Afro Punk Writers

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Comment by DC Scorpiongirl on November 23, 2009 at 8:57pm

Hi fellow writers! I just posted a couple interviews with artists on my blog in case you are interested in checking them out. That's primarily where I am doing my writing these days.

South African photographer Michael Wyeth’s series Bass Culture offers a peek inside The Bass/Jazz Den, an underground Cape Town nightclub that catered to blacks and whites alike during the late ’80s and ’90s. The patrons and musicians disregarded the unjust laws of Apartheid forbidding blacks and whites from assembling together as they reveled in the unifying power of music.

You can read the interview at http://dcscorpiongirl.wordpress.com/2009/11/20/as-plain-as-black-and-white-south-african-photographer-michael-wyeth/

In this Q & A with muralist Joel Bergner, the artist discusses the story behind his Afro-Colombian themed mural on U Street in D.C. that celebrates Afro-Colombian culture and music, and the community's triumph over the chaos of the drug and political crisis in the Colombia.

Read at http://dcscorpiongirl.wordpress.com/2009/11/16/joel-bergners-paints-image-of-afro-colombian-life/

Thanks!

Comment by Drew on November 23, 2009 at 4:43pm

The Taboo Ingenue Anthem.

this sort of absolution has got that skull and crossing of bones plus priests etched onto its person. a younger flame abounds to the spy of the fly, and swallows noir supplements to make the romantic falling rain scene abate as the sidewalks dry. eight years younger to the day, holding the roses' bouquet, and i'd have been apt in settling the sling to fit the open space of my neck. eight years older and you'd be the ample siren to guide my galleon face first into the wreck. not so the cynic as the apprehensive arbitor. agile angled and alert to the fact this 5x10 glossy iris entranced to the page equals detriment. as i said once and all too soon you're something of a contagious element. we've never stoutly slept you and i, for the promise falls not to the curves in your dress, but the pyres in your eyes. hitherto i've spied few imps in the works toting daggers betwix their tongues and not nessled in their open clefts. but the beating chest serenade carries on silent to the run off sentence i'm waiting on. a conjuring of mischief, a summoning of scant sparks, an incantation of dueling cross sentences, and my spell kissing the apex of her little questionmarks.

i am no sort of wolf in the posted sheep brand sort of a attire, but i'd lie betwix the oath and fable if i said there was no hunger for the pyre in your eyes...

Comment by blackstardust on November 23, 2009 at 2:24am

Hi! Could you pass on this info to anyone that you think might be interested? Thanks a bundle!

Call for poetry submissions!

For: The premiere of a soon-to-be-launched online portal for the reading and discovery of the work of West Indian/West Indian heritage writers of poems.

What we are looking for: Unpublished works that explore images of so-called Caribbean-ness and do something with them — invert them, twist them, crack them open. Baptize them or make them anew. Works that tread unfamiliar territory — or familiar ones. Works that spill out from that dark place in your mind and relieve the pressure of compression inside of your heart.

Avant-garde, experimental and radical verse are all welcome. Dabblers of journal verse are welcome. All are welcome to — bring your words.

Of particular interest are poems pertaining to themes of identity, gender, gender roles and sexuality.

Please indicate upon submission, if you would prefer to use a nom de plume. Please include a brief biographical sketch or simply, nationality information. Authors retain all original rights to their work.

For further inquiry, to hear more about this venture or to submit work, please e-mail creativecommess@gmail.com

Comment by Meta-Physical 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.

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