Tag: Poetry

White

Best Served With: Fragile by Eryn Allen Kane

Link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tn00YGkNHr8

Image result for glass half empty and white

 

White is such an impressionable color,

Purity’s playground yields no lover,

Graceful swing sets dance and suffer,

Redemption breathes a putrid odor,

 

White is such an impressionable color,

White lines can call you to hover,

White straps will tell you to shiver,

White is often clear as the prod in your prognosis,

 

White is such an impressionable color,

White leaves a smell but has no odor,

And when a try births a way of life

White whispers; “sell your back for me,

sell your lips to get a taste of me

And as I flee sell your waist for me”

Until it pushes out a life

Siren that heralds your strife

Discarded destinies; bits of a bride.

 

White is such an impressionable color,

Quick to stain and hard to wash,

O, if Hades had another life,

Perhaps Cerberus would be a German shepherd,

His hand the bedrock of joy not poison,

And the underworld naught but exotic,

But Fate remains an obedient soldier,

Following the rivers of life and time,

 

As a child, his first toy was a bullet,

That doubled as his father,

He used it to toy with lives at the butt of the barrel,

But it protected his from thugs and scoundrels,

He fell in love with Robert Frost,

And read his work to maggot-infested sand structures,

With a bullet resting in their brains,

 

He never left his streets though,

And the bloodier the battlefield,

The bigger he basked in it,

Remember, white can be stained or spiced.

 

White is such an impressionable color,

That morphs to blue when I go to school,

Painted silence I stifle from chuckles and good intentions,

Whose eyes gloss over the black in my nappy hair,

The depression seated in my eyes,

The messengers of violence tapered on my skin–

Their stamps praising their destination—

Those eyes, those cold eyes,

Tell tall tales tackling the tenacity of tempting trivia,

Because gods don’t lose sleep over the plight of peasants.

 

White is such an impressionable color,

And I choose to shape that white

Which is why this little black boy,

This failed black boy,

This typical black boy,

Is a duty of mine

Thus, I will ask paper questions,

And show glass concerns of his body,

 

He has no white left,

Corrupted at his best,

Disgusting as incest,

Dare I test?

Dare I tell him lies about himself,

Dare I tell him true happiness sips the surface of my skin?

Dare convince him to work hard till he hits the glass ceiling?

And when he irritates me,

Dare I tell the truth?

 

That he infects his world with his oyster,

That his inferior skin places a monkey between humans,

That his scars are so deep that his white has frayed?

Remember, white can be stained or spiced.

 

White is such an impressionable color,

Da Vinci can draw on a canvas but so can Loki,

And Loki, in his twisted mind,

Drew the story of a black girl,

Grey eyes, natural hair, tough but slender,

High School, Harvard, big time moneymaker

Whose abusive father’s voice faded the more she achieved,

But cannot hold a man down,

Because deep down she still feels like a lucky slave,

Who happened to find good leftovers from the master’s table

 

See every time her father hit her,

He did so with both hands,

Upper and lower,

And every time Daddy apologized,

He stroked with both hands too.

Daddy is in jail now,

And she owns many men,

Many, many, many men.

So, Loki’s story ends up seeming like Da Vinci’s,

But remember, white can be stained or spiced,

And the painting is never truly free of its canvas.

 

 

Should I be free to want more,

Should I be free for freedom’s sake?

White is such an impressionable color,

But white,

In its truest form,

Is free.

 

Elano’s Notes

When I think about the glass half empty or full dilemma I realize it is all about perception. Every situation can have two contrasting perspectives; one good and one bad. We all enter this world as blank slates. Our environment, experiences and ecosystems write on us and the writing can be artistic or destructive depending on who is reading. Sometimes, I am stunned at how easy it is for people (myself included) to judge and conclude on others based on something as basic as how they look. We often forget that people are complex creatures who are often multi-layered and who have desires and worries just like we do. So I cannot help but think of writing–any writing– as a shackle to who you are because it allows others to judge and assume, sometimes before you even get the chance to say your name. That is why white is so impressive to me. I am amazed that such a boring color is so historically rich, textured and dynamic. White can be everything and nothing at the same time. It is a blank slate but it will always be a clear part of its end-product.

I am not a part of my end-product. Are you?

Let me know what you think in the comments.

Kingdom Of Kush

Best Served With: Pink + White by Frank Ocean

Link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uzS3WG6__G4

Image result for kingdom of kush

My darling boy,

You wear the crown,

She lost her faith,

You’re happy now,

And as she cries,

You are aroused,

You took her heart,

And ripped it out.

 

My loving king,

Your throne awaits,

In this here club,

You are the bait,

Attention starved,

Is your excuse,

You know the pain,

You caused your muse,

 

If this was love,

Would you have danced?

With flashy lights,

And flirty hands,

You tease,

You touch,

You flirt and more,

And then you claim,

Forevermore,

 

Climb this hill,

Mount this flesh,

Show the world,

That you’re the best,

You deserve love,

You deserve care,

You crave her time,

With none to spare.

 

And so, drink till you’re dizzy,

As we should, should we be foul,

Screw the life and trust you built,

Your only care is here and now,

Ellen, Jenny, Olive and Kat,

None remembered after that,

In their eyes you left a joke,

Thus they left you none to hold.

 

But you lose this game of love,

In fairness, a good attempt,

You gave all; from teeth to dove,

Though mistakes cannot repent,

 

You thought your love was strong as stone,

I hope you see it flicks like wax,

As it just hates to be alone,

Quick to burn but never lasts.

 

So, when she paid you no mind

You smoked her behind

And chose to frolic with females,

 

My darling king,

You are cupid’s stupid little joke,

But don’t worry

As when your act blushes a bush,

At least you rule a kingdom of Kush.

 

Elano’s Notes

This one was personal– a product of my regret dabbed in a bit of longing for a lost love. I think it applies today though. Just thinking about when people cheat on their partners repeatedly with a momentary fling, I think it must give them an adrenaline rush. It must be what it feels like to be more than a man. Why else would someone throw away months or even years of built up trust and love for brief breaths of boisterous euphoria, no matter how pink and supple or hard and musky it is? I guess it is also like a parent of a family choosing a 2 door Ferrari over a sturdy 4- door sedan. The sedan is familiar, reliable and routine but the Ferrari is…… well a Ferrari. It promises experiencing the road of life like never before. It is exciting, spontaneous and, ride it fast enough, it lets you dance with death which, let’s face it, makes you feel alive.  It makes you question whether the love you had was really love. I mean, if they truly loved you, they wouldn’t cheat. Right?

…Right?

What do you think?  Let me know in the comments.

Garden of Eden

Best Served With: Lighthouse by Patrick Watson

Link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R23bifAbWWs

Image result for garden of eden

Image result for garden of eden

Imagine a rose to that gardener,

As he preens and sheens day and night,

She blooms in harsh and fair weather,

And glows in the darkest of light,

Captivating him completely,

Is there no justice left in sight?

For she defies his reality,

But deeply bears a careless spite.

O, how could he have known her stem?

When she herself was left unsure?

He gave his all for her reprieve

And naught but thorns did he endure.

 

He always thought you would leave, didn’t he?

But please don’t take this dream away from me.

 

Elano’s Notes

The Gardener metaphor continues…  Infatuation is a beautiful thing, it is the most vibrant part of love and often times feels like a tornado. It is surreal in that sense, and the object of your affection can do no wrong. But when that tornado dies down and life dishes out a reality-realizing slap, you may find yourself without that person. If that happens, you only have your memories with that person, memoirs of who they were to you, the dream of the love you shared together.

What do you think? Let me know in the comments.

Of Cracks in Love

Best Served With: Easily by Bruno Major

Link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lARENhXPftU

Image result for cracks in love

Alas my lips are heavy with guilt,

Perhaps silence should rule the day,

My heart preserves this love I built,

My hand broke it in but a day, I

Pillaged, plundered and ripped asunder, I

Weeded with care and touched another, I

Did not mean to cause such blunder, but

Bless my soul; I wished for more,

Your touch, your time and love are all,

Sweet heaven and earth denied my call,

I may not touch nor stalk nor stall.

When weak, my liquid mistress beckoned,

I drank and drunk the well

So, knell the gospel bells

For the sinner has stories to tell,

Though he loved and loved he well,

All is lost.

The gardener toils restlessly,

But if ever he denies a day,

The weeds infest incessantly,

And to fix; there is no way.

 

Deep down, I knew you weren’t with me,

But a man can dream can’t he.

 

Elano’s Notes

Love, because of how vulnerable and open it makes you, can be a lot like Jenga– a single wrong move is enough to bring the whole thing down. It is like being drenched in scalding water and then left to dry in the sun. It is even more painful when you realize that it is your fault, to some extent. And it is always your fault, to some extent. Sometimes when you lose love, you think of every excuse you can. A reason, any reason, to justify yourself, to ease just a little bit of that pain. The truth is, you are at fault and will not truly move on, until you accept that and learn to live with it. Or maybe that is just me.

What do you think? Let me know in the comments.

The Naive Rudel.

Best Served With: Ordinary People by John Legend (Instrumental Version)

Link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z-RfsF6nJiM

Image result for confused when breaking up

I don’t understand.

Why?

Why when gloomy suns boil their flying oceans,

When azure and scarlet unite in carnage,

When hollow Spartans fight and fuck,

Why do you choose today of all days?

Why after I tell you I love you?

And bare my baby of a soul to callous caramel?

Why let weighty winds whisper worries while you wave woefully?

Summer breeze mournfully kisses my sullen cheeks;

Brown buns cut by salty streams limping downwards,

Racing until they reach the bloody gap where my heart used to be.

 

I always knew you didn’t love me,

But a man can dream, can’t he?

 

Elano’s Notes

Hey guys, the title of the poem refers to Jaufre Rudel, a french poet who was one of the pioneers of love as we know it today. He would write poems only about love but never actually have sexual relations with his lovers. Sometimes, he would even write poems about women he had never seen before but still claimed to love them. Love today is not as unadulterated and simple, we often do whatever we can to protect our hearts and people rarely ever take that dive without testing the waters. This poem is about baring your heart out and that soul-crushing moment when it gets broken. For me, in that moment, time stops and all my thoughts and emotions come rushing in at once. The only question on my mind is why. What do you guys think? Has this been your experience? Let me know in the comments section.

I Will Dream

Best Served: Fool for you by Snoh Aalegra

Link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i4st3FlEPQ0

Image result for dream-like landscapes

Babies are such curious beings,

That carry a strange power with them,

Helpless as a man in love,

Yet they never want for man or love.

 

They spit worms that pull out your hair,

And these worms are elongated tapes,

Brown and mushy pull a hard shell,

And in an angel’s harmony; they sing:

 

“You pull me closer though your teeth kiss,

My living Santa buys my wish list,

The truth is that you can’t resist this,

See I’m the shackle you chose to wear on instinct.

So,

At the junction of love and hate; we meet,

Nature and thought turned tear bare at the teat,

This feeling soaks quite deep in bittersweet,

But boast this love, it tastes more bitter– in truth– than it is sweet”.

 

They are so weak–

The little clouds of arrogance,

Can’t even wipe their ass,

Yet their cradle is a throne.

Some even worship them,

Making them the center of their life,

A writhing altar above their wife,

But on the skin of the temple

wails the child of strife.

 

You do realis—

Why are you kneeling?

Stand the fuck up,

Your knees are for money

sex and fleeting pleasures,

Your feet are to chase your butchered dreams,

Joseph runs on the barest of feet.

I know you are a clueless dreamer.

Delusion searching for the next big hook.

You ought to climb that icy mountain.

But all Hail the flesh’s faithful book.

 

So, here we are on a train to destiny,

Me, a successful nobody,

You, swaddling a contradiction.

You could have been famous,

Or a gangbanger or politician,

Or maybe something less scandalous,

You could have been warm and adventurous,

But as the setting sun casts amber shadows

That weave through the rough train window,

I see you are choked in shriveled fun

Trapped in a snow-covered sun

Rasping and gasping for torture’s turn.

Black picks a fire but blue burns.

 

The icy mountain chuckles at your insolence,

At your attempt to connect to the larger hive,

At the cultural gap between nappy hair and blue eyes.

At your forced laughs with statues you despise,

At the clay between your actions and your mind,

And all the little things that go bump in the night

When you take convenient chemicals that make you feel alive—

Drumming the needle; a doused reprise

Shrug off reality; dive into the tide

Rusted pendulums swing crouched highs into garbled cries.

 

And we could talk about sexless soldiers

Or how your friends are getting older

Or how Brexit fucked Theresa,

But you know yourself.

You don’t have that kind of time,

You’re busy chasing babies.

 

You know you’ll get off at the next stop,

Drop destiny for a baby sop,

To a job where you’ll never reach the top,

And when that’s done, you’ll go home,

Sit on the couch,

And sigh deeply between sips of scotch,

Lamenting your alight and stolen bliss,

Longing for a train that you can only reminisce,

 

That siren in the cradle is your antithesis,

Loud, raw, simple; free.

Its owner either your epitome or your nemesis.

It is everything you wish you could be.

 

You will not admit it,

For it makes your life a squandered fortune,

And death an honored guest,

So, you tell yourself:

 

I will never want for man or love,

I am not helpless as a man in love,

I am special, shan’t I chase my dreams?

After all, Babies are just curious beings.