Poetry by Jessica Holter's The Punany Poets
White Chocolate Cherry
by Ghetto Girl Blue
Her daddy’s sho nuff mad
Thinkin’ of all the black dick she had
Like a video vixen, scantily clad
She stepping out the pad
White Chocolate Cherry
She a ghetto dweller
No one can tell her
She ain’t a niggah
White can’t get wit her
the burbs don’t fit her
You can’t divide
Her creamy thighs
You can not lay her down
Unless your skin is brown
What’s a soccer Mom to do?
She’s got gold ones too
Grinning at your man
Got his money in her hand
making wifey plans
She up to no good
She so damn hood
White Chocolate Cherry
She speak ebonic’ly
She roll her eyes
She fuss and fight
She on a mission
Her composition
Sho’ get attention
Wit her extensions
She roll her head
Three inch acrylics
Spit hip hop lyrics
Just like she wrote them
She’s an alabaster queen
Redefining what Black Love means
Ass like a anthem
Swag like a phantom
Even dread heads can’t resist
The temptation in her hips
White Chocolate Cherry
She up to no good
She so damn hood
by Ghetto Girl Blue
Haiku for Huey
by Ghetto Girl Blue
Even in his sleep
He crept with a Panther’s stealth
Crack has no heroes
Evnin' at Ruby's
by Gary T. McCoy
ruby
ain’t you listenin?
ain’t you seein
what’s happenin here,
what’s going on this evnin?
me just dropped in for a lil hello
a drink a dance n a smile
me just want ta spend some time
just want ta set for a while
n ruby i ain’t want to see
what i’m seein
painted n oily black bodies
beautiful n dyin in yo crowded parlors’ red glare
cheap perfume and too high heels
rolls and rolls of synthetic hair
her ain’t got nuff tight cloth
ta cover so much black skin
her ain’t got nuff money
ta even think about worryin
painted on smiles
caricature of love
dancing twisting sweaty flesh
ugly red lights cover from above
got her a money problem
just seem it can’t be figured out
got her some kind solution
you know what i’m talkin ‘bout?
ain’t so bad when white lust roam black thighs
ain’t so bad when her close she tired eyes
ain’t so bad when her bump and her grind
ain’t so bad cause this aint tha first
but maybe the last time
or so her think
or so her want
or so her need
or so ... or so what
white hand don’t feel so good
white mouth don’t feel so bad
her body don’t feel nothin really
numb spirit n heart not for feel sad
n me just feelin’ blue flame
n me just seein’ to bright light
n me just disappear
n me just slip back into the nite
n ruby, why so easy for hear without listenin’
n ruby, why so easy for look without seein’
n ruby, why so easy for touch without feelin’
n ruby, why you ain’t know
what’s goin on here this evnin?
The Bed We Lye In
by Keno Mapp
Feel my hand slowly
moving down along
your smooth legs.
Feeling it move over
the sexy curves
that make up your hips,
Toward the sweet flower
that rests
in the center of it all.
Eating greedily at it
like one who has never tasted
sweet before.
The chills running down my spine,
arousing my all with the
Strength of Thor’s Hammer
ever so ready to slam
down
and shake
The bed we lye in.
Pulling at your soft lips with mine,
wetting everything in my tongue’s path
praying as your spread apart
Your spirit will be freed
and excited enough
to leave you in a puddle
spreading
and wetting
The bed we lye in.
Unprotected Poetry
by Larry Jaffe
i had unprotected poetry
last night
it was unexpected,
you know, spontaneous
and we did not use anything
we just went at it
to keep the mood
it was incredible
but not safe
and now i am worried
cause it can be infectious and dangerous
to say things without a condom
it could be disastrous to speak without protection
and a guy should not have unprotected poetry
he should take more responsibility than that
not just leave it up to the girl
what kind of guy would just go off
without some sort of protection
what are the consequences?
i’m not sure
and now
i’m scared
Unprotected
Poetry
it was irresponsible of me
to have unprotected poetry
to not even ask or consult
her about poetry control methods
she might be using
or (gulp)
not using
what if she gets poetically pregnant
and want’s to have my poem?
or worse,
what if she has some kind of
poetically transmitted disease
you know, PTD
or what if I do?
and we have to wait and
see what happens
taking regular poetry tests
to see if we’ve got it
but wow, we actually did it last night
we had poetry!
how many people in this day and age
have pure unprotected poetry
we should be thankful for that,
after all it was good poetry
we both really enjoyed it
we soared like angels with wings
never coming down,
just coming
poetically that is
what a high to hit that climax and feel
like you will never be mortal again
now that you have had
unprotected poetry
who can protect you?
now that you’ve had unsafe poetry
you want to do it again and again and again
cause you know it just don’t feel the same
with a poetic condom
it blocks off all feeling and the flow
and the words
the words
are stopped short
with safe, protected poetry
and i personally,
will never write that way again
My Christmas Wish
by DJ Blackmon
My Christmas wish was answered,
but I know now that he lied
And now I have a question,
about the pleasure he supplied.
No simple pleasure’s this one,
un-sweetened, natural, bare,
Complex, attempting to partake
of every ounce, of what was there.
I rage as I remember, the places
I watched his tongue and lips leave traces,
The sensations then pleasant,
suppose to be my Christmas present.
I recall his head seeking and finding all the treasures hidden in my secret place,
The organs of anticipation,
and the ecstacy that crossed his face.
His tongue played sensations
and I was surprised That a mouth
that could do the things his did,
could tell such blatant lies.
At first I felt a little hurt,
but soon anger stepped right in,
I found that I was lost for words,
I couldn’t just pretend.
I know I felt that latex coated shaft enter me, as he covered me with kisses,
He never mentioned anything
about his brand new Misses.
Oh well, I guess he can consider it
a Christmas morning treat,
‘Cause I’m no hoe, and now that I know,
it’s one I won’t repeat.
Bitters Love Haiku
by Jane Therese
101
love blooms sweet Spring buds
compromising, her soul bows
in honor of love
102
bitters on her truth
keep house for a sinful man
her busy hands plan
103
Seeking approval
she swells in vanity’s light
eyes willfully blind
104
flesh in sync with mind
the lady knows what she wants
at least in this life
105
captain of her ship
sailing waters of fortune
a heroes exit
106
truth’s kaleidoscope
dizzy, jealousy kills blood
he makes one last sail
107
enemies aware
blue casket stained with green tears
they bury souls here
Issues
by KWEEN
It is here
the time has come
for us to explore one another
I’m really diggin you
know you’re fond of me too
But I got issues
I can not help the way I feel
You give me chills
when I think of you, but still
I don’t know what to do
You want to make love to me
with no condom
and I can not let go of my fears
what I was taught to believe
never lay down without a sheath
How can we bond deeplyif you can’t trust me enough to feel my truenessBaby we can go to the clinic will that be enough to eaze your spiritIt is here
the time has come
for us to explore one another
I’m really diggin you
know you’re fond of me too
But I got issues
I can not help the way I feel
You give me chills
when I think of you
but still...
I don’t know what to do
You want to make love to me
with no condom
and I can not let go of my fears
what I was taught to believe
never lay down without a sheath
How can we bond deeplyif you can’t trust me enough to feel my truenessBaby we can go to the clinic will that be enough to eaze your spiritNow I’m thinking wondering to myself
Is he bad for my health
so much going on these days
don’t know who’s gay or straight
be dying of AIDS
don’t take it personal baby
Planned Parenthood sounds nice
How can we bond deeplyif you can’t trust me enough to feel my truenessBaby we can go to the clinic will that be enough to eaze your spiritDon’t misunderstand me,
please know that I do love you
this fear in my heart has grown so heavy
I’m jaded and confused
trying to find my own truth
How can we bond deeplyif you can’t trust me enough to feel my truenessBaby we can go to the clinic will that be enough to eaze your spiritBaby it’s gotta be enough!
Dazzlin’ Darlin’
by Ghetto Girl Blue
That’s what I am
Dazzlin’ Darlin’
From every unsplit hair on my mane
to the gentle breezin’ pleasin’ of
the V part of me
From Cuba to Mylasia
I’m fantasia
Known all around the world
I
from England to
Rodeo
Drive
men crazy
I
laugh while I amaze thee
from judge’s chambers
to TV anchors
The break bread just to see me
I’m gamin em
got em cravin a
thousand dollar conversation with me
My make-up, my skin
My body, the fits that mold to it
and the pedicured feet that touch them
my fragrance and my skin
are just as important as
unconditional love and kids
After all it’s husbands like yours
who accept my bids
I sell attention, you see?
He want’s it and deserves it
From a woman who is 100%
Dazzlin’ Darlin’
Whats Done in the Dark
by Jessica Holter
It’s been 20 years
since I staked my claim
Infecting millions
with denial and shame
I fooled them all
to get a head start
Hiding myself
where righteous dare not part
But soon into light,
is what’s done in the dark
Just who is my prey,
my sucker, my mark?
The bright and the dull,
the rich and the poor
Infamous scholars,
the housewife and whore
Street pharmacists and PhD
Have equal access to me
From mother to child,
needle to vein
Above all others before me,
shall I reign
From bad blood to blue blood I flow
The only salvation from me
is to KNOW
I will find you no matter
where you hide
For my power is in
your lies and your pride
for AFACTA.ORG
Booty
by Ghetto Girl Blue
Her hair like a black moon, her lips like ripened plums, her hips as big as the ships they floated over on. She sailed their minds to places only pimps can live, where tricks can only visit on payday. Yes, if I told you all that, you probably wouldn’t believe me anyway.
They fell to the ground in awe and amazement drawing pictures of her great labia, wings spread like a giant butterfly hovering above the African Earth... They had to take the booty, don’t you see Jack? In fact they were taken so aback by Eve’s monstrous apple bottom, they had to take her home and put her on the track. But you wouldn’t believe an urban purrin’ kitty cat. Yeah, I know you think white boys just can not pimp like that!
I mean, if I told you she was minding her tribe, when they saw the snatch and bum, were blinded by the size of the ancient loin, and got lost in the jungles of their own greed for coin, plotting to plant their demonic seed, calculating just how to make the booty bleed, you probably would not hear me.
If I told you a fact, like she became a famous circus act, men and women came from far and wide to see that lovely backside, working her on the track and her back, till she infectious sex and alcohol, you would just dismiss me for a more comfortable call.
If I said some pirates-turned-pimp squandered all the booty in a little bit of 5 years, before crowds of the envious who only offered taunts and jeers, and cared not of the lost maidens fears, but when they were no longer caught up in the allusion she had no choice but to turn to prostitution, you would probably would not hear.
If I told you they pimped her to death, and when her soul was gone, they took it far too far, they cut her pussy off and put in a jar - yes, they sliced the great butterfly and put it in a jar! (Oh, what twisted minds can conceive!), they put it, her brain, and her bones on display, so that even her soul could not rest, then, maybe then you can perceive
But listen young brothers, and listen well, listen little sisters to the tale I tell, for what I speak is true. When your booty is up for trade or sale, you are letting them pimp your virtue. Go head, be hot to trot, selling an image of something you are not, bouncing for dollars and a video spot, but when the lustful demand ceases to be hot, you could end up just like The Venus Hottentot!
(Saartjie Baartman also known as “The Hottentot Venus”: In 1810, Sara Baartman, a 20 year-old woman of South Africa, was taken from her village in the Eastern Cape by (you know who) to London where she was exhibited like a wild beast in the circus, theaters and night clubs. She was kept in a cage, trained by a circus trainer until the novelty wore off. She was hustled in France for a while, then was forced into prostitution. She died in 1815. After she died probably of Syphilis and alcoholism, her genitals were removed and preserved in a bottle and exhibited in the Muses d’Homme in Paris for all to see. Nelson Mandela finally forced the return of her remains in 2002.)
The Stud and the Scorpio
by Jessica Holter
I try not to look but she is beautiful.
I try not to look, only to feel.
My Scorpio eyes have a will of their own.
My Scorpio eyes penetrate.
They will her love into existence.
She looks deep into me,
as if she wants to know me,
finding only what I leave there to be found.
For all I know is the men
I have known ...and so
all I can see is her lust for the
throbbing pulse in the center of me,
but I am projecting.
My breasts are for milking.
Her breasts are still sensitive,
perfect, chocolate mounds of nerves
reaching into perfect puckered kisses.
My hips have opened,
shifted,
pushed life through,
and settled into place again
like a magical science.
The skin of my belly is scarred in remembrance
of my greatest sacrifice and achievement.
Still when I saw myself
in the aftermath of childbirth,
I could not help but to think it was a sign
of my torrid and painful sexual experiences
as a femme, subservient, survivor.
Like braille, they trail
a kaleidoscope of squiggly
colored lines that stretch
from each hip bone down through
the hair on my vagina, making permanent parts,
deep scars, so sensitive
I can not zip too tight.
I fell in love one day when she kissed them.
(The man who put them there
who loves his only son
did not kiss them.)
I remember my own innocence
when I touch her smooth brown skin.
The stud has not been victimized
her pussy has not been raped
The stud is stronger than many men
and struggles to comprehend the Scorpio
She doesn’t understand me.
She has not been where I have been.
She is not an artist;
She knows and loves money an respects the system
and has been educated
by it’s wisdom in the ways of men
I long to escape it all together,
The Institution.
I want to go to a place
where it is safe to be owned,
but she is not a man
she does not want to own me.
only to love me;
(I am not sure I know how
to let anyone do that.)
I want this woman,
her gentility
her mutuality
her body
her tongue
her soft breaths on my flesh
her sound
her scent
her womanhood all about me;
But, I want her to be a man.
I really don’t care to see another dick
unless it is strapped to my lady’s hips.
I want to teach her
like the slave teaches the master, how to dominate
Give her the pieces to the puzzle,
the rules to breaking me apart
and help her re-assemble me.
To experience the freedom of trust when it is complete,
leaves the Scorpio without speech,
of truth she dares not speak,
but the muttering of greed says the hunt is on.
and I am the stud’s willing prey.
Predator knows not her victim,
but loves her in spite of herself
(Victims are forced by survival
to know the hunter.)
They do not come face-to-face.
The Scorpio stands behind lust
to spy on game
to find her weaknesses.
She devours them.
Ingests them
empowers them
and serves them back as lessons
The stud infects her with her gratitude
and simply fixes her short comings
without a woman’s attitude
Like the rabid beast
the Scorpio keeps coming
in the woman’s game,
wanting to be the wife,
but ever desperate to be
the whore delivering
uncompromising fantasies.
I try not to look at her but she is beautiful
I try not to look, only to feel.
My Scorpio eyes are singed
in lesbian fires and made blind.
I like the woman’s game.
No, I love IT.
I WANT IT.
I WILL IT.
I am convinced,
I will master and retire it.
I learn as I seek.
I relish as I am tasted,
power up when I am tested
And we each, teach,
learning from one another what it means
to be a woman, and to love one.
Living free from man’s domination
and society’s interpretation of us.
What Part of it Didn’t You Understand?
by Branden Pernell
and I slipped the “Jim” on,
and soon as we had contact she said it...
“Oh, no!”
but I was like, still diggin’ deep
she never said another peep
and I wasn’t trippin’
‘cause I was fa’ sho
goin’ fo’ mine
strange thing was,
when I implied as to her being satisfied
she quietly but sternly
replied absurdities
telling me to leave at once
I sighed, “...Whadafuck...”
and proceeded to pack my grip, shit,
“I got mine, what I’m trippin for?”
what I’m trippin’ for?
but then it hit me
like a Tyson blow, it hit me so hard
the realization of 1+1 equalin’ 2
but 2-1
(one being the variable representin’
her when she said, “no”)
can’t still
equal 2
if it do they call that “forcible entry”
if that’s what I did then it’s a bid
right in the clink
shit that stink
think B...think...
so I called her up to apologize
I ain’t lying I had tears in my eyes
‘cause I was scared she was going to tell
but she wouldn’t talk to me
wasn’t trying to hear
what I was talkin’ about
wouldn’t even take my calls
time wore on and I got the balls
to see how she was doin’
only to find out, her life I had ruined
see, apparently she couldn’t take it, that I took it
so she decided no one else would do the same
she left a note saying that
in this world there’s too much pain
that she could no longer bare
how it wasn’t fair
how folks could take things
precious things
most intimate things
against another’s will
she said, “Don’t feel bad for me,
‘cause I’m now out of the inferno,
in a place where there’s no strife
and tension’s at a low
a place where you never hear a woman
called a “bitch” or a “ho”
and above all else, a place where
“no” still means “no”.
the note was found
next to the empty bottle of sleepin’ pills
next to the empty Old Grand Dad
next to several photos of herself on the dresser
next to the bed
where she lay dead
‘cause I let that testosterone rule my head
both of them
The guilt I felt was too much,
so I turned myself in
now I’m payin’ for my sin
in the state pen
for the crime of rape
now I’m at stake
‘cause, with my frame
I know my ass they will try
to take from me
going to try to make me
the prison B--ioch
if I had only waited
until she said “yes”
I wouldn’t be in the mess
that I’m now in,
and she’d still be here
and we’d again
have the opportunity for intercourse
but all I can do now
is express my deepest remorse
and take things real slow
and always remember
no still means “NO”
by Branden Pernell
Black and Beautiful
by Jessica Holter
I am a beautiful black woman
So beautiful, I myself can barely stand it
So awesome is my presence,
Human eyes can not comprehend it
Too hot to handle too fierce to tame
I am the other woman who wore your name
your cotton gin whore
the children I bore are
the product of your weakness
the evidence of your shame
I am fierce in tongue and in deed
No need to fight, just stand in line,
and tell me what you need
I feed the greed of straight savages
My madness is infectious
My punany is contagious
It’s outrageous, how you played this
I remember you was all goofy looking
walking like you had never been fucked before
so I took you into my hut and hooked you up
you know a little pussy for your boat ride home
But after that good hot sweaty
black thickness got on ya
you came back with guns
took the pussy captive
took some dick too
to tend to work
in a whole New World just
so we could be alone
I am the breast that fed the best of you
Yet, you are still creating New World orders
while I work corners and my
milk is still on your breath
what’s up with this?
It’s time.
If you don’t tell them
I will
PUNANY POETRY
Hello, I have selected some of my favorite pieces by The Punany Poets and placed them on this page in no particular order. Just read and enjoy.
- Ghetto Girl Blue
PS, We write books! So don't hesitate to get your own Punany Book at Amazon.com or at your local Borders or Barnes & Noble! Thanks.
* Note * The material found on this page is written by currently active or inactive members of The Punany Poets Theater Group. The work below appears in at least 1 of 7 published Punany Books. Outlaw (non-Punany) writers may not submit material to be placed on this page. If you would like to become a Punany Poet, please email mzhoneytaylor@tmail.com to request Punany Writer's Guidelines.
Black Love American Style
by Ghetto Girl Blue
Kizzie’s tittie milk is still on your breath, Massa’
Even as you twist your mouth into
murderous sales pitches for your oily plan sir
You think you have won
with Condolisa at your dick and call
But what if I told you we sent her to spy
and you ain’t niggah-balling at all?
What if I said she’s gonna use your own law
to put a Black man in the White house when you fall
dismiss you with her infamous half-smile
Blow a black kiss off her thick lips
with Black Love American Style
Yeah, that’s what I’m thinking sometimes
looking at them nervous little pink fingers
pushing dead presidents at me in the club
But then I hear the last line,
of the last bar, in the last song
$50 is extended, accepted and tucked in my G string
I graciously thank him
and find my place on top of the lap
of the next horny little diplomat
It's Raining Baby Mommas
by J Steal
It’s raining Baby Mommas, say brother you got your hat?
I don’t dream, I plan. I am not planning on Similac.
I am planning on an education, to keep my future in tact,
what would I ruin it for?
A 45 minute ride in her slippery sublime
for debts I’ll be paying for a lifetime?
Examine, my brotha’s, the simple score
Uncle Sam can send you to jail for non-support
of a child, you never even asked for!
My lady can beg, she can plead
but every month, I wanna see her bleed
to know she’s still in the war!
Some women are lovers, you see, by their very nature,
with insatiable desire; Some have liquid fire that burns
hotter and higher, each time you ride her.
Some chicks are like fine chefs, when they butter the cobb...
But no matter how good she slobs the knob
you had better resist the temptation to come inside her,
especially if you don’t have a job!
These chicks are out here trippin’,
like we are not all affected by capitalism.
Just a final note of Punany wisdom,
“once a woman is pushing thirty,
her need for motherhood comes over her like a baptism.
But whether a black man works or he goes to prison
America will teach him all about economics
Comprehend the dynamics of 1 million enslaved brethren
It’s raining Baby Mommas, say brother you got your hat?
Cause it’s raining Baby Mommas
oh, the pregnant possibilities of the skillful cat!
Footwear
by DJ Blackmon
My momma used to tell me, finding a mate is like shopping around for a nice pair of shoes, the wrong ones, like the wrong pair, can give you the buyer’s remorse blues. You know, how you might find a pair that’s really cute but cheaply made? Not well put together or worth the price you paid?
Or, what about the ones you got by mistake, because you thought they were made of genuine leather, but actually they were fake? You looked inside to see how much you paid, and found a stamp that said the material was all man made.
Or how about the ones you liked when you got them, but later hurt your feet and you wished you hadn’t bought them?
And how come the ones most comfortable to wear always seem to be the most unattractive pair?!!
Then there is that pair you thought would soften up as you broke them in, but you could never seem to get them to fit so you never wore them again.
...or, the ones that you bought with a specific occasion in mind...spent all that money, then you only wore them one time?
And don’t you just hate when you have a pair you like, but they’re always somewhere else, and you can never seem to find them when you want to wear them yourself?
Don’t it give you the blues when someone else is trying on your shoes?
The kind of shoes I want?... should go with whatever I wear; be made of the finest material, and deserve the best of care. They should contour, naturally, to the shape of my feet as I break them in, and I should not have to reshape them over and over and over, again. They should stay comfortable, even after I have been in them all day, and be of an affordable price to pay. They should be classic, still look good, still feel good, and go with whatever, even after I’ve had them forever.
But, I guess, I’ll continue to shop with zest, and stop to take an occasional rest, and just like I do when I’m shopping for shoes, I’ll keep searching ‘til I find the one that fits best.
(from Skin and Soul, 2000)
SVT: Sexual Sufferings
by Jessica Holter
Constance liked the sting of the leather on her skin, the belt was made of a very fine leather and made the most delightfully naughty sounds. Her curiosity started innocently enough, but deep inside she knew it was rooted in something she saw as a child that she shouldn’t have been looking at; Her mom with one of her boyfriends, or that motorcycle scene on Sweet Sweetback’s Bassasss Song.
As a young girl testing the waters of her feminine powers, she recalled the racey flick as she humped her pillow. In early foiled attempts at masturbation, Constance was Goldie’s bottom ho and Coleoptera Jones; she could give and take an ass whipping like a pro.
But, SVT, Sex and Violence Together had become as a drug, delivered on time every Thursday, Friday and Saturday night by a dude named Change from the Lower Bottoms of East Oakland. For the last 3 months he brought a little more street to her bed every night, put a little more fantasy on her skin with every blow. She dug his slick San Francisco pimp drag, and even his “Lord Jesus” perm that waved like black silk to the center of his back. But she wouldn’t be seen with in public with him and he knew it.
He probably resented her for looking down on him, she thought, pouring peroxide on her welts. It was Thursday night, 9:00 when his Cadillac pulling into her driveway, right on time. The liquid turned white, expanded, bubbled and stung her skin; she winced and patted her thighs dry. There was a knock at the door. With a naughty shrug and grin, Constance tossed the cotton balls into the toilet, flushed and answered the door.
Lord Jesus! This man was fine, she thought, when just for a second she stole a moment in his eyes. He stood for a long moment at the door just staring at her, his lip curled as to suggest a sarcastic question. Feeling the heat of his glare, Constance dropped her head and loosened the tie on her robe. As it dropped from her shoulder’s to the floor like a puddle of blue Satin, she could hear his belt unloosen. He snatched it quickly through the loops make that familiar whoosh sound like her momma’s boyfriends’ had.
Bad Date Haiku
by Jessica Holter
tender touching night
crackling leaves of morning sound
under hurried feet
The Sounds I Make
by Paz Paulsen-Sacks
Come close Baby.
This ain’t no bear trap,
this ain’t no jail cell
‘cause I take no prisoners.
I swallow whole.
I invite you to my shrine
and all the rituals I design,
and all these mountains you can climb,
and all these waves you can ride.
I got the tongue that burns,
and the kiss that scars,
and the touch that unchains,
and the arms that reclaim
your soul from hell.
I can fly to the ceiling
and fall on your dimension:
No strings attached,
no net to catch us
in our Temple of Love
where Orishas of Origin and Orifice
accept our offering
of our two bodies.
Naked as the day
God made us shine
for the first time.
So come close.
Hold me tight.
As we create.
And listen to
the sounds I make.
You can apotheosize in my embrace.
You can baptize in my blaze.
You can explore each emotion as it emerges.
And you can lose yourself in this unity.
Just you and me.
And you can grab my body and close your eyes.
And you can elevate and uprise.
And you can laugh and have some fun,
‘cause we ain’t hurting anyone.
So feel yourself sacred.
Feel yourself initiate.
And be atoned
in the sounds I make.
Each move you make is a sacrament.
Each vibration you conjure is a miracle.
Each touch of our bodies is a godsend.
Give me all of you.
So we can consecrate.
So we can gyrate.
So we can masturbate.
No more repression.
No more depression.
No more oppression.
I’m tired of being good.
I’m tired of succumbing.
I’m tired of inhibition.
I’m tired of not cuming.
So let’s change the world.
Let’s be Gods again.
Let’s abandon Eden
and eat free from the tree.
‘cause any price is worth it
when there’s so much to awake.
And we’ll be guided
by the sounds I make.
You make sounds too.
The sound of devotion.
The sound of motion.
The sound of ocean.
The sound of breeze.
The sound of trees.
The sound of qi.
Titillating with each joy.
Bringing us out of the void.
Arousing us from hell.
Delivering us from the shell.
The sounds I make don’t discriminate
when I have my Story to tell.
So gather round the campfire.
Spill all your desires.
Ain’t nothing left to anticipate,
but I think it’s time to emancipate
and not be afraid.
Don’t back down,
just salivate
and celebrate
the sounds I make.
Addiction Affliction
by Ghetto Girl Blue
Loving you is my addiction.
I need your lust
beyond comprehension.
I hang,
suspended
in the unbeatable
stretch of time
between your call,
your affection,
your erection,
your coming
(and) departure; wishing you were all mine, not hers,
not going home to what you have
publicly claimed as yours.
(Did I overlook my invitation
to your wedding?)
I am dreading the swallow
of the new taste of you,
wondering if the scent of your
dedication will leak through
But when I recall from whence
we have come
I am elevated to a crescendo of hope.
For your body is my dope
I am hooked
on your teasing tongue,
the dripping saccharine that flows
through your poetic words
coagulating like your multiple comings
in the back of my throat,
the insolvable stain you leave my brain
every time your tenderness
beckons you back to my beastly domain
This addiction is my affliction
a fatal phenomenon that will not end
for we have both know lust in its most incurable form
I do not want to forget.
I do not need to forgive.
You can not sin inside me.
We accept.
We ascend.
Don’t wear anything.
No clothing, no condom, no title.
This is Ghetto Love
and you are fully entitled
‘cause we “g” back.
It is real
It is ghetto
It it simple.
I am your temple
and you are a parishioner
here.
The Mythology of a Black Man
by Ghetto Girl Blue
Him cuss
Him scream
Him shout and fuss
Him wheel an’ deal
Him steal an’ kill
Him fo’ the thrill
Him go to jail
Him bound fo’ hell
Him lie
Him die
Him nev’ try
Him don’t care why
Him high on weed
Him plant him seed
Him woman in need
Him kids don’t feed
Him run and hide
All because
Him cry inside
“Niggah” They Call You
by Ghetto Girl Blue
Niggah they call you and
Niggah you call yourself
And wonder why nobody treats you like a man
If you could understand
And see what I see
Niggah you wouldn’t act like and
Niggah you would not be
But you’re too high to see
I’m looking for a king to get high righteously
Between my loving arms
With a strong Black family
No king could cheat, steal and lie
Disrespect his woman, himself and his tribe
To elevate him to a crack Hades high
The Devil has known your body
Bought and paid for your soul
Still don’t know your name
Yet he’s calling you
Niggah...Niggah...NiggahMeet me in this Hades high
Forget your family and your tribe
Forget your missing crown
Get up get down get funky get hiiiiigh
Niggah!
No black man would ever answer
For no black man could ever hear
The Devil’s calling you, calling you Niggah
Calling you Niggah
Want’s your soul
Singing I got five on it
Don’t you want it? Niggah!
You are his ho and he fucking you good...
Like a real pimp should
Sucking, consuming your African seeds and your health
Got you creeping with stealth
Quick to relieve a brother of wealth
Ho chose his pimp,
still he don’t know your name
Take another hit niggah,
introduce yourself!!!
Freedom Song Day
by Ghetto Girl Blue
Maybe today be the day
Misery forget my name
Maybe today be the day
Big Little Man let me
Outside this house
Maybe take the lock off the door
There for my protection
Maybe today I feel the sun on my skin
Maybe I go out and dance half-naked
Under that big yellow ball
Like them beach girls on the TV
Only company I keep for 7 years
For my own protection
Or maybe that bird that
Sings silently on the window
Peekin’ at me through dish water vapors
‘Come sit on my dish water wrinkled hands
Teach me the words to the freedom song
That’ll ease Misery into forgetting me
Maybe today be the day
My mouth could speak my soul
Without the bloody recoil
From Little Man’s day in White Man’s world
I watch Oprah today
The phone ringing
My script runs through my mind
And I pick up
“Hello. I’m sorry, He’s not here”
“No ma’am, I’m just the maid
Would you like to leave a message?”
I don’t pick up a pen to write
Because they never do; leave a message
Misery callin’, callin’, callin
My name Helper, Worker, Supporter
Lover, Adam’s Rib
‘Splainin I be to footstool
What punching bag be to fighter
What Trash be to can
I am sperm receptacle without opinion
Canvass splashed with thick slabs
Of aggression
Sponge soaked with 400 years
Of more ounces of guilt than any man
White or Black, Big or Little, can measure
Like Mister say, “I’m nothing’ at all”
Blackness making me less than a woman
Weakness making me less American
Poverty making me less than free
And I know I can’t
Blame Big Little Man
For being a Little Man
‘Cause he know that’s all he is
Without keepin’ me here
For my own protection
I know I can’t blame Misery too
She just doing her job
For my own protection
From dreams that can’t never come true
Long as the dishes pile
But that little bird keeps singing that
Same old song ‘bout freedom
But I can’t join the chorus
‘Cause I can’t hear the melody
Through the window
Above my kitchen sink
Where the dishes
Seem always dirty
The Gifted Ten
by Ghetto Girl Blue
There’s nothing you can’t say to them
Little they wouldn’t do to please you
No place or need for you to run and hide
No one could ever push you aside
Nothing on this earth and nothing above
Could ever keep you from their love
Even as they flourish in prosperity
Wallow in iniquities
Banished to poverty
Locked up and lock out of life as we know it
They love the blackened burdens
We “The People” get heavy sometimes
It hurts like hell to lift us
There is salvation in the soldier friends
The sister’s and brothers I call the gifted ten
They be the dark and lovely
kings and queens
Still struggling to understand
Who is the dreamer? And where he been?
By any means necessary, who shot him?
The gifted 10 percent that keep us lifted
So hater’s beware, don’t you never dare
To call no coppa’s ‘cause the momma’s and poppa’s of
This love revolution are screwing with your security
If true love is scaring you,
Because it’s daring you to be real too
Then they can lock us all up and throw away the keys
But they won’t find us on our knees
Begging Uncle Sam Please
Cause no prison bars are strong enough
No hustler is hard enough
No dope man’s cash is long enough
No conspiracy is real enough
No censorship could chill enough
No third eye is wide enough
No politics could lie enough
No love is blind enough
No grave they dig is deep enough
to keep their messages from the peeps
No bullets could pop loud enough
No Klansman could be proud enough
to stop the soldiers who told you
to “keep your head up”
to “free your mind”
asked and made us examine
“what’s goin’ on?’
“we got to fight the powers that be...”
keeping us victims of ourselves
Don’t fear them, just hear them
Holler “I’m black and I’m proud”
“I’m black and I’m proud”
“I’m black and I’m proud”
So what’s up now?
with revolution raising fists without confusion
the new world order is no illusion
So what you gonna do son?
If your mouth is closed and your fists are down
Guess you’re just part of this institution
Though I can feel your blues,
still I choose
To join the gifted soldier ranks
giving thanks to the powers that be
making us stronger
No longer welfare recipients, liars, thieves, whores and drug dealer killers
Not thrill seekers of the night
but young prmises holding the light
soldiers in the fight
The rebirth, baptized in ghetto fire
Now Dark and Lovely kings and queens
Still struggling to understand
Who is the dreamer? Where’s he been?
By any means unnecessary, who shot him?
Gifted 100 percent keeping ourselves lifted
Keeping ourselves lifted
Next to Your Punany
by Kenita James
If your punany came
and sat down next to you...
Would she be like
"Now Bitch...
You know you need to quit doggin me!"
"Would she be like, girl, I ain't seen you in a long time!
How you been?"
When your pussy walks into the room,
would you have to open up the windows to let some air in?
Hey, what would she be wearing?
Would you be glad you kept your grandmothers plastic couch covers when she sat down?
Would she be prim, proper, happy & bright, intellectually stimulating you while you drink Evian,
and discuss your relationship in relation to raising a nation
of men who don't wear their pants like diapers and reside in cribs and their momma's houses
and daughters who don't become mothers before they are tax payers?.
or
Would your pussy kind of limp into your living room, slouching & scratching like a dope fiend
begging and trying to sell you
a box of stolen maxi pads?
If a friend came over while you were visiting with your punany
would you let them in?
Or would you be embarrassed?
Or be like hell of excited, like
"Oh my God, you have got to meet my pussy! She is so cute.
She's got these pouty lips and this wild crazy hair..."
If your pussy came and sat down next
to you right now, would she expect a few apologies?
Would she want to beat your behind?
If she said she came to tell you she was dying, do you know for sure that she would be lying?
Fat Girl’s Hero Poem
Yeah, I’m a fat girl
At first sight
you might
be repulsed
yet compulsive about denying
the magnitude of my power
the velocity of my flower
when it devours
your tiny dick
Yeah, i said tiny
Don’t mind me, it might be
cool for a boney ass chick
but I
got you wondering why
images of you and my fat ass
are in your shower
I rain and reign over your brain
You are 5150 insane
jacking off to my jelly rolls
and home cooking
with a finger and a thumb
and you can bet
this fat girl stays
wet like the darkest plum
go on, Sucker
take the wager
remember, I’m too thick to fade you
Just what was I thinking?
I thought, when I called that limp bum
(Skinny buck-toothed motherfucker)
Wait a minute Mighty Mouse
the me under layers of insecurity,
finally said,
watching him lick jelly off his finger
Don’t try to loiter, eat any more or linger
You are no longer welcome
in this brick house
I’ve got a peanut butter trap
loaded with the sweetest sap
to poison infectious rodents just like you
Ghetto Girl Blue
You are Mine
by Jane Therese
You are my water,
You are my food
You are the sunlight on my flesh
That boutique dress
that I could not afford.
And though your heart’s always on loan
And your mind’s seldom home
I love you more
than I ever
did
before
You are the rhythm in my rhyme
The subject and predicate
The noun and the verb
I worship each word
you bring to my psalm
My heart’s in your palm
You may crush it in time
I will survive it
I will be fine
But right now
You are mine
BOOK CD DVD
The Punany Poets' Verbal Penetration Trilogy
