Afrosays to me

…random excerpts from my communions with the AfroMuse

A chest of fruits February 22, 2012

Filed under: Poetry — afrosays @ 9:00 am
Tags: , , , ,

Metaphors are the joy of us all and they are the gifts we share with each other. Today, a friend shares a bag of metaphors for us. Shall we dig in?
 
@itz_bigboiler’s words:
 
The cool breeze of the sylph Afrosays swooped a pollen grain towards me
It was a grain like no other
she sang the coolest of melodies to my ears
Serenaded my hearts
Captured my soul
Made my spirits soar
My megalomania mellowed when I realized her suss
I took her in, and here is the fruit of my womb

 
 

 
A CHEST OF FRUITS
 

A festoon of shiny dark hairs curled like a noodle
 

Resting on an enlarged cashew
 

Two black and glowing stones dwelling between two peeled eggs
 

A schnozzle protruding like a carrot
 

Two strawberry-red slabs unleashing a radiant smile
 

An antagonistic arraignment of bleached heterogenous grains
 

A slenderized stem running into 3 tributaries
 

With the midmost bearing two juicy oranges
 

Oranges that had sprouts
 

Irrigation washed through the style all the way to the pistil
 

The desire of every spermatocyte
 

Posteriorly lies a cottony lump gapped by a straight line
 

All of which are carried by two thin trunks
 

This is the woman,the one I love.

 
 
Find the art of our @itz_bigboiler here

 

You make me feel November 17, 2011

Filed under: Poetry — Betty @ 7:51 pm
Tags: , ,
Of a muted gong finding it’s voice. Listen.
Betty BlackLace.
YOU MAKE ME FEEL

...

You make me feel.
Passion.
Want.
Carnal fire, burning.
Inside.
Deep down.
There.
And there.
All over.
Can’t stop.
Shivers.
Tremors.
Thrills.
Coursing down my spine.
Wet.
Gasping, need air.
No air.
Come now.
Now.
Closer.
Skin.
Sliding.
Rubbing.
Tongue.
Sweat.
Faster.
Fast-er.
Moaning.
Now.
Now.
Now.
Lights.
Flashing.
Fire burning.
Colours.
Popping.
Sightless.
Crashing.
Cra-shing.
Falling.
Bliss.
Gone.
 

For the heck of it August 30, 2011

Filed under: Poetry — afrosays @ 10:59 am


I AfroSays,
The goddess caresses my soul… she plucks the chords that travel in soul space and share these vibrations I feel right now.
These vibrations are an artsy high. Do you ever get there?
Flow.

A gypsy. With his harem pants, his lyre and his starry eyes.
No shirt so the winds caress his being.

Nature is for us all.

He sits on that hill that overlooks the city.
The air around him is cool. It’s water. It’s sea. It’s peace.
Breathe slowly. Breeze.

The sky is the language of colours.
Violet speaks. Yellow laughs. Pink weeps.
Black sexes.
White runs wild and free.
These children of gloom and glee.

He smiles.
Silence and lyre and sad, happy words.
He sings of love and living.
Of pain and living.
Of living.

Let the wind dance.
Let the colours be.
If often, you find yourself beside me, you’d know what I mean.
This is the place where we’re truly alive.
I soak in these emotions that pulse through me in overwhelming waves and waves.

Usually, I just smile and close my eyes.
I live for these times.

Maybe she just hurt me.
Maybe it’s been a tough day.
Maybe money just found me.

I’d come here on this hill.
And play,
Or listen to others play.

And the art of it, I’d be soaked in it. For the heck of it.
Ahhhhhh…

Inspired by heavy doses of The Weeknd, Lupe and Bon Iver. And by you. PyroKinetic.

 

When the lights go off August 19, 2011

Filed under: Poetry — afrosays @ 9:22 pm
Tags:

AfroSays here.
The Quixotic.
Have some brew, smile at a pretty girl. Or guy. Let your heart dream tonight as the lights go off.


I bring you the art of @FreshPrinzVick and @NappyhairedPoet
ENJOY.

WHEN THE LIGHTS GO OFF by @FreshPrinzVick
When the lights go off you turn me on.
We shut out the world
It’s problems gone.
It’s your one special magic trick
No hands, no hats, no magic sticks.
When the lights go off you break me down.
The walls I built no longer surround
My heart, my body come alive
No wine, no spliff, that natural high
The transition swift yet so sublime
When the lights go off I lose control.
My mind, my heart, my body, my soul
Lost in your touch, in you I’m whole
With silent lips you tell it all
You open up, tear down my walls
When the lights go off there’s no pretense
No words, no reason, just lust….just flesh
When Robin sings I’m lost in your thickeness
Your soft lips, my hardness, your warm wetness
My heart stops, you leave me…..breathless
NIGHT TIME RHYTHYMS by @NappyhairedPoet
‘Night time rhythms
Sing with me
When the lights go off
My body is like a mannequin
Smooth
No flaws
Barbie doll perfection
At night, we love like thieves
Silent with so much determination
Red light district sex
Dirty
Drunken
Stumbling
I bet the neighbors come knocking moans…
Day time blues
Sing like me
When the sun comes up
I hide beneath rumpled sheets
He seeks me
He wants to love me
But the perfection is gone
He tells me my stretch marks
Are road maps that lead him
To my curves
My full hips
My round belly
Muffin top he loves to eat
In the morning
We love like newlyweds
And I’m the shy bride
Only bold at night….
These rhythms
These blues
Open your ears
Listen to her voice
Listen to her body
Open your eyes
And sing with her. ‘
AGAIN @FreshPrinzVick
When the lights come on I am strong
So u don’t have to be, as long
as u are next to me, the life of me.
Lights on or off, I will be
YOURS

@FreshPrinzVick? His art is here : http://freshprinz.wordpress.com/
@NappyhairedPoet? Her art is here : http://creamandcoffee.wordpress.com/
I hope you do get it? Read closely. There’s meaning. Share your thoughts?
BY THE WAY,
I keep on about my love for making music and writing songs. I’m still learning how to sound like I want and I think improving. (I am not quite a Mayer)
This is me fooling around. Quixotic Me. Here
 

Love and War May 24, 2011

Filed under: Poetry — afrosays @ 8:24 am
Tags: ,

Terse clangs in a hurry, Terse thoughts incisive. Can you interpret as AfroSays?

LOVE AND WAR

Shrapnel buried in my heart, I’m bandaged, I’m wounded
Smoke and fire swimming in the air, floating over a sea of chaos
Caked blood on your fatigues, deep cracks on your helmet
Tonight we sleep on a bed of destruction
I see souls rising to heaven, we see souls sinking to hell
Barbed wire, screams, rain and thunder
I think I will go by bayonet, you backstabber
But it just might be a bullet to the head
I saw you in the crosshairs and took aim
But you ducked just in time
You sent mortars my way
A bath of lead and mud
Our friends give us ammunition and cheer us on
While we attack each other, they plot the war
The sun will never rise over this carnage
A garden of trenches and orange blooms
All we have is this opera of terror
All we have is this blood red moon
My soul is torn and weary, my throat is sore
Your bones are weak with running, your blood is on the floor
I don’t care for winning, we’ve both lost the war
We’ve lost count of violence, so much for keeping score
Would you take a prisoner?
My guns are on the floor
You might also like
*I’m sorry Moni
*I am not a man
*Trapped
 

The Circus Stage February 22, 2011

Filed under: Poetry — afrosays @ 6:10 pm
Tags: ,

I’m trying to write a story for the Commonwealth short story competition and it’s taking me forever. I’m not sure that the erratic, bipolar AfroMuse can do Commonwealth material but it never hurts to try.

Since the goddess hasn’t been resourceful, I decided to go a scavenging in her study room. I found “The Circus” after an hour of boring rummaging and things. It seems that not much has been going on in her life since that Ennui came visiting with his soporific perfumes and his depressing liquers. Ennui is the most boring member of her world that I have ever met and the AfroMuse has been sleeping a lot since his visit; so much that I had to suggest that she doesn’t invite Ennui over again.

At times like these, I usually visit the town hall and trade experiences with fellow town-criers. It’s great to see the friendly face of Verastic, feel the intoxicating aura of NakedSha, watch the ladies swoon all over chivalrous SugarKing at the palm wine kiosk, trade gong amplifiers with Azuka, negotiate for bargains on SugaBelly paintings, listen to stand-up satire from ExSchoolNerd, have a bowl of comforting soup from motherly Myne Whitman and find strong spirit in the company of every one of my other favourite gong beaters. I might even see a new face or two, or steal a conversation with one of the maestros, (Shout out to Aloofar).

I love the village, I love the town hall, I love the noise, I love the music, I love the art, I love the fellowship of the gong.

I shall beat a party banger – shirt off, hat in the hair, gourd in hand, singing merrily with my friends from the hall because AfroSays:

THE CIRCUS STAGE

...AYAM CLOWNING...

I am clown, I’m clowning, and that’s what I do
Give me some change, let me play the fool
If I am wise, what does it matter?
I shall be dense for you
I envy the fire-eaters, I envy the lion tamers, and I envy the trapeze artists
For I was told to juggle, to play with the chimps
To earn my chance at the stage
I must wear a wig
I dance on the grounds, just after the games
I spin on my head and so do my apes
I dance with my heart, I spin with my soul
My dance is my wait
So let’s have a good time, tiny years
Before the circus troupe appears
My chimps and I shall tickle you all
We vow to bring you to tears
But when the trumpets sing loud, the curtains fall and the spotlight comes on
I have done my part; I bow out to the rolling drums
I dream in heart, eyes wide, hoping for my time
For the stage is where I belong
DREAM ON, AFRO-FOLK!
 

The Black Procession February 11, 2011

Filed under: Poetry — afrosays @ 3:23 pm
Tags: ,

Today is/was Friday.

It’s been a long week and a week with a lot of important lessons as well, lessons in patience, perseverance, hope and hard work. I do realize that a lot of times, we get motivated to strike out but really are never prepared to take that risk till we actually do so. We learn as we go and we grow. Most importantly, we learn that success really is not a destination.

I love that the goddess is back but I also recognize the demands of her presence. I know that waking up at odd hours would resume in earnest; I shall soon be mind-travelling, exploring deep troughs and dangerous heights, looking at man like stranger and living like a traveler; synchronizing my soul with the world’s vibrations while also being disconnected; falling in love without a heart; crying without any tears and living in a world that’s real to me, yet nonexistent.

I love that the goddess is back because I can be myself once more; I love that she won’t hide herself from me as well. I love the stories she tells me, I love how they remind me of a life I might have lived before I came into this existence. I love her.

AfroMuse, I have missed you.

Here’s a confused love treble on my gong, only because AfroSays:
THE BLACK PROCESSION

Deep Breath

From the bushes they emerge,
Legions of the undead
Staggering in a hurry, early in the morning
Starched rags, white faces, dead souls
Eyes on the floor, uneager to go
Yet, go they must, to their places of summoning
Black shoes, tired legs, worn soles
Bag and briefcase on tow
They assemble at the river bank,
Devil driven, water leaking, lamp lit canoes,
Each one must find a boat
Ten thousand boats on the river,
Ten thousand lights on the water,
Moving in unison, a sleeping parade,
Soaked shoes, torn shirts, depressed purses,
Sinking boats, sunken spirits, slow progress,
Chin in palm, eyes set afar, seeing nothing,
Ten million souls in early mourning,
Each soul, one sorrow, one comfort,
Tonight ends the Black Procession
TGIF AFRO-FAMILY!
You most definitely would like
*The Sundance
 

Rapping for dummies January 25, 2011

Filed under: Poetry — afrosays @ 8:04 pm
Tags: , , , , ,

The goddess is still on pilgrimage, Botswana or some place similar.

So, I’m a fan of music. I’ve got about 40GB of a variety of sustained speech and wind vibrations on my computer and please don’t ask me any questions about that. I’ve been listening to a lot of rap lately and I’ve gotten bored by the continuous recycling of ideas. I love to read as much as I write so I really appreciate when someone takes their time to come up with new material. Since that has not been so easy to come by, I have had to repeat some of my favorite songs over and over again.

Interestingly, I wrote some puppy rap as a teenager but I started writing waaaay earlier than that. I think rap is a form of poetry and I respect the individuals who are clever about their art. But because everybody seems to think that they’re good enough to be a rapper today, honestly, there is a lot of ear junk out there. In all fairness, I actually think I can write material that’s on par with what most indigenous rappers have to offer or even better

Let’s play!

Yo .. Yo .. Check it!

To write a fairly successful song, you can follow these few timeless guidelines:
– You don’t have to speak correct English. Ghetto-American, Jamaican and local flavours are welcome.
– You start by saying you’re the best
– You introduce us to a few of the things you don’t have
– You talk about your imaginary haters
– You make sure most of your words end in a ryhme
– Don’t forget to talk about getting love in the club and getting out by 6 in the morning, and of course, loose girls and expensive alcohol
YOU’RE NOW A RAPPER!
STYLES:
You can’t just ryhme away, you have to rhyme in a kind of way that pushes an idea to the listener.
There are patterns known to rap and I have listed a basic few below; I shall attempt to steal lines from the illustrious, Nigerian, Choc-boyz. Enjoy! (Nigerian musicians don’t post lyrics online so these lines are not quoted and do not come with a warranty)
Similes:
description – You are this LIKE that
example – [ IcePrince >> When you look at me, you see real LIKE Nestle ]
Metaphor:
description – I am this, call me a that
example – [ Jesse Jagz >> We too fly, JETLAG ]
Claims:
description – simply bogus exaggerations
examples – [ M.I >> My flow’s insane, my flow so sick, I think we’re gonna need a medic, I’M A HEADACHE ]
– [ Jesse Jagz >> We fly so high, we’re only seen by God ]
Bold statements:
description – screw the world
examples – [ M.I >> haters can kiss between my two thighs ]
– [ M.I >> look these dudes think that they fly, you’re a peacock ]
There are many more rap styles out there than I care to list. For an eclectic selection, buy a jay-Z or Kanye West CD if you have lots of money. Simply buy MI2 from your local CD vendor if you don’t.
With all that nonsense rap jargon, Let’s try a quickie, mock-up rap. I call this:
NO BFFs!
I’m the best, no BFFs, you’re an enemy
Haters on my neck, sorta like my iced-out jewelery
No same class, No! Don’t even go to school with me
So they taking shots at me, Wayne ‘Roonery’
Chics make passes at me, I score Hat-trick
Them, over-bar, goal kick
Bed-ridden, so sick
Bed-fellows all week
They walking, I’m chauffered
flip flops? Me, Gucci loafered
Cup floodeth over
Groceries in my Rover
Only Rolls they ever been in is a Roller Coaster
Only flute on their lips plays music
Only Coupe is where their grandma’s chics live
They vexing cuz we turning down vixens
Saving up to do what we did since
And they even saving with their sibliiiiiiings
I’m in their face like a big screen
Big screen? I’ve got fifteen? Sixteen?
How many?
Gotta ask my assistant errtime, how many?!
Gotta ask my accountant, how much money?!
She just told me she’s tired of counting
So how did the Afro do?
Would I make a decent rapper?
I BET!
**Iced-out means overly diamond studded
**Wayne Rooney is a popular English footballer; a very powerful shot taker. ‘Roonery’ is therefore the state of being ‘Rooney-ish’
**Rolls means Rolls Royce
**Errtime means every time
 

One-minute-woman January 17, 2011

Filed under: Poetry — afrosays @ 11:10 am
Tags:

The muse is still on pilgrimage and I’ve had ample time on my hands, time to love…

…And I’m not talking super emotionally involving, personality crushing, intelligence ruining, scapegoat volunteering love; I’m talking about the love a young man has for the world and the little joys it brings.

It’s because of this love I put up a status update on my Blackberry that read:
I want to write for someone

I started writing for ladies a long time ago. Actually by writing for my partners in puppy romance as a ‘youngerster’, I continued till the puppy mindedness was eventually whacked out of me. I still write from time to time but it’s been a while, and because of all this love oozing out of me recently, I just needed someone to volunteer to be my object of flattery for five minutes. None of my ‘BBabes’ volunteered. They were all too busy admiring purple shoes, fighting with all their friends and taking up roles in Gossip girl. I went to bed defeated, like a man that made his first million dollars on a sick bed, plagued with a terminal disease.

I woke up this morning with a creativity hangover that kept me moody throughout the day so I decided to write anyways.

This one is for all the ladies all over the world who read Afro,

ONE-MINUTE-WOMAN

SCAPE GOAT

#ScapegoatingProhibited!!!

Would you be my 60 seconds woman? It’s not for too long, just say yes

My women are perfectly imperfect, whatever that means to you, I’m just saying that you’re imperfectly perfect.

And I am too, so let’s skip pretend, I love you love me shouldn’t be twisted.

You love twisted? You’re ready to jump off the deep end?

No you’re not? So don’t ask me to. Till further notice, here’s what I wouldn’t do:

I won’t catch a grenade for you, it’s stupid (and we need me around). I’d rather throw enough to make you proud.

I won’t be your scapegoat, I’m lucid. So how does a cowboy sound?

Fair enough? You’re smiling. I’d do my best to make you happy:

I’d be patient
I’d be kind
I’d be tender
I’d listen
I’d love
I’d spend
I’d spend
I’d spend some more
I’d let you gimme extra lessons on how to treat you,
I’d make ‘A’s at every class,
best student, love-school!
Time up!
 

Le sol uno – The only one November 23, 2010

Filed under: Poetry — afrosays @ 4:26 am

Work frenzy!

Yes! My flow has been stymied by all the calculations my subconscious is trying to do on my behalf (yes, I just saw Inception).

This big project I’ve been working on all year is finally coming to a close. I’m mentally planning an Afro-Epic story that I hope I can do next year while also planning my long-short story that’s still a work in progress.

I miss you guys! Two weeks is too long a time to be self (-ish/-absorbed). The gong has dust all over it.

The goddess? She’s really mad at me. I went to the shrine today bearing sacrifice and she refused to be bribed. She won’t talk to me till I finish off my backlog of undelivered messages. I know I totally deserve it.

One-by-one, I go finish am!

But for now, I’d borrow a Bocelli piece and beat a gong version because the villagers need to calmly hear as AfroSays:
LE SOL UNO

take a deep breath

I’m in a pack. Or several.
I learnt early in life that one has to belong to at least one pack. A pack of anything. One needs a pack to survive.
I’ve been a member of several anythings: cool kids, athletes, losers, spirituals, hedonists, nerds, rich kids, average kids, dancers, musicians, artists, business peoples, weirdos, leaders, family, but I’ve never been able to fully pledge my allegiance to any.
I’ve been with drinking buddies, playing pretend, not really connecting to the camaraderie of percentages
I’ve been with the church team and, of course, I had to keep my dark thoughts to myself
I been with darker minds and I pity them
I usually am with ladies on the weekends
I don’t know if I’m the only one who can’t fit into a mold but sometimes I suspect that the other people too, they’re trying hard to convince themselves that they really belong.
I already know that I don’t.
But I also know, that I don’t want to be alone.
Dedicated to #FellowWeirdo, Amaraegbeni Chigozie
 

 
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