{OF BURNING BUSHES AND NEWBORN PROPHETS}

{OF BURNING BUSHES AND NEWBORN PROPHETS}
THE SOUND...

As we stand from the still hot ashes of all the lies, our body covered in the soot of our beginnings, born under the very bad sign.
Red, white and blue and it waves in the breeze of Babylon.
We born of love... We born of hate.
A tattered back and facetious deceit the sordid tale.
We lion roaring in a concrete jungle where the hunted hunt the hunted.
Burnt so bad that the pain has become where we roam... Joy would bust our collective soul.
We would... We would fucking explode and cover the world in our wisdom.
It soaking blood red into melanated skin and being birthed time and time again from between the legs of queens.
Ejaculated violently from the head of penises.
We so hardcore that diamonds shattering would announce our arrival.
We beyond the sphere of where mere humanity finds it habitation.
Closed areas of the brain where sanity cowers in knowings shadow.
Dead places where the living go to hide from truth.
We covered in the ashes are death to systems which would exert such savage control.
We ghost walking among the supposedly living.
We witchdoctor prescribing the healing... We kings standing on suns throne... We queens merging with the sands of time.
Fire the destruction... Fire the cleansing.
We rising from the ashes would be these things.

JERALD HAMZAHFARUQ MURPHY

(CAN I HAVE A MOMENT) THE END GAME
THE MUSIC...

Would'st thou a queen be affected if I a mere hue-man complemented thee.
Talked to you of times past where thy beauty was so envied that women of other races tried to copy thou.
Talked to thee of modern times where women of other races still aspire to usurp thee from thine throne.
All the while thou running from thine supremacy.
I hue-man standing tall in the midst of masses of men shouting these words.
They drifting away on savage winds of slavery's hold, the manipulation of our minds.
We hating the very things which gave humanity its life.
Mine voice so hoarse, mine throat so sore, mine mind so tired.
I looking at thee natural and unnatural on the battlefield Babylon.
Thou still to me the most lovely thing Allah ever created on this fertile earth.
I hue-man roaming mentally unchained in a strange land where we fight for something we should be born with.
Freedom a word created to keep us caged, I am free, I born to be am free.
Would'st thou a queen be affected if I told thee that thou are the lock and I the key.
I hue-man torn asunder by the pressing weight of needed to speak to thee of these things.

JERALD HAMZAHFARUQ MURPHY

(OF ROSE AND THORN IN THE DEAD OF WINTER)

(OF ROSE AND THORN IN THE DEAD OF WINTER)
PHOTO WAS TAKEN BY ME YESTERDAY...

In the dead of winter a rose bud grows
It alone among thorns
Such a harsh contrast, the beauty and the beast inhabiting the same area.
Sucking the same nutrients from the soil.
This rose so soft... This thorn so sharp.
Without one the other would have no purpose.
They together symbiotic show such diversity... The purpose of one the ensured survival of the other as it blooms soft and pink.
Such a delicately display as it opens to absorb of the sun.
It eliciting the sweetest odour.
The story sex carried at its core.
Cold wind blowing across its undulating petals.
The kiss of death which itself has a most fascinating story.
Rose falling daintily to the ground which gave it life.
Thorn holding on for it must guard the next one.
Spring will come.

JERALD HAMZAHFARUQ MURPHY