AS HONEY

(AS HONEY) DEDICATED TO LAVETTA OCCULAR WHOM I MET IN A LIBRARY IN SPRING...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LLs3sivEcLY&feature=youtube_gdata_player

I met her in a house of books... Knowledge all around...
I a traveler on the road of overstanding.
She introduced herself and I saw her deeply.
The makings of a queen unbound and unrestrained.
She walked in front of me and blew my mind, body and soul.
She so fine that I sucked in my breath.
Coughed as the smoke hit my lungs and clouded my mind.
Burning embers and lidded eyes.
As she spoke I found myself riding her smooth tones.
Grooving to her funky beat, it flowing and sweet.
Her eyes the conductor.
They brown, now hazel, now honey.
She such an empress complete.
Her thoughts became all I could see as flowers blooming elicited their fragrance.
The birds backup singers as the sounds of the day passed us by.
She eventually said she had to leave, as I stood and we rentered the house of scrolls where our beginnings and doings are found.
Bound and categorized.
She empress ripped from a man's story came to life in the spring.
Vibrantly complete.

JERALD HAMZAHFARUQ MURPHY

IRON LION ZION TRAIN IN BABYLON

(IRON LION ZION TRAIN IN BABYLON)
THE SOUND REINFORCES HOW I FEEL RIGHT BOUT NOW...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YBnR28_uSHI&feature=youtube_gdata_player

I grew up on the wrong side of the tracks.
Not just black and white but spiritually.
I seeing differently.
A lion thrown in among the sheep.
What many saw as hoes I saw as queens...Their beauty devine they having weathered many tragedies watched their sons murdered and their daughters raped and forced to bear half breeds.
Fractions of blood density...
Mulattos, octoroons and squadrons.
On my side of the tracks nigger life is cheap... Sensationalized on the evening news and in rap videos where the nigger flaunts his ignorant.
I having become adept became a master at crossing the tracks and making contact with the right as preached on Sunday in black pulpits...
White Jesus bearing witness.
Skinny and pale.
Bleeding trickery on the deceived.
The train promised but never arriving as whole congregations pray for Zion... Eyes and minds closed.
Masons, Shriners and Eastern Stars in their midst.
Wolves among the flock.
They the illuminati holding knowledge hostage on bended knees with a sword at his neck.
"Get back... Get back or I slit his throat! Slit your throat!"
Eye see the insanity of conformity.
As I the train traverse the tracks.

JERALD HAMZAHFARUQ MURPHY

(UPON YOUR NUDITY

(UPON YOUR NUDITY)
THE MUSIC...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=btEoW6hFSu4&feature=youtube_gdata_player

The day that I stop praising the African queen vangloriously will be the day I cease to be.
The day that other men write of me.
Tell lies of me.
From my inception I have upheld you as queen.
The other half of me.
When they talked of you in his-story I picked you out, dusted you off and put you on the shelf of nobility.
When they paraded pale skinny imitations of you across the movie screen and in the pages of magazine's I unswayed saw beauty in your curves.
In the bump of your thump.
They who say that you uncovered are something to be ashamed of.
They led blindly by the wolf.
He who enslaved us so that he could have you as he pleased.
Rape and half white babies.
Pure trickery and blasphemous fuckery perpetuated upon we.
The children of the sun which caressed our skin as we born of earth arose and walked pon two feet.
Built civilization on virgin ground.
You swaying and grating, poised in graceful repose...
I resting on your softness... Suckling at your breast.
They would quiet me if I were not boom sound speaking upon you... The thunder... The lightning.
I bring you shining forth from the darkness of my subconscious... 3d.
I have loved you... I will love you... I shall love you.
Till the day I lie cold...
Till the day I die.

JERALD HAMZAHFARUQ MURPHY

(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