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blackinsuburbia:

BLACK IN SUBURBIA

POETRY

SUITED & BOOTED: A FREESTYLE

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blackinsuburbia:

Dear reader,
I’ve recently had the pleasure to be blessed with a lovely party in commemoration of my twenty-first birthday, an event I hadn’t anticipated to be as big a deal as it had turned out to be. When my mother approached me for consent for a little shindig at the family home I was thinking more along the lines of ‘family dinner’, apparently she was thinking ‘Black Mitzvah’; I had no idea the twenty-first birthday was such a rite of passage as masses of people I’d known all my life, people I’d met a few times and people I barely knew flooded through the door with gifts, money and (far more importantly) their good wishes. Later on speeches were made and it occurred to me the sheer weight on the expectation that had already existed on my shoulders, issues that demanded emotional maturity of me were also raised. ‘Decorated’ is my reaction to the whole event, I truly hope you enjoy the piece and I welcome your responses to it. Attached is the type version for those who prefer to steer clear of my shoddy penmanship.

Decorated (written for dictation)
Stars on these shoulders, now I’m getting older
I look a tad closer and they become solar
systems ans suns reaching for supernova;
individual worlds crashing to pieces I’m to realign
and reign over, Father, won’t you give me a sign?
Point out my horoscope, an Aries from the other side
of a little known place that would remind
one of the elegant shades of Scott Summers’ eyes.

But if she’s from Venus, I guess she must be worth it
enough to embody the good in the world, Ms Perfect-
perfectly loving, she loves the girls and boys but furtive
with your boy, we meet once every twenty-eight,
for every full moon luminates as we once again re-gravitate
into one another for this galaxy to captivate.
claim a youthful warmth it knew like a hazy dream
that exists in cold space where no one hears you scream
but we reminisce to Eden where I lived at age nineteen
ninety-three, February when I floated in that womb
with prophecy unraveling regarding what I’d do
with the stars on the shoulder formed in a tomb.

Thank you once more for your patronage, reader. Make sure to write me at BlackInSuburbia@gmail.com.
Yours truly,
Lawrence

blackinsuburbia:

Dear reader,

I’ve recently had the pleasure to be blessed with a lovely party in commemoration of my twenty-first birthday, an event I hadn’t anticipated to be as big a deal as it had turned out to be. When my mother approached me for consent for a little shindig at the family home I was thinking more along the lines of ‘family dinner’, apparently she was thinking ‘Black Mitzvah’; I had no idea the twenty-first birthday was such a rite of passage as masses of people I’d known all my life, people I’d met a few times and people I barely knew flooded through the door with gifts, money and (far more importantly) their good wishes. Later on speeches were made and it occurred to me the sheer weight on the expectation that had already existed on my shoulders, issues that demanded emotional maturity of me were also raised. ‘Decorated’ is my reaction to the whole event, I truly hope you enjoy the piece and I welcome your responses to it. Attached is the type version for those who prefer to steer clear of my shoddy penmanship.

Decorated (written for dictation)

Stars on these shoulders, now I’m getting older

I look a tad closer and they become solar

systems ans suns reaching for supernova;

individual worlds crashing to pieces I’m to realign

and reign over, Father, won’t you give me a sign?

Point out my horoscope, an Aries from the other side

of a little known place that would remind

one of the elegant shades of Scott Summers’ eyes.

But if she’s from Venus, I guess she must be worth it

enough to embody the good in the world, Ms Perfect-

perfectly loving, she loves the girls and boys but furtive

with your boy, we meet once every twenty-eight,

for every full moon luminates as we once again re-gravitate

into one another for this galaxy to captivate.

claim a youthful warmth it knew like a hazy dream

that exists in cold space where no one hears you scream

but we reminisce to Eden where I lived at age nineteen

ninety-three, February when I floated in that womb

with prophecy unraveling regarding what I’d do

with the stars on the shoulder formed in a tomb.

Thank you once more for your patronage, reader. Make sure to write me at BlackInSuburbia@gmail.com.

Yours truly,

Lawrence

Photo
blackinsuburbia:

Dear reader,
I’ve recently had the pleasure to be blessed with a lovely party in commemoration of my twenty-first birthday, an event I hadn’t anticipated to be as big a deal as it had turned out to be. When my mother approached me for consent for a little shindig at the family home I was thinking more along the lines of ‘family dinner’, apparently she was thinking ‘Black Mitzvah’; I had no idea the twenty-first birthday was such a rite of passage as masses of people I’d known all my life, people I’d met a few times and people I barely knew flooded through the door with gifts, money and (far more importantly) their good wishes. Later on speeches were made and it occurred to me the sheer weight on the expectation that had already existed on my shoulders, issues that demanded emotional maturity of me were also raised. ‘Decorated’ is my reaction to the whole event, I truly hope you enjoy the piece and I welcome your responses to it. Attached is the type version for those who prefer to steer clear of my shoddy penmanship.

Decorated (written for dictation)
Stars on these shoulders, now I’m getting older
I look a tad closer and they become solar
systems ans suns reaching or supernova;
individual worlds crashing to pieces I’m to realign
and reign over, Father, won’t you give me a sign?
Point out my horoscope, an Aries from the other side
of a little known place that would remind
one of the elegant shades of Scott Summers’ eyes.

But if she’s from Venus, I guess she must be worth it
enough to embody the good in the world, Ms Perfect-
perfectly loving, she loves the girls and boys but furtive
with your boy, we meet once every twenty-eight,
for every full moon luminates as we once again re-gravitate
into one another for this galaxy to captivate.
claim a youthful warmth it knew like a hazy dream
that exists in cold space where no one hears you scream
but we reminisce to Eden here I lived at age nineteen
ninety-three, February when I floated in that womb
with prophecy unraveling regarding what I’d do
with the stars on the shoulder formed in a tomb.

Thank you once more for your patronage, reader. Make sure to write me at BlackInSuburbia@gmail.com.
Yours truly,
Lawrence

blackinsuburbia:

Dear reader,

I’ve recently had the pleasure to be blessed with a lovely party in commemoration of my twenty-first birthday, an event I hadn’t anticipated to be as big a deal as it had turned out to be. When my mother approached me for consent for a little shindig at the family home I was thinking more along the lines of ‘family dinner’, apparently she was thinking ‘Black Mitzvah’; I had no idea the twenty-first birthday was such a rite of passage as masses of people I’d known all my life, people I’d met a few times and people I barely knew flooded through the door with gifts, money and (far more importantly) their good wishes. Later on speeches were made and it occurred to me the sheer weight on the expectation that had already existed on my shoulders, issues that demanded emotional maturity of me were also raised. ‘Decorated’ is my reaction to the whole event, I truly hope you enjoy the piece and I welcome your responses to it. Attached is the type version for those who prefer to steer clear of my shoddy penmanship.

Decorated (written for dictation)

Stars on these shoulders, now I’m getting older

I look a tad closer and they become solar

systems ans suns reaching or supernova;

individual worlds crashing to pieces I’m to realign

and reign over, Father, won’t you give me a sign?

Point out my horoscope, an Aries from the other side

of a little known place that would remind

one of the elegant shades of Scott Summers’ eyes.

But if she’s from Venus, I guess she must be worth it

enough to embody the good in the world, Ms Perfect-

perfectly loving, she loves the girls and boys but furtive

with your boy, we meet once every twenty-eight,

for every full moon luminates as we once again re-gravitate

into one another for this galaxy to captivate.

claim a youthful warmth it knew like a hazy dream

that exists in cold space where no one hears you scream

but we reminisce to Eden here I lived at age nineteen

ninety-three, February when I floated in that womb

with prophecy unraveling regarding what I’d do

with the stars on the shoulder formed in a tomb.

Thank you once more for your patronage, reader. Make sure to write me at BlackInSuburbia@gmail.com.

Yours truly,

Lawrence

Photo
blackinsuburbia:


Dear Reader,
I write regarding the topic of loves lost, whether we should pursue them once more is neither here nor there, the only definite courses of action we must undertake where the past is concerned are introspection and self-criticism. Attached are my own accounts of intimate reflection regarding my past and what I thought my future may comprise of. I certainly hope you enjoy the work and as always I wholeheartedly welcome your own commentary and anecdotes relating to your own experiences- write me at BlackInSuburbia@gmail.com. Below is the typed version of the work, ENJOY.

Revisiting Eden
I always thought you looked beautiful without them layers on,
Jesus must’ve too, you left to get your prayer on.
I know my mother told you I’d never say I’m wrong
and she loves you like her own, don’t you wonder where I get it from?
"Grown love, you should talk about it civil",
I told my younger self to “keep the situation simple”,
guess I should’ve told you too, you’re better when you’re not with them
so peel these layers off, we should try on something different:
Let’s try naked like Evelyn and Adam did,
to a love before, from your palm, I bit the enemy
to taste what we forbade, a seed to regurgitate
and how dare I? It was I that first made you hate.
Taught an evil you were never to learn.
I’m stared at a corner to which I was never to turn.
Crafted of my prime rib to be the object of lust
validated by Him, living from dust to dust;
but other said you lived on past a grain of sand
and that I’d see it too with just a helping hand.
Before a hand cam it could never go to plan
for the Mutt’s intent for the daughter of man.

My dear readers, I’m always grateful for your patronage and I thank you for reading something so close to my heart. I’ll be taking submissions regarding these ideas for the page, just send them through to BlackInSuburbia@gmail.com!
Yours Truly,
Lawrence

blackinsuburbia:

Dear Reader,

I write regarding the topic of loves lost, whether we should pursue them once more is neither here nor there, the only definite courses of action we must undertake where the past is concerned are introspection and self-criticism. Attached are my own accounts of intimate reflection regarding my past and what I thought my future may comprise of. I certainly hope you enjoy the work and as always I wholeheartedly welcome your own commentary and anecdotes relating to your own experiences- write me at BlackInSuburbia@gmail.com. Below is the typed version of the work, ENJOY.

Revisiting Eden

I always thought you looked beautiful without them layers on,

Jesus must’ve too, you left to get your prayer on.

I know my mother told you I’d never say I’m wrong

and she loves you like her own, don’t you wonder where I get it from?

"Grown love, you should talk about it civil",

I told my younger self to “keep the situation simple”,

guess I should’ve told you too, you’re better when you’re not with them

so peel these layers off, we should try on something different:

Let’s try naked like Evelyn and Adam did,

to a love before, from your palm, I bit the enemy

to taste what we forbade, a seed to regurgitate

and how dare I? It was I that first made you hate.

Taught an evil you were never to learn.

I’m stared at a corner to which I was never to turn.

Crafted of my prime rib to be the object of lust

validated by Him, living from dust to dust;

but other said you lived on past a grain of sand

and that I’d see it too with just a helping hand.

Before a hand cam it could never go to plan

for the Mutt’s intent for the daughter of man.

My dear readers, I’m always grateful for your patronage and I thank you for reading something so close to my heart. I’ll be taking submissions regarding these ideas for the page, just send them through to BlackInSuburbia@gmail.com!

Yours Truly,

Lawrence

Photo
blackinsuburbia:

Dear reader,
This small passage pertains to both the pleasures of the flesh and a love that transcends life, think of it what you will. As per usual I’ve included the typed text of the passage for those that continue to struggle to deal with my inkings. I’ve recently lost a family member and the idea of  death has laid heavy on my mind. Anyway, I hope you enjoy the passage and I encourage you to write me back at BlackInSuburbia@gmail.com.

Zombie Love
Flatlines report I’ve lower body rigamortis
and what’s worse is you’re the only cure for this
death that has overcome, the blood flow pauses
still in its tracks as the world spins, nauseous;
You can’t ignore this love, I can’t afford it-
unholy matrimony in tongues and lips over a corpse’s:
prise ‘em open and force it, you’ve never gone this white before,
cold flushes from between your thighs in the face of a carnivore.
"Impale me", you beg, "Like Hitler’s temple a year from forty-four",
be I a necrophile, does the thought of being caught in your
web alone not suffice, White Widow? Don’t clench your jaw…

You clench your jaw and make not a sound,
scared to death the man’s around
and he know I’m in love with his wife,
the grave digger’s got a spade for this life;
make not a sound, you make not a sound
because the man with a shovel wants me dead as his spouse.

Reader, thank you for your patronage and I hope to hear from you soon.
yours truly,
Lawrence

blackinsuburbia:

Dear reader,

This small passage pertains to both the pleasures of the flesh and a love that transcends life, think of it what you will. As per usual I’ve included the typed text of the passage for those that continue to struggle to deal with my inkings. I’ve recently lost a family member and the idea of  death has laid heavy on my mind. Anyway, I hope you enjoy the passage and I encourage you to write me back at BlackInSuburbia@gmail.com.

Zombie Love

Flatlines report I’ve lower body rigamortis

and what’s worse is you’re the only cure for this

death that has overcome, the blood flow pauses

still in its tracks as the world spins, nauseous;

You can’t ignore this love, I can’t afford it-

unholy matrimony in tongues and lips over a corpse’s:

prise ‘em open and force it, you’ve never gone this white before,

cold flushes from between your thighs in the face of a carnivore.

"Impale me", you beg, "Like Hitler’s temple a year from forty-four",

be I a necrophile, does the thought of being caught in your

web alone not suffice, White Widow? Don’t clench your jaw…

You clench your jaw and make not a sound,

scared to death the man’s around

and he know I’m in love with his wife,

the grave digger’s got a spade for this life;

make not a sound, you make not a sound

because the man with a shovel wants me dead as his spouse.

Reader, thank you for your patronage and I hope to hear from you soon.

yours truly,

Lawrence

Photo
blackinsuburbia:

Dear Reader,
I write regarding an issue that pains me so, I suspect many of you have had to deal with similar ideas in your respective societies. I certainly look forward to reading your responses to the topic, write me at BlackInSuburbia@gmail.com. As usual the above piece is available in type below for those of you who cannot bear to spend a second longer looking at my terrible handwriting.

Turning Circles
I touch you and it’s like
when magma collides with Ice,
what we could make, if not for latex-
a plethora of smiling faces.
You touch me and you feel it’s
like the ashy rebirth of a phoenix,
you shed a tear of Ice each time
this passion fails to die.
He sees me with you and feels I ought to
"fuck her hard, like Master’s daughter";
She sees you with me and believes
"you should fuck him like he’ll hang from the leaves".
We revolve in this cycle, I’d hold you if I could,
if this love is unholy let it be misoverstood.
Turn tail, sweet snowflake, by teeth of skin
for I could not ask you to live in sin.

Once again, I’d like to thank you for taking time to have a read of my content and do encourage you all to get in touch.
Yours truly,
Lawrence.

blackinsuburbia:

Dear Reader,

I write regarding an issue that pains me so, I suspect many of you have had to deal with similar ideas in your respective societies. I certainly look forward to reading your responses to the topic, write me at BlackInSuburbia@gmail.com. As usual the above piece is available in type below for those of you who cannot bear to spend a second longer looking at my terrible handwriting.

Turning Circles

I touch you and it’s like

when magma collides with Ice,

what we could make, if not for latex-

a plethora of smiling faces.

You touch me and you feel it’s

like the ashy rebirth of a phoenix,

you shed a tear of Ice each time

this passion fails to die.

He sees me with you and feels I ought to

"fuck her hard, like Master’s daughter";

She sees you with me and believes

"you should fuck him like he’ll hang from the leaves".

We revolve in this cycle, I’d hold you if I could,

if this love is unholy let it be misoverstood.

Turn tail, sweet snowflake, by teeth of skin

for I could not ask you to live in sin.

Once again, I’d like to thank you for taking time to have a read of my content and do encourage you all to get in touch.

Yours truly,

Lawrence.

Photo
blackinsuburbia:

Dear Reader,
This is the beginning of a series of poetry entitled ‘Graduation’, all handwritten and scanned to you as is (After all, there is nothing more intimate than ink). I welcome your ideas, thoughts and opinions on all the work. ‘Suited/Booted: A freestyle’ is written for dictation and available in typed text below for those who find it difficult to decipher my scrawlings.

Suited/Booted: A freestyle
I’m dressed in your colours, though you rejected mine;
I live by your word and I know you perfected lying
when you laid with my brothers, turned prisons to Sodom
and banished them, made it clear you didn’t want them.
Your wanton persecution, though writ in the stars
and engraved in the yellowing histories afar
surprises still and how? Your cruelty THEN is identical to now;
Emasculated, you’ve put me down and reprogrammed to bow
before your system, keeping the dogs fed so forget you killed them
and MADE A BASTARDISED NATION WHEN YOU RAPED OUR WOMEN.
I look good in this bow-tie, baby don’t I?
The apple of your iris, baby blue eyes don’t lie,
nor do these black ones; black shoes and black ties
come like a funeral, we’re feeling like a man died.
"We’re here to commemorate, to celebrate the death of him,
Spades in the air, a toast to him and the rest of them.
I love this audience, a sea of black faces grinning wide,
celebrating, eulogising:        THE NIGGER HAS DIED.

Reader, I thank you for your patronage and I look forward to hearing what you have to say on the matter at hand.
Yours truly,
Lawrence

blackinsuburbia:

Dear Reader,

This is the beginning of a series of poetry entitled ‘Graduation’, all handwritten and scanned to you as is (After all, there is nothing more intimate than ink). I welcome your ideas, thoughts and opinions on all the work. ‘Suited/Booted: A freestyle’ is written for dictation and available in typed text below for those who find it difficult to decipher my scrawlings.

Suited/Booted: A freestyle

I’m dressed in your colours, though you rejected mine;

I live by your word and I know you perfected lying

when you laid with my brothers, turned prisons to Sodom

and banished them, made it clear you didn’t want them.

Your wanton persecution, though writ in the stars

and engraved in the yellowing histories afar

surprises still and how? Your cruelty THEN is identical to now;

Emasculated, you’ve put me down and reprogrammed to bow

before your system, keeping the dogs fed so forget you killed them

and MADE A BASTARDISED NATION WHEN YOU RAPED OUR WOMEN.

I look good in this bow-tie, baby don’t I?

The apple of your iris, baby blue eyes don’t lie,

nor do these black ones; black shoes and black ties

come like a funeral, we’re feeling like a man died.

"We’re here to commemorate, to celebrate the death of him,

Spades in the air, a toast to him and the rest of them.

I love this audience, a sea of black faces grinning wide,

celebrating, eulogising:        THE NIGGER HAS DIED.

Reader, I thank you for your patronage and I look forward to hearing what you have to say on the matter at hand.

Yours truly,

Lawrence

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blackinsuburbia:

To whom it may concern,

My name is Lawrence Mufaro and I’m writing to you regarding the events of my very own life in all its colourful ups and downs. I’m just a young guy from the suburbs of South London at the tail end of my stint in chasing a degree in Literature at a university in the north…

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literatureoverlord:

Amidst the highly glamourised and perhaps pointless substance abuse of the ‘hipster’ lot in modern society is the ghost of what may be the father of recreational drug use; Thomas DeQuincy's legacy lives invisibly in the superficial world of users looking to expand their minds or 'trip balls' as…

(Source: blackinsuburbia)

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literatureoverlord:

While researching material for my current project on the bastardisation of Hip Hop from society I stumbled upon a series of arguments regarding the presence of drugs within Hip Hop. Critics obsess incessantly about rappers condoning and often engaging in drug use in front of audiences, of course…

(Source: blackinsuburbia)

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#SunsetPark

I’m releasing a little something

Text

HIPSTERs

HIPSTERs http://wp.me/s2PQ7j-hipsters

So the other day I was taking a stroll along Brick Lane; now, there’s absolutely nothing I love more than a dawdle in the fresh hipster-ridden streets of my beloved London so naturally I had been in a jubilant mood. I found my mood, ever so slowly but…

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The cover for ‘Bad’ the project I was supposed to upload last month. It’s going up tonight.

The cover for ‘Bad’ the project I was supposed to upload last month. It’s going up tonight.

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Yes, lawd.

(Source: hicstreme, via biancabullets)

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Perfect.

Perfect.