(ASHES RISING FROM DUST AND BECOMING CIVILIZATIONS)
THE SOUND OF RECONSTRUCTION...

Man looking down into the pit of souls as the inconsequential scurry about.
Lost in a maze of lies and to insecure to figure it out.
Man hollering and it echoing off into the distance and ricochetes away.
Fading... Fading as it recedes into non-existence.
The hard drop... The shattering whisper and man born of concrete and asphalt begins to rip at his skin and build 360.
Steel structure rising from the feelings of heartache... His dispair.
Skeletons gaining sinew as he constructs.
Burying whole systems of mass control.
He God.
God he.
Tapping at the mantle of heaven.
And he... Man he mathematic solves equations that have eluded the greatest minds.
Pyramids and monoliths...
Scrolls written by spiritual men in mystic times where knowledge emerged from the primordial mists.
Menelik, Khadir and Imhotep.
The book, The Injeel and the holy Quran.
Man ascending the ladder looks down.
He holds the light...
He holds the light.

JERALD HAMZAHFARUQ MURPHY

(THE LYRICAL KUNG FU MASTER AND HIS MUSE)
THE SOUND AS HE IN DOJO CREATES FORM.. THAT DEEPEST...
http://youtu.be/c2sDwgPlHUE

And she bid that I write of her and I a lonesome man reached into my inkwell and withdrew my pen.
In the formless from where these characters are born I saw her form and began to bob and weave across the page.
Her big brown eyes shining translucently.
I spellbound by their luminescent glow.
Falling, falling into the essential of she.
The spirals of her hair the star speckled skyscape.
I shooting star falling onto her scalp.
Making skinfall on the dark tip of her nipple and sinking in.
Becoming a part of her mass, her essence.
And I the artist/writer/lover feel her so.
A quaking in my phallic roots.
In the seed bearing pods which elicit ejaculate.
Covering and filling her crevasses with seed.
Rivulets running in the channels and forming puddles.
I lost in the jungle where I bend and drink.
Her water soft and sweet.
Her meat so pink and tasty.
Such pretty petals pon thine flowers.
I blow on them and she shudders a most lovely portrait painted black and brown tones.
A mad lyrical kung fu artist lost in the practise.
Calligraphy and hieroglyphics...
Graffitti spray painted on a ghetto wall.
Sandblasted away and drawn again.
You cannot erase we.
And I called upon to capture her for eternity sit back and contemplate.
We complete.

JERALD HAMZAHFARUQ MURPHY