Tick Tock,
Cock my Glock.
Gia is her name.
She's my baby,
Even when she is old
And gray,
She will always be
My baby.
Tick Tock,
Cock my Glock.
She was heaven
When my life was hell,
And when she was born,
She gave me the strength
To kick hell
Out of my house,
Out of my life.
Tick Tock,
Cock my Glock.
I now stand
In the doorway
Of the house of God,
My top drenched
With Gia's tears.
Tick Tock,
Cock my Glock.
She came to me
An hour ago,
Her eyes bleeding tears,
Her lips telling me things
That had happened to her,
Things that should never
Happen to her.
Tick Tock,
Cock my Glock.
I pass all the saints,
Paul, Peter, John
And stop before
The only saint
Who would understand.
I kneel before
Mary.
Tick Tock,
Cock my Glock.
A prayer.
A whisper.
Forgive me.
Tick.
I stand,
Catching the Father's eye,
Then slip into the confessional.
Tock.
When I am sure that
The holy man sits
Beyond the screen,
I speak.
Cock.
Forgive me, Father
For I am about to sin,
To be truthful,
I will be breaking
A commandment.
My Glock.
But I'm not here
To speak of my
Transgressions.
I am here
To ask a question.
Do you want to ask God
For forgiveness,
Here on earth,
Or do you want to ask
When you meet him?
Any which way,
You will be asking him
Tonight!
Tick Tock,
Cock my Glock.
Gia is her name.
She's my baby.
There are different wells within your heart.
Some fill with each good rain,
Others are far too deep for that.
In one well
You have just a few precious cups of water,
That “love” is literally something of yourself,
It can grow as slow as a diamond
If it is lost.
Your love
Should never be offered to the mouth of a stranger,
Only to someone
Who has the valor and daring
To cut pieces of their soul off with a knife
Then weave them into a blanket to protect you.
I found this on Paulo Coehlo's blog and had to share.
Some fill with each good rain,
Others are far too deep for that.
In one well
You have just a few precious cups of water,
That “love” is literally something of yourself,
It can grow as slow as a diamond
If it is lost.
Your love
Should never be offered to the mouth of a stranger,
Only to someone
Who has the valor and daring
To cut pieces of their soul off with a knife
Then weave them into a blanket to protect you.
I found this on Paulo Coehlo's blog and had to share.
YELLOW ON BOARD
You intoxicate me.
You are like
That first shot of
Tequila
That goes down fast
And burns away all
My worries.
You intoxicate me.
You are
The second glass of
Vodka
That warms me up
On a cold winters evening
When I don’t want to be
Alone.
You intoxicate me.
You are like
The third glass of
Wine,
Blurring the edges
Of my reality,
But it’s good for me,
It’s red wine.
You intoxicate me.
You are like
The fourth glass of Whiskey.
Smooth in flavour,
Warming my soul,
Burning away my
Inhibitions.
You intoxicate me.
You are my
Fifth bottle of beer
That still has to
Give me a buzz,
Leaving me feeling
Nothing,
So I reach for my sixth bottle.
You intoxicate me.
You are…
You are becoming
A habit,
Ugly and sinister.
Mornings, I wake up
With pain and
Regret.
I regret being with
You.
You intoxicate me.
I realize I have
A problem,
But really, is there
A 12-step program
To get over
You?
You intoxicate me,
No more.
Like with alcohol,
Like with drugs,
Like with any other addictive substance,
It won’t be easy,
But I will quit
You.
You intoxicate me,
No more.
I quit you.
Baby Nicholas Smith
I am tired of being
Superwoman!
I am tired of being
The person who people go to
To solve their problems,
To moan about this and that,
For an oppinion
On a matter that
Down the road,
Really wasn't important.
I am tired of working
And working
And working
On projects I could care less about,
For people
Who want more and more
And are shocked
If for some strange reason
I get tired.
I am tired of being
Superwoman,
This cape is starting
To choke me
And all I want to do
Is wrap it around me
And crawl into a corner
For a week or two.
I am tired of being
The pillar
Upon which the masses
Lean on when living
There lives has left them weary.
And at night I would be here
Plastering over the cracks,
God forbid if the masses
Knew I was so close to
Shattering.
I am tired of being
The first to arrive,
The last to leave
And the one carrying the load,
And instead of showing my fatigue,
I throw on the mask
Of tranquility,
Of being capable of getting
Everything done.
I am tired of being
Superwoman.
These tights are starting to itch
And my ass looks big
In this suit,
But when someone is in need,
I'm there.
I am tired of being
There for him, being
His friend,
His lover,
His psychiatrist,
His mother,
His maid,
His financier,
Strike that last one.
I'll be damned if
I'm going to be a
Long-term financier.
I am tired,
Ever so tired,
And yet,
Everyday,
I put on the suit,
I put on the itchy tights,
I put on the cape.
I am there
When they need me,
When the work has to be done,
When the friend needs the support,
When the man needs his woman,
When the child needs his mother,
When the parent needs their child,
When the society needs an extra helping hand.
I will be there
Because I am
Superwoman.
vi.sualize.us
I waited
Not for friend or foe,
Nor kin or acquaintence,
I waited for you.
I waited for you
In bars and night clubs,
In classes and social events,
On beaches
Painted gold by sunsets
Ticking away time.
I waited
And yet I felt
I had missed you
By a minute,
By an hour,
By a day,
By a week, even.
And still I wait for you.
Knowing it's you
By your voice
Which resonates an unspoken part
Of my soul,
Awakening it.
I wait for your touch,
A touch my skin yearns for,
A touch that will never
Leave me cold,
Disgusted,
Empty,
But leave me feeling
Protected and loved.
I wait,
For our two souls to
Merge into something grander
Than we could ever conceive,
Something that is the culmination
Of happiness, trust, lust
And love,
All underlined by understanding.
So I wait.
I wait for you.
vi.sualize.us
You are ugly.
Your skin is too dark,
It's an ugly, muddy colour.
Dirty, unclean.
Shades of dirt.
You are so ugly.
Your lips are so big,
So fleshy and broad.
You are ugly.
Your nose is flat,
Broad, big, huge,
An ugly protrusion
On an already ugly face.
You are ugly.
You are fat.
You are too tall.
You are too thin.
Your ass is too big.
Your hips to wide.
You are so ugly.
No man would want you.
Even if a man did approach you,
He only wants one thing.
He could never fall
In love with you.
Do you really think
A man would take you
Home to meet his mother?
You are too ugly
To do more than
Be knocked up by
Different men who just want
To hit it and quit it,
Leaving back another mouth
For you to feed.
You are ugly,
Another ape
Released from the zoo.
You are barely considered
Human.
You will never be
Beautiful.
These words spill into the room,
Intoxicating, Infecting,
Turning the fresh air
Into a heavy fog
That squeezes my tear ducts
Until thick heavy tears
Traverse my cheeks.
These words
Punch me in my stomach,
Knocking the wind out of me.
These words
Are whips against my back
Tearing into my flesh.
These words
Leave me battered,
Bruised, a shadow
Of my former self.
These words
Are spoken by the woman
Staring at me from
The mirror.
When will I learn to
Love myself.
I stood before him
Nude.
Not naked, but nude.
Naked implied that I was
Exposed,
Ashamed,
Not wanting to be seen,
But nude implied
That I found my body
Beautiful,
A work of art
That I have long accepted
And loved dearly.
I stood before him
Nude.
My nipples erect
Having been caressed
By the passing breeze,
My legs apart,
My head held high.
I wanted him to see me,
To see me in all my glory,
To want me.
I stood before him
Nude,
And I saw that it affected him,
His erection fought to escape
The prison of his pants,
Seeking a soft, wet place
To invade and conquer.
A warm place to hold it tight
And drain it in a fit of
Pleasure.
I could feel the heat
Of his desire
Through the glass,
It splashed over me
And like an eager surfer,
I was encouraged.
I turned around
And slowly bent over,
Exposing my promise land.
A gasp escaped his lips
And kissed my ears.
If it weren’t for the glass,
He would have been upon me,
His humanity buried deep
In his primal urges,
His erection buried deep
In me.
Then I heard them,
The succession of beeps
That heralded the end
Of my little show.
In ten seconds,
The curtain would closed
And the connection between
The voyeur and the exhibitionist
Would be broken.
Beep, beep, beep,
I put my finger in my mouth,
Wetting it and
Just as the curtain closed
I slipped it into
My honey post.
Through the glass,
Through the curtain,
I heard a final grunt.
Another satisfied customer.
Nude.
Not naked, but nude.
Naked implied that I was
Exposed,
Ashamed,
Not wanting to be seen,
But nude implied
That I found my body
Beautiful,
A work of art
That I have long accepted
And loved dearly.
I stood before him
Nude.
My nipples erect
Having been caressed
By the passing breeze,
My legs apart,
My head held high.
I wanted him to see me,
To see me in all my glory,
To want me.
I stood before him
Nude,
And I saw that it affected him,
His erection fought to escape
The prison of his pants,
Seeking a soft, wet place
To invade and conquer.
A warm place to hold it tight
And drain it in a fit of
Pleasure.
I could feel the heat
Of his desire
Through the glass,
It splashed over me
And like an eager surfer,
I was encouraged.
I turned around
And slowly bent over,
Exposing my promise land.
A gasp escaped his lips
And kissed my ears.
If it weren’t for the glass,
He would have been upon me,
His humanity buried deep
In his primal urges,
His erection buried deep
In me.
Then I heard them,
The succession of beeps
That heralded the end
Of my little show.
In ten seconds,
The curtain would closed
And the connection between
The voyeur and the exhibitionist
Would be broken.
Beep, beep, beep,
I put my finger in my mouth,
Wetting it and
Just as the curtain closed
I slipped it into
My honey post.
Through the glass,
Through the curtain,
I heard a final grunt.
Another satisfied customer.
I awoke
To the smell of cinnamon.
The smell filled my room
And enticed me out
From my warm cocoon.
Pulling me,
Tugging me into the kitchen.
There she stood,
Grammy Mammie,
Aka, Daddy's Mommy.
A generous woman,
Both in size
And disposition,
And at that moment
She was peeling apples.
Without a word
From her,
Nor myself,
I sat down
And started to cut the apples.
Today was going to be a great day!
We were going to cook!
Now cooking with Grammy Mammie
Was not like cooking with anyone else.
Grammy Mammie would tell a story.
In this same kitchen,
I've heard stories
Of elves conquering giants,
Of princes rejecting princesses
For common farm girls,
Of apples who wedded bananas
And had oranges for children,
Of how Grammy Mammie
Met Papa Jones.
So I sat there,
Dutifully cutting those apples,
Waiting patiently
For Grammy Mammie to turn to me
And ask
"Did I ever tell you....?"
I would say no,
Trying to act cool and uninterested.
To this she would say,
"Well, then,
Let me tell you a story."
As I got older,
I spent less and less time
With my beloved grandmother.
And when we did cook together,
She would forget the recipe,
Or forget that she already told me that story,
Eventually, she forgot who I was.
Grammy Mammie was then put in a home,
And while others found it hard
To see her this way,
I still saw her
As the woman in the kitchen
Who would dip the spoon
In a spicy broth
And give me the first taste.
I would sit with her
In the park watching
A family of ducks swim in the pond
And I would ask her,
"Did I ever tell you......?
She would say no
And to this I would say,
"Well then, let me tell you a story."
And in that park,
I would tell her a story
Of a little girl
Who would cook with her grandmother.
Let me tell you our story.
To the smell of cinnamon.
The smell filled my room
And enticed me out
From my warm cocoon.
Pulling me,
Tugging me into the kitchen.
There she stood,
Grammy Mammie,
Aka, Daddy's Mommy.
A generous woman,
Both in size
And disposition,
And at that moment
She was peeling apples.
Without a word
From her,
Nor myself,
I sat down
And started to cut the apples.
Today was going to be a great day!
We were going to cook!
Now cooking with Grammy Mammie
Was not like cooking with anyone else.
Grammy Mammie would tell a story.
In this same kitchen,
I've heard stories
Of elves conquering giants,
Of princes rejecting princesses
For common farm girls,
Of apples who wedded bananas
And had oranges for children,
Of how Grammy Mammie
Met Papa Jones.
So I sat there,
Dutifully cutting those apples,
Waiting patiently
For Grammy Mammie to turn to me
And ask
"Did I ever tell you....?"
I would say no,
Trying to act cool and uninterested.
To this she would say,
"Well, then,
Let me tell you a story."
As I got older,
I spent less and less time
With my beloved grandmother.
And when we did cook together,
She would forget the recipe,
Or forget that she already told me that story,
Eventually, she forgot who I was.
Grammy Mammie was then put in a home,
And while others found it hard
To see her this way,
I still saw her
As the woman in the kitchen
Who would dip the spoon
In a spicy broth
And give me the first taste.
I would sit with her
In the park watching
A family of ducks swim in the pond
And I would ask her,
"Did I ever tell you......?
She would say no
And to this I would say,
"Well then, let me tell you a story."
And in that park,
I would tell her a story
Of a little girl
Who would cook with her grandmother.
Let me tell you our story.
Every second and fourth Tuesday of any given month you would find me at Expressins: Poetry in the Pub. Normally, I don't take pictures because I'm anal and would be paying too much attention to trying to get the perfect shot as opposed to enjoying the spoken word. Luckily, the last open mic had a photographer in residence, Gemma Hazelwood and he got some awesome shots. To be honest, some of them make me wonder if it was the same open mic I went to because there is this added element of cool.
Anyhow, here is the link to the pics he did post. I didn't want to post them on the blog without his permission so I'm just posting the link. Also if ever you are in Antigua, come on down to Java To Go in Redcliffe Quay on the second or fourth Tuesday of the month and enjoy our homegrown spoken word. I promise you, you will have a good time.
Anyhow, here is the link to the pics he did post. I didn't want to post them on the blog without his permission so I'm just posting the link. Also if ever you are in Antigua, come on down to Java To Go in Redcliffe Quay on the second or fourth Tuesday of the month and enjoy our homegrown spoken word. I promise you, you will have a good time.
To say I'm a fan of Street Etiquette is an understatement. I'm always checking out their tumblr because the imagery and I am growing to love well dressed men. Anyway, the last time I was on the tumblr I found this download that reminds me why I love spoken word. I’ve been writing poetry for years now and for a while thought it was relegated to books and magazines. Then Def Poetry Jam came out and I saw the movie “So I Married An Axe Murderer” that opened my mind to the potential of poetry shared through speech. I especially liked it when it was set to music.
This is the clip and you can download it from here
You can go here to the Street Etiquette for more info on this wonderful collaboration of artists.
And I can’t do this post without the clip from the movie I mentioned above.
Also, this is one of the things in life that makes me genuinely happy. Back in FIT, I would listen to a Jazz station while I did my work in my room. One day, they played this collaboration with a poet and a jazz band and it was an aha moment. A moment that you enjoy and cherish and you leave yourself open to experience it again. I experience it live when one of the organizers for Expressions: Poetry at the Pub, Zahra Airall, read one of her pieces while Promise, a talented local singer/musician/songwriter, played guitar. I don’t know about the others but I enjoyed it completely. Unfortunately, I don’t have the time or energy to pursue that form of art form right now, hopefully in the future.
This is the clip and you can download it from here
You can go here to the Street Etiquette for more info on this wonderful collaboration of artists.
And I can’t do this post without the clip from the movie I mentioned above.
Also, this is one of the things in life that makes me genuinely happy. Back in FIT, I would listen to a Jazz station while I did my work in my room. One day, they played this collaboration with a poet and a jazz band and it was an aha moment. A moment that you enjoy and cherish and you leave yourself open to experience it again. I experience it live when one of the organizers for Expressions: Poetry at the Pub, Zahra Airall, read one of her pieces while Promise, a talented local singer/musician/songwriter, played guitar. I don’t know about the others but I enjoyed it completely. Unfortunately, I don’t have the time or energy to pursue that form of art form right now, hopefully in the future.
vi.sualize.us
The moon casts a spell
Over the barren earth,
Turning all the surfaces
Into a poor man's silver,
Softening the edges
Of the vulgar landscape
And hiding all the attrocities
Into heavy, dark shadows.
I sit under said moon
On the roof top of my home,
Rifle in hand,
Eyes searching,
Ears listening for the slightest sound.
I am waiting.
It's night 18.
I have about three days worth of food,
Then I have three more days
Before hunger consumes me.
I rather be consumed by hunger
Than by them,
But neither will consume me.
The last bullet in my pistol
Already has my name.
These last days
Are not for my physical survival,
These last days
Are for me to enjoy
All the things I neglected
When I had my whole life ahead of me.
I watched the sun rise,
Felt the breeze cool my skin,
I sat in the moonlight
Staring at the stars,
Oh so many stars,
I tasted raindrops
As it washed my face,
I inhaled the scent of
Grass, flowers, nature.
It was only when
My life was near it's end
That I realise what is important,
Who was important
And why they all were important.
As I sit here,
I am at peace,
I am prepared to die
On my terms.
But not tonight.
Tonight, I will kill as many
Of them as I can.
Tonight, I live,
Tonight, they die.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
- Follow Us on Twitter!
- "Join Us on Facebook!
- RSS
Contact