Black British

Golden leaves colour the grey cold floor I walk on pondering. Born of Jamaicans plundered.  My patois perplexes & my complexion: milk chocolate brown under the jaded sun.  Perfectly bespoke – broken.  I seethe on remembering my ancestor chanting a frantic Wolof song. He bashed his drum cementing his tongue to the roots. On the grainy pale beach lined by baobabs – I and I stood by but couldn’t understand the lingua. You know wa mi bloodclart mean?

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Thinking

thinking is an important thing /
or concept best revelled in solitude.

was surprised when the commentator
revealed: by listening to music

one does not think.
or when reading a book

we are never alone but
engaging with the writer’s thoughts.

too, that solitude is different
from loneliness.

In the midst of the metropolis
the commentator said

you can still feel alone /
or garner

solitude amidst the people.
but

you are never quite solitary –
lonely – but not alone.

this is not a poem

060

ACCEPT
AND B ACTIVE
AS ALCOHOL
BREAKS U DOWN

CANNABIS
COMPETES
WITH HARD
DRUGS &
TOBACCO

WHICH
CONTROLS
CREATIVITY
& CULTURE?

DARKNESS
DEATH
DECEIT &
DELUSIONS

DECISIONS
DECISIONS

ENVY X
& FAMILY

4 WE
DON’T
FEAR AIR
FOR FREEDOM
IS LIKE THE
PIGEON

LIVING
THE
RUSTIC
GHETTO
LIFE!

HOUSE
BREAK-IN
INSPIRES
SENSITIVE
TOUCH
THOUGH
TAGS
IGNORED
BY MANY…

MOTIVES 4
MONEY
MUSIC
MYSTERY OR
HIS STORY
TO FIGHT
POLITRICKS
& POVERTY

AS
PROSTITUTES
SELL SEX 2
QUEASY MP’S
ON ROSTRUMS.

RECOGNIZE
RELIGION:
A STRANGE
STYLE
CAPTURED / TRAPPED BI
VIOLENT
USURY.

U C
THE
SYSTEM
SEEN?

If I was a Jew מָשִׁיחַ

jesus name

παρουσία

If I was a Jew,
I would marvel at the unbelieving Christians. That Yeshua Ben Maryam and Yosef fulfilled messianic prophecies foretold. I would also scoff at the Muslim for his flagrant plagiarism of that man. My heart is patiently waiting.

If I was a Christian,
I would gloat over the Jews. For I was Gentile and Yeshua was a Jew. I would also scathe the Muslims for hijacking the Son of Mary. My heart is patiently waiting.

If I was a Muslim,
Indeed I would be happy. For I embrace Isa Ibn Maryam, and Yusuf, so am compelled to embrace Jews, Christians and others into the fold. My heart is filled with love.

Pass 23/10 33

We arrive at the club, it’s busy down here
Though we missed their band do their gig.

Small stage is vacant, there’s jiving down here
As the matted-haired DJ spins a trippy tune.

On a pillar upfront we see a sign read:
“No prohibited substances on these premises.”

You eye me and grin a crocodile grin,
Your nose smells a pleasant contradiction.

We walk round the rear and hear muffled sounds,
I pop my head round the backstage door

And scan a box room painted vivid sky blue,
Filled to the brim with thick smoky clouds.

More heads in here than out there in the club –
Band members, the manager and toady hangers on.

‘Come in where you been,’ bawls Stan our man,
He wears a tracky top, woolly hat and fat cigar.

‘Sorry we late, got held up at the spot.’
‘No worries,’ he replies, our fists bump the touch.

The aromatic clouds exudes different scents,
Spudders, Northern Lights, Sticky Thai, fat cigar.

You’re passed a reefer and hold it in a V,
From a skinhead lay cabbaged in a beige sofa seat –

He said he tasted chalk, the bifter, beer, weed.
His pupils are massive, his tongue lick his cheeks.

The reefer he passed you, it doesn’t smell right.
I scratch my head and whiff the chemical.

The skinhead is pinned back in the beige sofa seat;
Lights out now in this noisy jamboree.

I nudge you with my elbow, it’s time for us to leave,
‘Come on let’s chip and put that reefer to sleep.’

‘Stan we getting off,’ I say –
Bump the fists of the coterie.

And riding back North in your black Vitara jeep,
I throw away our pass marked 23/10 33.

Rambling

The bright morning trickles through the window.  No rain in sight. Sunday eh!  Wouldn’t mind going somewhere. The phone rings twice. Pick up the phone. “Nice day. Edale? Cool.”  Meet at noon, shabby train shuttles north and talking. Jump off at the station, pick a direction, and go where we are going.  A steep hill here, a steep hill there – we swing over a gate called “Private Land” and hop over crap in muddied fields showered from the night before.  Rain falls again and you ask: “When rain softens shit and wind wafts the scent, can you associate the smell with milk chocolate?” And the smell is more lucid the higher we climb – up the grassy hills where more sheep graze – out of the city, inner the country, we step on wedged stones of differing greys.  The destination is that peak you point to, only to reach and find another peak greets us.

More hills to climb, and oh yes we climb; roughing up the cherry and purple heather tufts.  Later take a breather in a carved out little spot; lighting up our herbal under nostrils of The God.  Hazy now but we in control; splashing through peat bogs and running streams, and remember the clock goes back an hour?  Never mind chocolate we better be heading down for there’s certainly no Cadbury’s up here. Which way?  Hey!  Hail beats our face.  Mist manifests. Darkness descending and we still high – got to get low. Hooray! Two plastic purple suits hiking our way.  They are ascending higher and higher.  “Please direct two novice ramblers to the path descending this sky.” They smile, eyeing our soaked through jeans. “Look!  You have to go up in order to go down.”  A scandal! We don’t even hear them, ignoring their advice, and decide on taking a chance – a Route 1 down – kamikaze, kamikaze, kamikaze style.

Bumped the last 20 yards on sight of freedom’s path and on reaching freedom’s path, forehead thudded on the ground.  Drinking salty water, splatter face right where I lay, and hey! Feel good – so good.  Like Bellamy in the raincoat and yellow matching hat.  I saw him aeons ago when just a little boy. He was so content talking beauties of our nature; named grasses, flowers, trees and earthly intimates of that order.  It was hammering down with rain, lightning, thunder and he – simply – loved the outdoors.  And this water does taste bitter, standing over me you say:

“Come on – let us go drink the Peak’s finest pint. We deserve it.”

The Parable of the Debtor and the Bailed Bank

George Osbourne, UK Chancellor
George Osbourne, UK Chancellor

What is the united kingdom on earth like? It is like the bailed out bank, unmerciful. In 2008 after gambling away it’s customers money, the bank received a life saving bail out from the government of it’s time, and further monies to replenish it’s starving ego. It was said that they would lend this money back to small businesses, householders and those in need to kick start the ailing economy. Over Fifty Billion Pounds though the figure can not be  known.

There was a huge sigh of relief. The process of printing and crediting in earnest. The markets rose. Now the bank began its own process of dealing with debtors. A random audit fell on a happily married man owing £10,000. He recently lost his job, a carpenter in fact, but had found another job just today on a zero hour contract.

Living with three teenage daughters, his wife was feeling the stress. Formerly a secretary at a children’s comprehensive school she was on maternity leave awaiting the birth of their fourth child.  Since he was not able to pay back the money, the bank had ordered that he, his wife and children sell all they have to repay the debt. A fortnight deadline was set in bricks and mortar. Failure to do so would mean highly paid solicitors getting involved and the family’s home of twelve years repossessed.

This day, the debtor fell on his knees before the bank‘s representative in the small office with white washed walls.“Be patient with me John Smith” the debtor repeatedly begged. (The employee‘s name was tagged on a blue badge pinned to his blue shirt). “I will pay back everything.” But three hundred and thirty six hours was the time confirmed to pay the money back.

When members of the public heard about the story they were outraged. A crew collected more than 100,000 petitions and knocked three times on the heavy black polished door of 10 Downing Street. The Prime Minister, resident at the time, duly opened, and amidst the mandatory flash photography and thorny smiles he invited the petitioners in and sat them round the oval table in the cheap terraced part at the front of the grandiose building.  He began to speak:

“You come her complaining about a problem created by that other party. Last week it was betting, this week it is banking. You rise up with all the moral authority of a Reverend Flowers – have they given you an apology for the mess they made in the first place? Would you have bailed out such a perfidious rogue or dare them to relocate to Sierra Leone, with all talents and sundry?

“Now the matter in question. We Are (now) Better Together. The debtor may have his home repossessed. That’s Law. Though my government have built more low cost affordable housing in and around London than any other previous government in the last decade. Leave this case with me. I will ensure this family will get to rent something more manageable, within their means,” he tells them. Then he winks. Then he nods.

After hearing this, the petitioners, male and female, were told of the cosy Cats and Bagpipes pub down the road where they could contemplate the 5 minute meeting with their leader.

The stern but smiling Policeman hurriedly escorts them on their way. They strode the cobbled streets to the exit. The not so pearly gates clunked shut behind them.

http://www.thisismoney.co.uk/money/news/article-2746976/George-Osborne-set-EU-court-date-bankers-bonus-caps.html