#thmpms

[dreamhard-blog]

Talking Black(prod. by Thumpmoses aka SunTzu Thump bka Dreamhard) by my maaaaiiin man Omega The Lost Poet #np on #SoundCloud and at #yamamashouse

[dreamhard-blog]

061416

On Earth intercourse is the ultimate. It is the underlying factor to love and fear. The vessel by which love or fear will flow on this blue planet is intercourse. Intercourse, a physical spiritual act primarily devoid of a range of emotions, is the soil by which we grow as human flora. In ter course.  Sex?  

Who taught us these things? Beat the pussy up until you kill it. Strap up in order not to shoot the club up and give life. Take power from the moon and give faith and dollar to a pill. sun. Sex driving under the influence of a lymph tinged liquid in a milky styrofoam cup in and out the houses of the stars. 

Enter the course.

All my inspirations say it is a heaven. No haven. They reveal only or all of its non earth like qualities. The inherbody outer body experience that is more trance like than dream state. My feeling staying with her physically while I’m gone, a trick her spirit played on her mind that was felt in her sacrum. Her coital whisper lingers in thy occipital lobe bouncing in rhythm and melody. Sound seen as her movement triple time swayed between the light and the shadow, the smoke. water(s).

One’s organ of sex plays portamento. Bent notes like bodies wild panting grown to synched breaths. Who taught us to breath? Breaths through the nose as the the tongue dances round and rhythmic dosey-doe. Wordless body speech the builders of the tower overlooked. 

[dreamhard-blog]

061216

When 1′s intuition is scrong it will become overbearing to the ego driver. Egos, still growing in the shade in the forests of the Hotep(s) and Ashe(s), the vegans and the religious. But how did the soul not transform? Niggas outer wear is the only thing preserved, maintained, manicured, and managed. With outer words and outer greetings and outer intentions that begin from their outside and aim to reach your outside too; it is surface synthesis aimed at the episoul. 

I must remember how blessed I am. I must remember the time I had to fly away and wrestle with my ego while not needing to deal with the egos of my friends and family. Transformed thy self and returned home like the native prodigal Sun that I am. 

The Sun shines alone and then there are all the other things that emulate the Sun’s shine. The Sun shines alone. The Sun shines the moon; she in one place and he in another. And the spectacle of them shining together: overlapping, dancing, leaves all the children with heads or phones to the sky. Childlike, ooo’ing and aww’ing at the black and the light and the mingling of the two.

I chose. I am of the heavens. I am to shine and have eye fixed upon. Vanity and Narcissus and Echo breathe song and channel movements to my rise and well being. Yes the nymphs play to the lesser stars to disrupt my shine, but the Fates remain to me close like my Moon.

my moon.

[dreamhard-blog]

6616

improving frequency

Whatever happens Life is fair. I am blessed. I am beautiful. I am told with soft eyes and elongated stares? Dubious, but from whomever it is, it means nothing without a her. her vision is sharp. Needed. Felt. Unspoken.

Patience in vision and proper division of time to create exactly what is needed. more space. In mind and magic envisioned and manifested.  Splitting time and watching the result over time like splitting atoms or watching hormone receptors work on melanocytes. Corticotropin. 

Seeing time alone and with three. Me, innerMe, innerG. We have yearned our desires in to a will to see four years in to the future in thought, will, and now, deed. 

Aww man, can’t find a nigga to see that far with me. herS cherish every moment, moment to moment, enthralled in herS reciprocal visage. Good bad habits I picked up to turn up. So I must see for herS.

My image of the past, due to my present, how many of the men not only survived but won with love and family and freedom of spirit here on earth. Who in my past broke the cycle of death and rebirth? Only for it to somehow begin again. Among whom saw in to my present giving me the idea to see farther in to my family’s wave? not a line.

[dreamhard-blog]

The Onion Lady

The trunk loves the branch. The branch loves the stems. The stems parent the buds. The buds reach fruition; they flower. The flowers glow an aroma. Wafting under the bridge of my youngin’s nose she leant close, her forehead grazing the jet corn silk hairs stretching from my chin. 

Layered admittedly, her onion persona and figure adds an essence to any social supper, impersonal and sweet to intimacy in flavor and space. The onion lady. 

I, smoking marijuana so when she opens up no tears will come to my eyes. She peels herself back and niggas cry and heat her until even her skin differs, fades. She may peel back more, stronger her scent these niggas weep and sauce her up soak her down. Add an aspect from another. Grapefruit. And another. Anise seed. Watered down and acidic side joints. My onion lady, all she does is play her part until it’s done.

My onion lady and I split our marijuana with myrrh resin. I cannot find the water in my red eyes as she peels closer to her core. The onion lady knows nothing of her healing capabilities when she be consumed raw. The exchange, limbic revise-ment, has her dubious has us dubious. But I know my body to be well, consuming and being in exchange with her most vital forms, in the nude. Raw. Even if it is to deceive I receive her intentions in the nude. Raw.

My onion lady slightly over twenty-eight so we’re up. The overflow flies over our hearts, messing on our heads. High babies, growing up as we’re coming down to slow beats of the myrrh resin pop. Brown bodies with browner nipples and blacker centers peeling back to come forward and miss, but on beat, like an ill flow or a sick bass line or a crazy song. 

My onion lady and I, split our marijuana with myrrh resin, high.

My onion lady and I, split our time between seeking and hide.

My onion lady and I split our time being split in time split our time being split in mind split our time being split in time split our time being split.

[dreamhard-blog]

Her pussy hair(s) lent to the memory of my neighborhood when was I younger. Garden apartments tucked in prince george’s northern end, my neighborhood had a park by the over brush parallel to the entrance of the complex. On either side danger could be perceived by the speed at which cars flew through the main artery of the complex and by the speed cars flew south toward the highway. But at the park and in the brush awashed in sun days and soaked in orange nights lay my fondest memories as a young nigga. 

Every time I went and tested outside that brush or not be at the park like I told my mama unfortunate events would befall like when I rode my bike to Tahlia’s house to kiss her and feel on her booty. My little brother left the park and went home knowing we are always supposed to come home together. He knew better. Another time I tried to cross from the brush across the street to the 7-11 on my bike. I barely made it to the other side before a car hit the back of my bike denting the frame. 

It was like her pussy hairs conveyed the same message. They were kinked and waved under my moist touch; but without a doubt too far left or too far right and my tongue or, even worse, the tip of my nose, would come under attack from the dull razor sharp edges of her ingrown vaginal new growth. The one “strip” so to speak wanted edges but maybe by her angle she could only get curves, 3, leading to the most sacred. But outside of there it was hell to pay. 

This is where my mind went with a lot of her on my face. This was the so called cherry on top. I had resolved some years ago to no longer date women who drank soda; I stopped drinking soda a brick ago and coital fluid exchange between the soda drinking woman and myself results in pimples on my face. 

I seen that ass and thought it was worth a slight outbreak but hindsight is twenty twenty. Even in the dark, her with no draws on, face to face with her innards washed in darkness breathing heat, my chin to my nose felt raw in a fluid that was more sticky than watery. 

I was looking for waters

Nu

Caught her curly waves

Nu

Her mind was a mess 

Tru

I took advantage of that

Too

[dreamhard-blog]

Those scripts, the ones with 5 characters, a moderator and three minorities, must have room for creativity. The off the cusp residual effect of order is creativity due to humans inability to be mechanical, though all candidates tried their damnedest. Nonetheless, the awry senator moving out of frame, the ambitious small state govenor leaning on his charm more so than facts, the astute naval classic, southern and bigoted in nationalism, and the old abolitionist jewish guy, all classic american tropes ripe for confrontation, blocked action and tension building edits. Different instruments plucking at the strings of your heart. 

Political overtures serenading disarmament. My political mind says Niggas love the gun sound. It’ll never happen. Pundits persuading to each other more than to the audience or the watching populace. A script which saw more in to the future, was written to test alliances against the public. What two will move their spirits?

Many watched imbibing. Inhaling I sat and let the structure and order of things take sway over my enchanted senses. Older jewish man, so classically american for better and worse, sounds too good to be white. More melanin sent to him would render his “revolution” rants plausible but I believe the naval man who would not say black lives mattered but praised the African american marine giving his life in service to his country. Classically american!

The purple tied moderator controlled a sea of blue elephants under white and red lights. 3 am is better for viewing than prime time because of the stillness in the city air, new roman air. No trains or cars roaring nor buzzing through the orange tinged screetz. The only distraction would be my inner voice responding not to the words, fuck their words. The only distraction is my inner voice responding to the order of things.

Tight and regulated I could see that many questions and answers were rehearsed, I did not need weed to see these things.The way in which one question was answered then moderated to another candidate’s response intrigued me because this is where the story lines were being built. The players stock will remain the same though the flesh is interchanged, all one needs is a writer to fill in the digital words written on their blue glass stands. Yes, the small state govenor gave it away. Outsiders like the naval classic and loopy economist senator are the rosencrantz and guildenstern with which a writer needs to let the star(s) shine. 

A man ancestry African with an insatiable adoration for the woman’s form sees no nutrition in the food thought served at the elephant’s table. Gross, modified, overpriced the entire 2 hours, perhaps, was not worth my time. But the order of it all equaled precision. Attractive in its effect, if inspired, it was to only sharpen my pen. 

[dreamhard-blog]

vacuum noise

It is that voice one hears when silence disguises its self as distant pacific bus exhaust and placid police sirens that moves the Will to act. Silence, as in, stillness about and faint quasi audible chatter; muted stabs of soul music as that low and lovely bass boom breaches the barricade of drywall barely penetrating the wood finish. Muffled tonal and rhythmic, low frequencies tickle the bottom of one’s flat feet. One may never hear silence as defined but one may know silence when she arrives. The voice will reveal the silence by way of amplifying, silently, chanting in rhythmic cadence truth which springs forth in such silent eloquent succession that it can become too too much for the weighted heart or the feather-weighted heart. So much so that one may avoid the voice by focusing on the silence at hand. 

How far is that siren? Must be trippin up twenty-first. What is there to eat? Where’s my ph-

The silent voice creeps behind vague angular thoughts, showing itself this time with brilliant bravado, circular harmony and stern syncopated runs awashed in one’s accent putting pieces of one’s life in order, all one must now do is stay on beat. But in this modern age there is beauty, of a bizarre sort, in rebellion, even against one’s self. 

And! there are others. Sycophants that support rebellion against one’s self. They are organized and good natured, as good in nature as anyone or any thing can be that endorses and coddles the ability to deny one’s inherent nature. More so than not, these sycophants detest the sound of their silent voice. Only through persistence can one truly silence the already silent voice. And perhaps it can never be silenced, by definition, but merely drowned out by a number of modern, sleek, sensible, and chic 21st century social devices. 

It takes an intelligent heart, wearied then re-energized, broken and then mended, to sit and converse with the direct nature of one’s silence. The voice stands unshakably along the lines of priority and progression. Pleading and urging, pushing and prodding uninvited in to the tranquil “breaks” of one’s consciousness.

The intelligent heart aims to beat to the Rhythm in Time. 

Weighted or feather-weighted, it is without consequence that many and most of the excuses to not dance this cardio dance is because of or having to pertain to Time. Having enough of It or not, It forever moves freely, so free that one may be too entrapped to catch It. One may be too modernized to listen to the primitive poems silence pushes. 

The ideas these poems paint on a bending folding moving spinning intangible inaudible plane of a canvas are clear and specific. The colors and tone, sound and silence jitter in metre. Not iambic trochiac nor spondaic, these electrical masses are spewed in drill, funeral blues, and or chopped and screwed, time scretched and inaudible sounds bent. 

Yes! The rub is there, beneath the physical procrastination; it is above the vain mental lapses, and all up in and through the putrid glass-like soul of one’s ego. Can one leggo? How sweet and melodious those chants be! Vulgar and delicate confident and courteous avec savoir faire. 

But the weighted and the feather-weighted choose to play it fair with every one but themselves, avoiding the silent, thus “awkward”, situation. 

Awkward ass niggas.