Afro Punk Writers

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Comment by Amanda Skeete on November 18, 2009 at 10:30pm

After Watching "Bamboozled"...

Tap-tap...
Tap-tah-tap-TAP...

Open fingers find themselves amused.

Tap-TAP...
BrrrrrrrrAP-tah-TAP...

Center-stage sweat like fowl sunlight
from Darkness.

Tap-tuh-tah-tuh-TAP...
BRRRRRRRR-AP-tuh-tap...

Whirlwinds turn to steel; black leather marches,
mocks death,
defies the living.

Tip-tuh-tip-tah-tuh-TAP...
BRRRRR-AP-tuh-tip-tuh-TAT!

Laugh.
Snap.
Look at this "Nigga Dance".

Tap.

Comment by Drew on November 12, 2009 at 8:02pm

Belle Muerta Paramecia.

meanwhile he's cradling fetal position questions of whether this tryst leyline is leading to something or other. as the question posed, a queerer query of whether his open hand is just one amongst the many. rose soft pedals for palms, and the wonder if shes the fabled angel worth the wing span (if there ever were any).if his verbal caresses equate to a small of the back shivering sort of orotund, or if all the "forever endeavors" in letters are just invitations to the dance in the vampire bund.
stouter head lads know better, from what once was then can never quiver insides anew. that in this place, this time, this scene, and to each face, there are no such things as innocent ingenues. only aimless siren echo assassins that just so happen to be easy on the eyes. meanwhile there he lay, fetal position with questions while hours dribble from his chin to keep track of the day. if this leyline crosses yours, if these rose pedals hands match the fray, or if there are but merely quils begitting thorns in this effeminate garden, as wiser misogynists would say...

Comment by Kairoe Memphiss on November 8, 2009 at 4:46pm

Some souls don't support sowing seeds it seems.
So stagnant with spite and dust for soil.
Supposedly you're smashing all my dreams.
I swear I don't suffer from this sad toil.
I'm glad my soul's this side of the mirror,
Simply because I'm the one with senses.
I see, smell, taste and subscribe the hearer,
where you stand-stare repeating sentences.
You second a statement then switch your side
Say you're smart then things are personal.
You sweep the stage with your stiffening pride.
Those ultimatums have made my glass full.
Help the man who can't catch a reflection,
But only when you're your own protection.

Comment by harrison ready on November 8, 2009 at 2:53pm

they made a darker little version of me down below. they then set it to spin, hollowed out its voice and made cheap, inside jokes here on land. what a mess. like what did i do to their crazy old volcano god? i now flush only after a ten minute wait. this keeps me slightly above the "boo", but damn the constant rain. -one troubled runaway

Comment by harrison ready on November 8, 2009 at 2:40pm

"Why does the rhythm get us every time? It wouldn't if the girls all got along".
-Mates of State

Comment by Drew on November 6, 2009 at 5:47pm

like mouths on torpedoes...

spit up from the spire, admist the masses and the trees, the naked emperor slip a famished jackel's stanza via decree. to every first born to dawn that baying canis insignia, and call to arms alms while wearing iron with war songs in the agenda. baring the safe ransom of his own, the precious of kings-to-be, commensed the marsh trench parle of mortar, mire, and traces of what will be. seven years in the shelled sun stroll, with hungry ammo eating street urchins, and taking shoe-shine-boy's tommorows in bulk to pay the toll. over two-thousand some odd macabre cannibal luncheons, in company of mouths on torpedoes. emissions and precision. apocalypse now kitchen utensils with swan hymns to share, while we can taste every life on our tongues should we cast them to the air. souls shaken to root-like, wire walking seams, morphine tripping mannquins, and rabid infant dreams. this countermeasures counting the minutes with crosses, bodies, and kisses. in ode to the outline of a crown, but moreso upper-crust wishes. and what of the royal family? where the craddle kept alone. nesttled in the kept of their guarded throne. and with the fossil on our wrist thats keeping time twists the subject to now, and the tightening of suit ties. to this day we still got that hungry gullet for greed, and she's keeping speed. traded in their youth for a couple quid, a cache catch phrase, and the hope a copperhead may arch her back while he's inside. we may not have a copywrite on war, or the building of better bombs. we're just keeping tradition, and paying the reaper his alms...

Comment by Drew on November 2, 2009 at 6:38pm

just bored and messing around. don't know how i'll end this one.

the irony of fratricide:

let this be an entry for the angered cluster of seeds, who fell shy and nil short of the cleft that gave way in favor of me. though never an intent, nor prone to that hawk meshed serpent signature method on docket, i've got gaul in not confessing to laying a heel and cold shoulder to the road polar for a profit. this form of currency keep in mind comes in form of not almighty yen, but rather steady breaths - and for every single one i've stolen theres a spangled batch of several thousand deaths.

i can only face this stain glass taper frame and say theres no evidence to found, nor red hands to wear the shade of shame. though the figure polar to the devil on my shoulder says my sleep comes only from the fact its been shoved down the drain.

now come some set or score of question marked new years later, my vague ethereal outline of a significant other's clock my very well strike mine. and with an improper thrust of the spine, we might construst our own breathing makeshift bomb to keep track and hold time.

Comment by ExtensionOfBob on November 2, 2009 at 8:59am

I am. Not too optimistic about succeeding but it might be the boost I need to get my ass in gear.

Comment by ihaveknownrivers on November 1, 2009 at 6:26pm

Is anyone else participating in nanowrimo? www.nanowrimo.org

Comment by PurpleZoe on October 28, 2009 at 9:37am

Peace and blessings 'pon your pens *_*

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