blackinsuburbia:

T-SHIRT

Why are you so sensitive to what I say or do?

You believe my actions were devised for you,

with you in mind. You’re convinced that this

T-shirt I wear is from the wardrobe of rapists.

YES, this half-naked girl is Miley Cyrus,

NO, she wasn’t exploited, she was wholly behind it

when she shot this shoot on that chilly day

nor was she cheated the moment she was paid.

You fear your sexuality and feel it needs guard,

that a damsel in distress is what all women are.

I suggest you stop minding celebrity back doors-

while you’re at it get your head out of yours.

blackinsuburbia:

DUST

From ashes to ashes, dust to dust-

is this the only feeling I could muster up?

Green in the face of mild mannered Bruce Banners

and JEALOUS even when we find none of it matters,

that none of it mattered as a speck in time:

love was once a T-REX in its prime

but that was back when you were romantically inclined…

Then came the big bang, Vesuvius and Chernobyl

to fossilise and liberate, for in life there’s no ‘kill’,

there’s no ‘live’, no ‘survive’- there’s none spared,

for what was, barely for what will be:

as a grain of sand only time will kill me

LAWRENCE

blackinsuburbia:

Dear Reader,

I know it’s been some time since I’ve written and I can only excuse myself, in that time the relationship between a boy and his father has been an important thought point for me. I meet a plethora of people, all with very different paternal circumstances so the idea of ‘daddy’s little slugger’ isn’t strange, nor is the resentment some hold for their fathers. Personally, I’m lucky enough to have a healthy relationship with my old man and find myself understanding him more and more as a guy as opposed to a parent figure.

It’s a blessing when you have role models around you with real values.

What my Father taught me

My father taught me knowledge is gold,

Godly treasures, new and old.

Shangri-La is wisdom, the ever-lasting kingdom

and realm of truth’s sole eye witness.

Read between the lines, pages telling of times

of greatness and dissolve, of men’s tales and lies;

truths of guilt and greed by which you could decree

the sole method by which one must live,

By which I mean the know how that to take one must give,

read your constitution and live by codes of honour:

love and respect her just as you do your mother,

stand upright when you look in the soul of a person,

be a leader and a follower, walk with a purpose.

Yours truly,

Lawrence

blackinsuburbia:

Dear reader,

I’ve considered my time in the north and felt my first impressions of the place would do well to create some sort of ‘diary of a southern ponce’, one thing people refuse to understand from my accounts is that from where I stand the North of England may as well be a completely different state from the Southern environments I was so accustomed to. This passage details my first year of travel between the two places, I hope you find as much pleasure in it as I did. As usual, please find attached the text version of the poem for those of you who just won’t work with my handwriting:

The other side of the M1

July 2011

As a lad from the South, I run my mouth

about the South Bank and Shoreditch nights out.

With circles of friends, a lad from the ends-

in concrete or suburb, it really depends.

September 2011

We journeyed North, what greenery we saw

and cobbled streets like these we’d never seen before.

Two ah-ha moments: Is that fuck the price of a pint

and upon realising absolutely EVERYONE here is white.

December 2011

Back to the South, multicultural and brown-

I love my city but it seems awfully crowded now

and these hipsters in Shoreditch want to be so damn trendy

plus absolutely EVERYONE here is unfriendly.

January 2012

Back to my pastoral haven, cheap and cobbled North,

the other day I saw a family in a cart and horse.

Browsing property catalogues, the houses we could afford

with a handful of coppers, with change for a three course!

March 2012

Back to the South, hair needed a trim.

Hairdressers there only take on white men and women.

Went to a put, drinks list not Christian,

the price of a pint will forever be different.

Reader, thank you for taking the time to indulge in my work once again, love your patronage.

Be sure to write me at blackinsuburbia@gmail.com and I’ll be real prompt with my responses!

Yours truly,

Lawrence

blackinsuburbia:

Dear reader,

I’ve recently studied Hip Hop and the commercialisation/perversion of black culture, I’ve actually written a paper on the matter arguing that the racial microaggressions and institutional racisms embedded in society degrade black society and are a big part of the reason black culture is regarded the way it is. This bit of dialogue raises just a few of my ideas:

The Committee

Tom: Bill, we’ve got to find something new to sell,

 this quarter’s numbers came and we’re struggling again.

Bill: Worry not, Tom! I’ve a product on my brain:

Black is the colour of the ink in this pen,

dark as the heavens off in the distance

Black is the leather of Pierre Balmain,

which is getting Black as shit since these NIG-GAS got paid.

Black is the NIG-GER, I’m talking about slaves

but you should see suburban white NIG-GAS banging away;

talk about gang signs, monkey talk and rap guys

has got this NIG-GA culture socially normalised.

Black is the twerking, I’m sure you’ve heard,

meant to be working yet you were googling in pairs

because Todd saw the VMAs and just had to share

"this clip of Miley being a NIG-GA, it was hilar."

Black is misogyny, degrade your women quick,

and don’t you forget, you’re a NIG-GA, she’s a bitch.

Tom: I like this ‘Black’ thing, when do we put it on shelves?

Bill: That’s the beauty, Tom. These NIG-GAS push it themselves.

Yours truly,

Lawrence

blackinsuburbia:

Berry

Isn’t it funny how perfectly worded

conversations are when the very same person

would state what may have been certain

had you, long ago, pulled back the curtain?

I’m a grown boy, these women make me nervous

and her biological timer’s ticked right into her thirties,

while these young girls sit enthusiastic and perky,

trying to be grown, look at all the stuff she learnt me.

She probably takes note of all the things that hurt me

and passes flying colours when the time comes to get dirty.

I’ll never turn and put a sour note upon my tongue,

and mother taught me if the berry’s bitter, pick another one,

but to never criticise because by the moons and suns

a berry is a berry, sweet and sour ones will come.

Lawrence M

blackinsuburbia:

BLACK IN SUBURBIA

POETRY

SUITED & BOOTED: A FREESTYLE

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 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 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,

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,

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,

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:

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…

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…