(FALL BABYLON) STONE AND A SLING

(FALL BABYLON) STONE AND A SLING
THE MUSIC... THIS IS PURE FYAH BACKUP BOOMSOUND...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i8_gmkjBdvU&feature=youtube_gdata_player

It is said that prophets come from the ghettos.
That they are the birthed result of strife.
Of battered and shattered lives.
They say a prophet will not come from the megachurch.
That he will not drive a fancy car.
That much they say is proven truth.
He will not be a pretty man.
The prophet.
He will bear scars, and he will not wear Jordan's, Coogie or any of these things having given his tithe to the people.
Overstand?
What need has omnipotent God of your money?
Foolish humanity.
That makes no sense in a prophetically logical sense.
Everything already his.
The prophet may not carry a big gun or command great armies.
He being of the streets and alleyways of urban nightmares and unique cultures.
These people he born of.
The forgotten of society birth the prophets.
They born of despair and just can't give no damn more.
Why Allah, and so much more.
They the they mentioned in polite conversation.
The prophet as child stratagizing and agonizing in this savage situation where the weak are consumed daily.
Babylon the burping beast growing phat and crying skinny.
This the young prophet sees.
Moses against Pharoah...
David against Goliath...
And a prophet shall arise from the squalor of the ghetto.
Cause thats where they come from.

JERALD HAMZAHFARUQ MURPHY

CHOCOLATE, COFFEE, A BLUNT AND A CIGARETTE

CHOCOLATE, COFFEE, A BLUNT AND A CIGARETTE
THE SERANADE...

You empress are my hot chocolate...
The Mocha in my latte...
My cocoa and my cream.
My jolt in the morning that helps to start my day... Keep me awake and dilligent through the night.
Your beauty having caused wars and ended them.
Power in your deep dark flavor born of fertile earth.
I turn you up again and again and drink of your strength.
In the bible, the quran and colonial history.
On imperialistic news reels where they show you big lips and nipples.
Always the absurdity.
On a corner in Tallahassee as you cross Macomb street.
All swinging hips and attitude...
Dress banging off your curves.
Turning me on as I sip a sip of you.
Caffeine rushing through my veins to my testerone filled brain.
My head, my heads tis swolen as I taste of you.
A sweet drink in a bitter place.
Memories of me and you on a voyage from the motherland to the ghettos of the Amerikkkans.
Hot chocolate, coffee, a blunt and a cigarette on a cold winters night.

JERALD HAMZAHFARUQ MURPHY

(FLOWER, ICE AND FLAME)

(FLOWER, ICE AND FLAME)
THE SOUND... THE MUSIC IS A PART OF THE POETRY...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jiCbN0oSfeQ&feature=youtube_gdata_player

And what of the flower in the dead of winter?
It buried in the cold ground.
Where once it was life bathed in splendor it now has seen its death.
Cold has borne it down.
The icy fingers of the cold winds bearing allusions to old man sweep the land.
Breath is but vapor carried away to become the atmosphere.
A thing given to the schism of existence from which we all come and go.
To be breathed and rebreathed again.
Filtered through the leaves.
We these beings living these borrowed lives on borrowed time. Tears that become the ice tinkling to the hard concrete of a city street.
A sigh and we are gone.
The expulsion of warm air.
The last whisper.
Spring but a thought away.
A flame burning on the horizon of pineal planes.
A flower.

JERALD HAMZAHFARUQ MURPHY

FELLATIAL

(FELLATIAL)
THE SOUND…
I love it when you look at me…
I mean I really love it when you on knees look up at me as you swallow as much of me as you can.
Spit on it and make it wet.
Make me feel it in the base of my John Henry… The handle of my hammer.
It boiling in my guts and threatening to erupt with volcanic force.
My toes curled as you work those pretty lips back and forth… Pause… Look at it… Spit and commence to swallow he again.
My hands on the back of your head.
I looking down into your upturned eyes.
You looking at me.
Such a tender moment as I moan… My cum straining to be released… Wanting to bust… Wanting to… Wanting…
I grab the back of your head as it all comes forth.
I calling you baby…
Baby make it nut.
You looking at me as I lose control and Skeet… Skeet… skeeeeeettttt.
Damn…  you fucks me up.
When you look up.
JERALD HAMZAHFARUQ MURPHY

(REVELATIONS AND RELATIONS)

(REVELATIONS AND RELATIONS)
THE SOUND... IT IS ESSENTIAL TO THIS TALE. TAKE HEED...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WaBFgDbdlVw&feature=youtube_gdata_player
And the beat dropped with precision.
Syntax so strong that the buildings shook and the sheep looked from office windows, stood in dumbfounded confusion in the streets.
The herald opened his mouth and began to recite.
“You denizens of earth I bring these subsonics to you.”
His voice was the sound of a million trumpets.
It cracked the seal.
He a child born of the darkness where all knowledge springs from.
A piercing eruption of the brightest light.
Governments sent agents of destruction and mayhem yet the herald stood strong.
He opened his mouth and the common man became armies armed with the weapon truth.
They fighting for right.
The sons of suns born of the prototype having remembered their places... They standing in changing times.
The queens sensing the need rose from teflon dreams and chemical relaxation and grew notty... Strong to the core.
The herald told of the four horsemen and cursed the whore standing in the harbor.
Crown upon her head... Torch in her hand.
He stood at church doors and crushed flawed rhetoric.
His voice tearing through structure.
He pointed at them the clergy cringing in fear.
They having been proclaimed the beast of ten horns standing behind a false system.
Extolling wrong in the name of capitalism.
The beat having been dropped with precision the herald raises his arms and departs.
The seal shatters into fragments.
JERALD HAMZAHFARUQ MURPHY

GENERATIONAL

(GENERATIONAL) A PIC WRITE SUGGESTED BY ALICIA PRICE
THE MUSIC FOR THIS ONE…

We exist in the future of our ancestors past as our children will exist in ours.
We are the makers of that future as ours was made for us.
Ropes, chains and nooses as the freedom fighters hung from oak trees swinging in the breeze.
As our grandmothers child lie battered and bruised in the streets.
As we classed animal were bought and sold.
Our people fighting to be… To be.
Free.
And we arrive in the present integrated and infamous.
Known for our jigaboo and our coonery.
Running around trying to justify our right to use the word nigger. I.e… Niggas.
Trying to claim it as our own as our children lie battered and bruised on city streets.
Submerged in thug mentalities and Blondie dreams.
We who would have been free have been assimilated as food that feeds the beast.
Swallowed whole in courtrooms and worked for free in state funded penitentiary’s.
Pimped and whored on minimum wage jobs.
If that ain’t slavery… But then again I digress.
A child born today will one day look back from a future where we are past.
I wonder.
What will he or she see?
Strength or foolishness.
Will he or she be free in our future to be?
Seen?

JERALD HAMZAHFARUQ MURPHY

SPRANKLE

(SPRANKLE) INSPIRED BY THIS PHOTO OF NIKI AMOR
THE MUSIC FOR DIS ONE… CUM PON...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kgXhscKtq10&feature=youtube_gdata_player

Woman I see all dat booty and I just want to sprankle it.
Little creamy drops glistening on your supple skin.
I want to…
I want to let the savage ravage of the beast descend.
Got my mind caught in a whirlwind as I spin… As I spin.
Dizzy from the bump of your trunk… A thumpity thump.
I want to sprankle dat ass and watch the drops run down your cheeks.
Dribble like white tears across your pouted pussy lips and fall to the sheets.
Dat ass, dat ass.
Me waan flip you over and spank dat phat monkey…
Make her screech in high pitched tones.
Get this pussssyyyyy Big Dadddddyyyy!
Stand up and kiss she.
Me Beast.
She punani.
I so captured by all dat big, bountiful, beautiful ass.
I waan sprankle pon she.

JERALD HAMZAHFARUQ MURPHY