jury, and all the convictions.

Pulling out my 40-caliber glock, being the good citizen that I am I didn't unload on her because they had just passed the ten twenty, life law. I took the handle of that gun and I let her have it. Now, mind you I didn't have not one violent charge on my record. I began to have flash backs from when I was younger. I began to think about all the times that other kids picked on me, my sisters jumping on me, my brothers roughing me up, and all the ass whippings that I had gotten from mama as a child. I wasn't about to wear another one.

Next thing I knew Tavia had turned into one of those jack rabbits and sprinted out the door. I was right behind her, right on her trail. She ran three houses down and when I dropped my gun it slowed me down a bit. When I stopped I looked up and saw her going into the neighbors front door. The neighbor was welcoming her with open arms. You know how a person would when their better half came home from a hard days work? Tavia ran right past her and into the house. So that's her little secret. Not long after that I heard a familiar sound. Yep you guessed it, sirens. I took a detour and hit the cut; I hid in some bushes until it was all over.

Shaylove Productions 2007 All Rights Reserved

The Position is Filled, No Others Need Apply
by Shaylove

The Position has been Filled, no others need apply


She shares some of the same interests as I do.


She writes because she has so many things to say; so few people to listen.


Can give me the gift that I have always wanted (her words) so neatly laid.


Speaks the same language as I do; can only be deciphered by the two of us.


When we are near one another the insecurities aren't there but the word's security stands strong.


She's not a woman that I have to live with but one that I cant live without.


Someone that I can grow with; learn from.


I don't have to change her and she wouldn't dare try to change me.


She's of the same maturity.


Honest, respectful.


Reciprocates as well as initiates..

The position has been filled; no others need apply.


Shaylove Productions 2007 All Rights Reserved

ALKAMAL

THIS MONTH’S FEATURED POET:
ALKAMAL

Norman Alexander Alkamal Jemmott, known simply as Alkamal, is a poet, writer, spoken word artist and public speaker. He is also a Gay Black Male. He, first and foremost, views the world and addresses those issues which concern him as a black man in this society.

Since 1996, he has traveled across the country performing spoken word at such cultural events as the Afrikan Liberation Day Celebration, The Black L.U.V. Festival in Washington, D.C., WordStock and the New York International Film Festival at Madison Square Garden. He's also been the invited guest speaker at numerous Black History Month celebrations, graduation and award ceremonies, as well as conferences hosted by The Tavis Smiley Foundation, The Urban Network, The College Board and The Madison Square Boys and Girls Association. He's written two books of poetry. His first book titled, "Recovery: the lost and found poetry of Alkamal Soul" was published in 2000 by Deep Roots. His second book, "Conversations with my Violent Side" was released in June from Kibo Books. In his writings, as well as his performances, Alkamal employs a dynamic blend of imagery, thought and emotion.

He is co-creator and developer of "the v3 sessions" and "The World Of Words Youth Poetry Showcase." Both are programs geared to artists from all mediums. He writes all marketing material for bushbaby, inc. a small business operating a gourmet coffee and teahouse in Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn. He also serves as Director of Marketing and Research for Blakhand Artistik, Inc., a New York-based website company devoted to independent artists and writers, and is in the development stages of creating his company, "Dreaming Makes Sense."
His upcoming projects include penning his first novel titled, "A Slow Turn Toward Tomorrow." It’s a story detailing the Afrikan-American community's response to the victims of a gay-bashing incident. He is co-writer of a yet-untitled screenplay about a family addressing their child's learning disability, and is collaborating on a health guide for adults. In the winter of 2007 he will launch his own blog-site called, "the male quotient" and in 2008, will launch a Brooklyn-based health initiative to address preventative treatment and care for adult men.

For more on Alkamal, visit http://www.blakhandarts.com or email him at blakryme@aol.com


Here are two selections by Alkamal

GHETTO GET HIGH

In the ghetto where there are no airports, brothas are flying high over tall buildings, smashing into clouds in a single puff/ behaving like supermen as they blow smoke like the wind

and while I may smile a lot and stand tall, I hate how the projects pose erect in the foreground, while below folks are losing their crown over the thrill of crack - quicker than sex ever - would or could

cause in my black neighborhood, former kings and queens walk with scarred knees because the high they seek is beneath their self-esteem, yet this high is sweeter than all the sensations of a wet dream, and nobody wins…

as boys who would be king dream of having lots of bling before making it past high school. They pass by thugs whose pockets are laced with drugs, which on any given day will put food on one man’s table and leave another without

this is the ghetto; where a million authors can have the same story and the skyline gets colored in a purple haze that will linger for days, but never past midnight; so excuse me while I kiss the sky

and I don’t understand the ghetto. I mean, I can’t leave and I can’t stay here another day, not with my hands tied behind my back. So I take broad leaps over streets named after thieves only to land in the way of oncoming drug traffic, and it’s so pathetic how the ghetto has become an anesthetic

since we get high on trees with wet stems, in doorways and behind buildings. We get so high that we succumb and so now we’re numb to the idea that we are not free; so we don’t fight anymore/

instead we stay stuck on street corners conversatin’, hanging out windows procrastinating, and neither of us are creating solutions to our needs, not since we got our 40 acres of ‘get-high weed’/ but there’s no mule because it got caught trying to transport cocaine dreams under the nose of the feds, and like crooked cops we shoot up without using our head and nobody wins

…as the ghetto gets high on dirty heroine once stored in the basement of your local precinct. There is no drug-free zone on the corner of Lenox and 1-2-5. So dealers and hustlers thrive on a strip of land reserved for a generation born positive-tox. This is the ghetto/ and I see it hunched over all God’s children, sketching out little black bodies in white chalk on a black tar street/lined with houses

…and as I try to keep up with the joneses I see the ghetto get high. I see the ghetto get so high, but never do I ever see it rising above the aspirations of its people…I guess that’s why we don’t have airports/

THE CONSUMED CONSUMER

In God we trust
that the pursuit of loot
will yield us golden fruit
and platinum prizes
gifts, jewelry clothes of all sizes
so we’re gathered here today
to say goodbye to our health
cause it goes without saying
how we compromise ourselves
by climbing dangerous corporate steps
without a safety net/
sandwiched between wolves
in tailored suits
silk ties and snake-skinned boots

now, didn’t you know
they only want us to mimic them
and the lifestyle
of their millionaire dads
although we’re no peasants/
but today our greed
is bigger than our need
to be guaranteed
40 acres and a pension/
not to mention
the way we collect
our share of the wealth
in monthly installments
on the first and fifteenth
religiously and the ritual
is old fashioned
but looks in style to me
‘cause many of us
go about the day without regard
treating life as
an American Express card
-leaving home without second guessing
if we should ever return richer
than when we started out

now look at us-
we’re a new breed of abusers
sleepwalking consumers
entering stores
without blinking,
ignoring the exits
and strolling past merchandise
with a larger than life price
never flinching
as we start believing
that to pay for what we can’t afford
means our money’s well spent
when it only means
we’re subjects in their experiment
a nation of ready-to-die consumers
born to be consumed
by a life of endless consumption,
it’s our inevitable doom
/and like the Matrix,
we fall victim to the tricks,
as we’re trapped
in a gluttony of poverty
looking from the outside
into a world reserved
for the wealthy and privileged
remaining nameless
while designers become famous
getting expansions
to their bank accounts and mansions
-damn man,
who are we fooling?
We’re disposable objects
to these figures
with their exclusive clubs
and resorts/ who spend whole days
playing golf games and water sports
-and while we drown in debt our
dollars float on their yachts and boats

now believe me when I say
we’re being bamboozled
because as long as we
just step and fetch it
we’ll never catch it,
all we’ll catch is hell and grief
delivered to us with a past-due date
and interest fees/
this isn’t the life for me
I can’t afford dinner at Justin’s,
breakfast at Tiffany’s,
\or any fine clothes
on the racks at Macy’s
but I’ma try,
as I step over utility bills
and my daughter
to get out the door and
out to the nearest
department store
where I can shop
from sunrise to sunset
return home with multiple bags
and no regret
and it’s sad
but this is the life for me
a ready-to-die consumer
born to be consumed
by a life of endless consumption
it’s the inevitable doom.

Slam

This Months's Featured Poet:

SLAM

Slam. It is easy to assume from this talented lady’s name that she is a competitive poet, to say the least. But while this may be one of her many avenues in the poetic arena, it is not the origination of her moniker.

Her life as an out and proud lesbian began at the age of 15, when her mother commented that she believed she was a lesbian. At first taken aback by this observation, Slam (whose name was given to her some 14 years ago by a friend who thought her poetry was "slammin") soon began to embrace this reality. She began her journey of poetry and lesbianism. Since then, her works have been published in several anthologies including, The Sound of Color &, JaWa: Portraits of Same Gender Loving Women Just as We are. She has performed extensively at venues across the city, including Jimmy’s Bronx Café, the Nuyorican Poets Café, Poetry in the Park and Mo Beasley’s UrbanErotika at the Bowery Poetry Café. Her influences range from groundbreaking writer Saul Williams to lyrical pioneers Sonya Sanchez and Queen Sheeba. Although Slam has been offered professional publishing deals, she fears being put in a box. Not wanting to follow a pre-laid blueprint or compete with conflicting visions of her works, she finds it better to follow her own heart. Her future plans include self-publishing her first book in 2007.

A software analyst by day, Slam performed full time before taking a much-needed 3 year hiatus. She has only just begun to dip her toes back into her first love, spoken word performance, and given the opportunity, would return fully to her chosen profession. In telling her story she has been told many times that she speaks for those with no voice. "I just follow the road placed before me" she comments, adding "let me be a vessel then". You can see her passion come alive when she features her works at Pmyner’s “Speak Your Myne” Open Myc Series on September 20, 2007 at Billie's Black in Harlem.


Following are a few samples of her work:


Religious artifacts- "I've always been curious about people’s relationships with religion and how some women choose religion instead of themselves. Instead of the possibility that maybe God made them the way they are. Some women are so afraid of going against their families or what they've been taught that they run away but, what happens to the women they run from."


Religious Artifacts

She tied religion around her neck and hung herself with innocence.

I held her up as long as I could- her virtue and my diseased mind in complete combat

until she castrated her mind and I cut off my worth. Blunt instruments for both.

Our tongues.

She took sips of bible passages and shots of church

drunk on twisted meanings and deceptive double talk

she spat hatred at me with the glow of her God as a chaser.

I only held her arms so she wouldn’t beat me.

I only made her strong coffee - truth and life.

She snorted church ladies and pastor offerings

High on self doubt and crowd participation she

denounced all that she had ever known for what she had read and understood to be true

High as a holy roller she told me of my devil ways

heaped shame on top of disgust

until I was ready to bust

She stabbed religion into her heart hoping that

Virgin blood would seep out and she’d be clean - you know what I mean

cleaner than me. Holier than thou. Favored and thus allowed to have made some mistakes in her life

But it wasn’t a mistake when I loved her and held her in my arms until she fell asleep from a bad dream where her mother was the devil and her father was fire

and it wasn’t wrong that she believed in me when she didn’t have anything or anyone else to
believe in. I wrapped her up in love and kissed her pain away.

It wasn’t wrong when I fed her and rubbed her feet or sang her songs or danced for her or made cakes for her .. it wasn’t wrong - that she never wanted any d**K

but walking away from me all I heard is

" you’re sick .. you know that ? sick,... "

Slam © 2004


-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Vapid - "We've all been there, I think... that place where you begin to pick up the pieces and heal again, and in that healing, is power, strength, realization.That look in the mirror, that look back."

Vapid

I no longer wish to wear your apologies or inability's like a chastity belt strapping me inside myself... blending grief and regret into oils that leave damp circles every where you are not.

I no longer want to believe more in you than you do.

ripping apart reality so what I see is not here nor there but somewhere we used to get to.

A place inside of time.
I chose to believe what you gave me was more important than what you took... but I am no longer in your complexity deep enough to make my love sufficient for two. Its just not enough..
just like I am not enough to anyone, even me.

So, I’ve watched from the sidelines with apathy. Watching distance replace intimacy, inhaling memories that suffocate the possibility for anything real.

I’ve made you a measuring stick, a standard, I’ve placed you on top of podiums making you into something you cant even reach.

It is not a ladder you walk on but my spine, twisting me inside out, you casually stroll past my past marking the territory you traded long ago leaving me with the deed to my soul.

It remains locked inside your apologies, your misgivings.

I no longer want to be your opening and closing, your release, your outlet. The place you can run to when running is all you have left.

You became my religion, your body was my alter, your mind my bible, your eyes my heaven, I was your disciple and you were my sin. It was never enough deep within.

My mind sees greater truths in your silence and I realize with sadness that you cannot make your heart do what it wont. Hearts cannot lie; only minds can..

and this I know because my mind lied to my heart time and time again Proclaiming that I see what others don’t .. instead of them seeing what I fucking wont.

In love like this, I can no more ask you for my heart back then you can pretend you remember where you left it.

Slam © 2006

For more information on this awesome poet, please visit her website at www.myspace.com/slam_poet .





by Ketechia "Shye" Sales

POETIC SONGSTRESS

THIS MONTH'S FEATURE ARTIST IS:
POETIC SONGSTRESS

Her name is Poetic Songstress. She is resides in Baltimore, Maryland and is the single mother of 5 very encouraging children, a Certified Nurse/Medical Assistant and yes, she wants the world to know, she is lesbian. When asked who some of her biggest supporters are, she immediately defers to her kids. They heard her recording in her room one evening and pushed her to participate in open mics.

Poetic Songstress has done some work with a poet by the name of Rasheeda Thompson and has had poems published in Ebony and Essence magazines. She has also participated in and won some open mic nights including an urban freestyle flow, winning 3rd place. She counts these as some of her biggest accomplishments. She has appeared at the Lurman Woodland Theater in Catonville, Maryland, New Haven Lounge in Baltimore Maryland, and The Blue Maryln.

Poetic is influenced by Zane, Terry McMillan, Jean Toomer, Keda Jeantine', Yashica Hodges and Maya Angelou. She sees writing as her destiny and dreams of one day signing books at Barnes and Nobles. She writes from her life experiences. Her erotic pieces are created to help others understand the way to love and to make love with extreme ecstasy, and to show them how moved one can be with self and with witnessing the real love of a lesbian relationship.

The thoughts Poetic Songstress would like readers to come away with from her writings are to not be scared to love, to embrace the love and passion from another woman, and most of all to her fellow BBW ladies, she wants you to know you are gorgeous! Do not be afraid to strut your stuff. She lives her life to the fullest enjoys every moment of it by staying in a positive mood, lets nothing bring her down, focusing on her ambitions and trying to inspire other young lesbian women to live their dreams and complete there goals.

Here are two selections written by the Poetic Songstress. To hear these selections please click the following links.

http://profile.imeem.com/AjynB/music/3aT-rb9a/divas_dont_die/
http://profile.imeem.com/AjynB/music/LYqwOnSM/why_do_i_write/



DIVAS DONT DIE!!!



Let me tell you why,

I have listened to her talk

I have studied her walk



She is courage,

She is pain,

I know her name,

Diva

It is the knowledge in her step,

The brilliance in her stride,

She is motivation

She is pride



Learn her

Understand her

This woman is a Queen!



Talk that talk diva,

For I am listening

Walk that walk diva,

For I am watching



She is the multidimensional,

Remarkably influential,

Radiant spiritual splendor of a woman



Divas, never die

Thank you for the lessons,

Thank you for the time,

Thank you for your wisdom,

You are so divine!

Continue to show me who a woman can be



So talk, diva talk,

Walk diva walk,

I have learned from your example

You have taught information,

Given inspiration,

That will be passed

From generation to generation



Divas don't die.

Because of her,

DIVAS never die.

Poetic Songstress ©2004

WHY DO I WRITE

I write to ease the tears

that were once fears

of a day gone wrong

and I place those thoughts into a poem with my pen

I'm able to win

in a world full of sin

and at each new sheet

I'm able to start over again

I can yell, and scream

I can be grateful, I can have wishful dreams

I can cry tears that will never be seen

without having to give a reason

With my pen can't you see?

I'm free

to breath and able to be just me.

Poetic Songstress ©2004

November - A Road Less Traveled

I find that this is the season for reflection. Whether one is thinking about removing some hindering traits or habits, or contemplating how to face the rest of the year and deal within a season of pressures, many breakthroughs come around these ending months. A life is a road that must be traveled. Each movement is a step and each step takes you further down the road leading you on a journey full of sunny days and rainy nights or in some cases, vice versa. Breakthroughs permit change and change makes the travel of life bearable.

Never be afraid of a detour. Detours may happen for different reasons. For example, you may reach a part of your journey that feels unsafe so you walk a different way or there is an obstacle in the road and you must get around it. You may even come to a fork in which you have to make a choice which way to go. Do you stand there to wait for your obstacle to remove itself? Do you walk in a place that feels unsafe? Do you choose the high road or the low road?

Or do you wait for someone else to come by and ask directions?

--Renair Amin
_________________________________________________

Journeys Teaching by Kistell

What does it mean
To have worn hands and worn feet
Walk miles in prickly heat
Many days gone by
Standing tall
Step
Rise
Stumble
Fall
Step
Rise
Stumble
Fall Again
Get back up
Keep it moving
Proudly standing on faith
Grace led Path
Master Plan
For me planting seeds
Grooming ground
Found how ripe
Spirit is
So good to feel and hear music
Haze of sun on my back
Track long before me
Still...
I'll run on
And in the by and by
I'll get home.
Journey continue to teach me...

17 Minutes by Vann
Using my gift to help people in the storm,
is how each day I become reborn.
By DIVINE DESIGN
HE gave me a sign
told me that it was time
to raise up or resurrect, some may say;
“WRITE ON PAPER EXACTLY WHAT I SAY”
There's no way I could have imagined
That I would never be saddened, dismayed, or led astray
but truly gladdened for on each day
HE gives me the gift and tools
so I can cautiously follow the Rules,
Perhaps be sapped with money and jewels.
But the real satisfaction is in each human reaction
that tightens the bond, increases the traction no matter how taxin'
I rest assured while relaxin' that my life is a headline, yet a small caption in the Daily Record which entails a map...
So I write poetry I know it's THEE in me
trail blazin', and closin' the gap.

For every word laid down
My Spirit comes in tact.

Ms. Stress by NJShyPoet
My Heart Bleeding Me
The Expression On My Face, Makes It Easy For Niggas That Be Reading Me
Pollinated Like Spring Bees, Dumb Niggas Seeding Me
Nine Months Later Or Abortion, Either Way That Same Nigga Leavin Me. Alone
Now Free To Roam
Living In A House, But Fuck It, It Ain’t No Home.

Love Don’t Live Here
Heart Ain’t Free To Give Here
Tired By Can’t Sleep Here
Eyes Full Of Tears But Can’t Weep Here
Man Claiming To Be Mines, But I Can’t Keep Here

Can’t Keep Up With The Lies
Giving This One, One Too Many Tries
Two Too Many Goodbyes

But Always Cumming Back
Claiming You Got My Back
While Stabbing Me In My Back
While Hitting It From The Back
While Sneaking Out The Back

When Ur Girl Comes A Knockin
While The Bed Is A Rockin
And The Cops Come To Stop And
She……..Sitting Head Between Her Knees At My Door
Tearstained From The Same Dreams U Promised Her And Me A Picture Of
A Perfect Whore

Never Up Front, Never For The World To See
Undercover Lover, That Be Me
Rather That Be We.
Or That Be Us,
Never A Fuss,
No Wedding Bells
Just Nights In Sexual Bliss, And Days In Tormenting Hell

No Rings, Tuxes Or Long Gowns
Just Constant Tears And Long Frowns

And It’s All Over You
Always Over You,
And I Need To Be Over You.
But Too Afraid To Say Were Through
Too Afraid Of Losing You

Or Is It Too Afraid Of Being Alone
Too Afraid That You Leaving Would Rip My Flesh Down To The Bone
And Pull Out My Heart, And Stomp It To The Ground
While Listening To The Sound
Of
The Rain
Against My Window Pain

That I Can’t Stand To Hear
While Reaching Up For A Hand Of The One I Once Held Dear

And Him Watching Me Fall
While Forgetting The Promise To Have My Back Through It All

To The End
Well If This Is A Friend
Fuck It, Show Me My Enemy

Give Me Death, Take My Last Breath

For Breathing Is No Longer On My List Of Important Things
And Eternal Sleep May Be The Only Way To Ignore The Sting

Or The Hornets That Fly About And Attack The Tender Places Of Me
Hallucinations, For They Are Here For No One Else To See.
And My Captured Captivity

A Self Inflicted Wound
Self Entrapped Tomb

Because I’ve Always Had The Power To Walk
But Dickmatized By His Talk
Entranced By His Walk
Flattered By His Stalk

Not Recognizing His Manhood Deeply Connected To His Ability To Control
His Ability To Mold

To Make Me His Dream
While Crippling Me To Forget My Dreams
My Own Means

Of Survival Challenged
As My Heart Still Beating Is Clenched

In His Hand As Tears Rolls Down His Eyes Realizing What He Has Done
Or What I Have ALLOWED Him To Do
One Day To Late To Save My Soul…

Idle Worship by The Literary Masturbator

He entered the edifice hoping to be saved
Wearing his best clothes to show the blessings of all his hard work
Praying at the altar for a savior
Hoping that would connect him to the divine

He drank of the cup and ate of the bread
The bar became his sanctuary
His place of refuge

A processional of toned bodies dancing in the spirit baptized the believer in trance like beats
and moved him to shout of the goodness
“The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire!”

He was born again and gave 3 snaps
One for the father, one for the son, and one for the Holy Ghost

The club became his church
The DJ his minister of music
The bouncer the head usher
The vogueing queens the Pastor’s Aide committee

Trade was the truth – the gospel according to John, Gerald, Walter, Bernard, and Tyrone [Call HIM!!]
A choir of DL brothas offered an A selection of false hopes, a B selection of broken promises

At the benediction he left the temple with an angel he found leaning against the wall near the bathroom

Another type of worship service

Telling the saints,…Pray for me.

__________________________________________

WHEN I THINK OF HOME…

Is home the place where the journey begins or where it ends?


Reppin' the LBC
the place to be
Sunny and Hot
and only for the Grown and Sexy
Lotta Wymen out here chasin' skirts
See the Lesbian community is boomin' of course
Snoop Dogg rocked it about the gangs in the area
but I'll talk about the Babes in the Yay Area
California is pimpin
and that is a fact
Plastic Surgery is like asking for a cold beer on tap
Health conscious? oh yeah that's true
but believe me we got Booty Booty everywhere
that can't even look at a size 2
So let me get back to the LBC
Long Beach, California
The Place 2 BE!!
By: Poetic Blues

I’m from the Bricks where its easy to get your body scarred
Your living room charred
Your children starved
and in the cold... but we find our way
Never even dreaming of a brighter day

Cops runnin up on your son cause he fit the description
Booker claiming to have the prescription
But we know that’s fiction
And reads like a good book or a bad play
But we find our way
Never dreaming of a brighter day

Wondering if this is God’s forgotten place sometimes
Wanna give up the race sometimes
But I look into my child’s face sometimes
And know Newark can raise greatness sometimes
And know that Newark can raise greatness sometimes
And know Newark can raise greatness sometimes

And notice that a tree grows in my land sometimes
Some places we can even walk with our feet in the sand sometimes
Can walk the streets holding my baby’s hand sometimes
Find a club and tear it up grand sometimes
And I remember that I love my fertile land sometimes

Even if we’re just finding our way sometimes
Never dreaming of a brighter day sometimes

So I find my way
And stop “never dreaming of a brighter day”
And I help my kids find there way
And I give them all the tools they need to stop dreaming and realize a brighter day.

By: NJShyPoet

I rep F-L-A
In the bowelz of the streetz, addicts and dirty needles lay
Dreamz of the disheartened, poor black, red and orange lay slain
And in ruins rest their ashes
Politicians lie to masses
Votes are stolen-sold then for the almighty green
We aint scared of hurricanes or other acts of nature...
Police brutality puts us in more danger
Upon orange fields we abscentmindedly trod
Basking in the bliss of simply being sun-kissed
Uncle Luke was the originator of booty music up and down
95 South
Every brotha, sista, and baby's mother got golds in they mouthz.....
By: Ms AweSomeWonda


Harlem, OneTwoFive Street
So much more than me
It’s pure history
If you look up the hill
Yeh they call in Sugar
I can still hear the poetic blues
From Langston Hughes
Turn the corner
Dear Brother Malcolm
Gunned down
Was it a government conspiracy
Or was the money in the pockets
Of his own people starting to mound?

Harlem
Before brownstones use to be a million dollars
Tree-lined streets so children could play
Where The Apollo sho nuff made history
Before gunshots became the sound of the day

Harlem,
Where the vendors use to be able to sell their wears on the street freely
Before the mayor decided to put them all on 116th Street
In a box
No completion
You don’t like my price
Hey come over here
I’ll give you a better one
And at the end of the day
The ones in charge of serving and protecting
Now have to come to one place
To collect their part
Cuz none of them have licenses in the first place

Harlem,
Where I forget the sounds of the train
Breezing by my head every 10 minutes or so
And I don’t even hear the child getting beat
For no reason by her crackhead mother
Where 9/11 became just another day I had to work
And 9/12 I still had to be in on time

Harlem,
Where a nic now cost a dime
Although you still only get a nic’s worth
And the rest of that shit
You better hope you don’t end up in the ER
I suggest you go to Brooklyn

Harlem,
Where the ex-President decided he wanted to clean up
With new buildings
And the same ole people
Magic Johnson theaters
Expensive stores
But no one to stop in them
More like shoplift
Spending a paycheck to go to the movies
Or out to dinner
Damn I remember when a cab was $3

Harlem, OneTwoFive Street
History turned into expensive slaughterhouse

By: DaddiPanther


This article contains copyrighted material. No reproduction of any material contained within this article can be reproduced in full or part without the written consent of Pmyner as a company or the artists individually.

September - A Rise or Fall

For some, September signifies the beginning of a new season. For others, it signifies a path into the end of the year where the days lie full with tricks or treats, thanksgiving or holiday wishes. Even the children leap into the September spirit preparing them to begin another year full of educational and sociological learning.

However, there is a darker side to September. These same wonderful starts can have a solemn ending for others. September means the end of the summer months in which we basked in the rays of the sum looking forward to shedding of clothes. Or maybe school is not the beacon of learning, it is a containment of solitude where students get lost in the search for their own identity. A month where there is no joy in the holidays but just a reminder of things lost.

Here we glance at September in a mindset that even the darkest days deserve a place in ink.

By: Renair Amin
_____________________________________________________


Turbulence by Lalonee

With tears in my eyes...
I'm feeling the weight
on my shoulder

Over the horizon I see the storm...

Like the seconds in a minute
the whole climate changes
and the storm is at my door...

Caught in the cross winds
of confusion

Damn.. I need to keep moving on

Small pieces of stones
cut through my flesh

Swirlin and twirlin...

Gotta keep on....


Can’t let it beat me down
Shielding my head from the
Debris
Then I drop my
hands down

With tears in my eyes
I face what has arise
trying to observe
my surrounding

I
Become one with the elements...

Then
I
become
the storm


Chile by Wantable

Chile!

forceful and distinctively
i throw you out of my loop
but like a boomerang
you keep coming back
knocking
at my door
„can ya come out to play?“
& i wonder
what´s the reason
you do all this for?
No,
i cannot come out to play
neither do i want to meet
greet & feed
diablerie circumstances
that brought me here
(stuck now....on solid ground
listen to this here sound my dear)
like a pawn in a chess game
i was moved from side to side
never had the chance
to hide
or fight
even questioned my hard
developed pride
„am i the fool in this game
or the queen?“
pulled my tail in with torturing pain
and then , after a little while
i found the real deal
chile!
took me more than a minute
....*blinking*

once blinded now free
i scream
“leave me be
with the one
I choose to see!“



The Pearl Handled Pistol by JustJess

I'll never forget
the feeling of cold steel
firmly trapped beneath my grip
admiring the pink
encasing
around the chamber
each of the soldiers lined up
asleep in little rows
yet ready in a moments notice
as I pray for one reason
not to pull that trigger
eyes closed after one last look
around the room
sure to become my tomb
"That'll teach them I thought"
to find my body as it began to rot
would they step over the chunks of flesh
or cry out in despair
wonder where
they'd gone wrong?
my arm raised
in unison with my chest
as I drew
what I truly hoped would be
my last breath
a final salute
goodbye warden
mister drill sergeant sir
I'd like to say it's been nice
but you'd know that it was a lie
my index finger
slithered slowly
around the trigger
as my body switched on the auto-pilot light
in 3-2-1
I pulled ever so slightly
on the gun
but instead of a bullet
to the head
I felt my body
slump back onto that bed
the pink pearl pistol
had frozen and I discovered
one more thing in life
that I couldn't do right.


Emotional STDs by MzAweSomeWonDa

Entangled in the dirty sheets of emotional whoredom
I find myself with multiple open sores
They itch, and has me feeling a little feverish...
Regurgitating on contagious forms of OPP
And dangerous mixtures of bullshyt
I kneel and worship the porcelain god of sheaves I've reaped
Putrid gangrenous pus seeps from gashes in my character
Follow the blue line
Placing one foot in front of the other
On a shameful walk to faux clarity...
Creeping at a snails pace to penicillin serenity
Done with the task of notifying multiple emotional partners
That have deposited weak ejaculations of baggage into my mental..
I clamor out of the puzzy of purgatories...
Purchased at my souls cost...
Verily Verily...
By and By


This article contains copyrighted material. No reproduction of any material contained within this article can be reproduced in full or part without the written consent of Pmyner as a company or the artists individually.