The Black “Zombie” Athlete

balotelli

The Black athlete soldier, unlike his counterpart, mirrors his urban brother.  He, the Black male, yearns redemption through athletic.  His scarred palms, paint his predicament exactly: athletic drugs and fascination, do not exist.  His dreams die before sunrise.  The Black athlete lives and die repeatedly believing, “What If”?  redemptive imagination, no longer running hot, the dark clouds, strangle his oxygen.  His brief thoughts, sunken tightly in a bent brow, says, I am not this cause.  I am not this monster, although, one cannot read or think critically. My blame, lay among others, the others that paved my path to illiteracy.  The Black athlete is not alone in this exploration, yet, his urban warrior yearns his deliverance.  Coaches, teachers, and the hood drove darkness together, never checking the revere mirror. Not engaging the speeding car, analysts predicted dark clouds ahead, you may want to get off the road, and wait this out.  Fuck no, wait what out, its just rain, The Black athlete, arrogant and gloomy, presses the gas.

The invisible storm stirs, The Black athlete’ hell predicted, flushing poorly constructed thoughts is not a savior.  No more cheers, his alter ego, transform him into the urban or rural warrior, his dark skin cursed. The powerful strut, his athletic chest sunken, the invisibleness apparent.  Not yet to the Black Athlete…he doesn’t give a shit.  No acadphotoemic institution provided, “no, you can’t play ball, you cannot think and read critically”.  Nonetheless, he storms into the abyss, thinking to describe his death.  He stumbles breathing, as the dark smoke, strangles his Black ass to invented death.

His coded pillow, signal terror, and an unimaginable fate, the tears begin again, and again.  What community or society permits such an academic holocaust?  The Black Athlete’ salvation is imaginary, intoxicated dreams, yet, nightmares. He silently sings, his voice sickens the authentic student, she realizes he’s on academic death row.  His death secured, “take it like a man, and go back where you came from”. From where, shall I venture, for whom shall hear my sorrows?  To the whore’ blossom shall grant redemption, heroin numb feelings, I’m slowing into my place…everything fine now..I’ll sleep a bit. When the sky bleeds sunlight my spirit will awake. I’ll be different, momma, I’ll be nice…I’m scared momma: I don’t know how to read and write.  What will they do to me?

What will they do to me?

Boy stop your crying..you only got three years to serve.  Your sister say hey,  she miss you. Your son ask about you every day, I didn’t want to bring him, I don’t want him to see you like this.  What you reading in here…son you have to read, that’s only way you get somewhere.  How’s your cousin doing, what cellblock is he in…don’t they fight over there a lot.   Yea, momma, it’s lots of violence in here, the slightest thing can blow up..I wish, I would have listened and learn reading and writing.  None of that boy, you in here now so think about getting out.  There are no jobs out there…just don’t give up son.  Don’t die alive in prison.  I’m praying every day momma, every day.

The Invisible Dragon

 

Why Has God Not Killed Satan Mate? (British/Irish Theme)

220px-ParadiseLButts1.jpgMe atheists’ tag has been updated or/down classed to agnostic.  Someone approaches, a nice chap, “You Sir” are not an agnostic.  Mister, I blooding well am agnostic, look at me children chap, me swear, my children hearts I’m agnostic.  You’re misinformed are you not mate?  None the difference chum, I have a question, Why Have God Not Killed Satan………..?  Did you not here me mate, I sure bloody-well heard cha, and you do right mind not to repeat it.  All mouth and no trousers, you are chap, me should conk you twice, me sit the days over, days of mum and dad, but I draw me blade for such blasphemy…me kids would cry. Can’t wait for Mums to hears this, don’t know chap, Satan crafty, he doesn’t sit still, he moves around a bit.   Well if God is all-powerful mate, the bloody Devil would have had a conk or two.  The Devil walking around, free as others, with no trousers no less.  Jimmy, mate, the lord waits for the right moment, no hurry to get the sin sinister.  All right, Satan make mates draw their blades, awhile back, the little Cynthia girl hurt days ago.

You see the new tenant, bubbly one she is, I’ve gone Barmy mate, the British best their gustavedoreparadiselostsatanprofilechap.  Bugger! Here she comes, good bloody well she’s…..Good Day, Lovely Sun today…… Looney, you are chap, the sun, bloody well not speak it again. Blow off, Ta Ta have a lovely day…….Bugger! Mate you ask about the sun?  Me teeth stick together, and me mouth shout it out.  Bob’s your Uncle mate, chump you’re one sick chap.  Back to the porch top, Why has God Not Killed Satan?  For the fricking life of me mate, I bludgeon you me self. If God kills Satan, the world would end, what you say again Brit.

The world would end…how would we know evil from good mate?  All polite mates, brutes, savages all together.  No way…me mum a bit upset, she will be. Bollox, you say chap?  If there’s no Satan thus No God, you think mate…you last from the litter box chap.  Box your ears, or I will. God created Satan not to kill him but to work together.  Bollocks! Mate, me give you bung to leave?  This is outrageous, bloody well nonsensical, God can’t kill Satan.  Me Holy Lord in the Sky, playing both teams.  Me mum, can’t here this, cheerio I’d swear, she goes to heaven tonight. No looking back, “chips burning on stove” I say chap.  What a load of cobblers, bollocks this one.  Think about it mate, why create Satan but no plans to cancel him out chum?

images She’s a bubbly one, things all fit well mate, you said that 8 hours ago.  Satan can’t die because he don’t exist. How does the evil one get a pass on death?  It’s something in the fish & chips pal?  Where in the good book does, this battle originates and concludes, total bollocks.  Me God can see all, sure whatever you believe, it’s story jimmy, created to control.  Control Whom, Me Mum?  The bloody followers none the wisest, it’s mind-control at its best.  Benny Hill, I tell you…God kills Satan, problem solved, even those Irish, the whole lot, live in peace.  Nice picture…but total bollocks, Satan is not real.  This going to hurt me mum’s.

The Invisible Dragon.

The First Lady: Sex, Baptism, & Friends

church-womanI walk and vision a companion, she notices my gaze. My attention engages her blouse, a rosy flower gown top, her bubbly breast tight, nipples stiff. We have done this before and often, her husband, the reverend provided our lead in. His Black ass running around chasing hookers and improvised church women. I developed my pleasures for the First Lady on the other side of town. She visits the children’s shelter often, her dark brown bottom unmarked and motionless. I am not shy nor apprehensive on my engagement; I’m living in what was prepared. Yet, I fear, she possesses my secrets, special movements, and excitement with others.

Many men fear to engage the First Lady, not me, she wants love and dirty sex. I sit two rolls back, stroking my thigh, staring into memories, our memories, our fifthly desires. She plays an open game of hide and seek, I fall for it, I accept the cookie and juice offering. She glances at a friend worshiper; my heart anticipates our secret is known. Yet, we never considered the holy church for an escapade with her friend.  Fred Hammond drowns out my private desires, The First Lady, and friend, hmm. Is it possible? Hell, yeacross? Is it, right?

You damn right! Their Black sorority or whatever got ‘em working out like this, now bring that thang over here, wet, real wet. My shaft is restless, staring at both, brown and light-skinned, you feel me. My thrust soaks up the fluids from their Wonder Caves. Both involves themselves as I place the proper music tone, I’m allowed to watch, as both, show me what Holy is about. The First Lady’s eyes go toward the ceiling, her streams flow smoothly like Sade’s beats. There’s never a need for loud sounds, we keep it down, and pass the movement around. The pastors and friends none the wise, it’s going down around town.

*****
I am lost in their passion, they absorb my desires, intimidating but soothing. Her friend’s fingers guiding my boyish hands to snatch her nimble. I am lost, help me, it is intimidating but soothing. Silence again takes my potency and caress the spirit, both spirit unbeknownst before this deliberate seduction. Their hips lay me down, a speechless heroin of a thousand lovers seduces my fears, my fears are their Aphrodite she increases the First Lady’s device. Her friend’s purpose to extract my fantasies, I am soon exhausted by their vigor. In a trance, I vision two companions, neither lives with fear or sadness, we behave this way

 

Oh, yeah, we locked the church doors.

Robert a, Williams

The Devil and The First Lady

ChurchLady

Her shoes soaking wet…hair ruffles with each step.  The doors swing open hands gripped to punch.  You bastard! Obscenities fueled disrupt public setting, what did you do?  I hate you!…church members visibly puzzled.  Her curvy body swallowed by both genders. The pastor eases toward his self-made distraction.  Silent and stern …she pushes forward.  Her face stiff with unforgiveness…She blurts out, “I’m pregnant”.  The church’s grip on stern piousness challenged….a night woman threatens good faith people.  More so a christian-faith marriage.  The first lady stares on….

The first lady’s stare burns the pastor’s eyes as distant past infidelity fights awaken.  But the mystery woman’s public noise present revelations. Her thickened hipped shifting as she exposes dirty dealings.  These secrets of ‘pay for play’ forced churchgoers to squirm on theirs benches. The body parts to detailed to memorable for dismiss for the first lady…it was true.  Yet, hard believers forced a shoving match verbally and physically onto the harlot truth-teller.  Exhausted, yet unmoved, the unchurched woman made her peace.  The secret unraveled in view for all to hear.  But the first lady remained stoic and unmoved….eerily stable.

The pastor’s dirty used condoms exposed to his flock.  However their loyalty to the faith and man immovable. This dirty Jezebel out the door within seconds…deacons and disciples forcing religious order.  As Satan received the blame, tongue utterances frightened children and visitors alike.  Yet, the first lady flashed little concern…she’s being aware of this woman and others.  Angry fight stares not revisited….surprisingly to the pastor.  Things went back to order quickly in private and public quarters.  The pastor welcomed the disbelief of a nonsensical evil-filled woman.  The first lady understood completely, she’s come across quite a few evil-driven men lately and often.

Easy to betray when betrayed.  Easy to lie when deceived routinely.  The first-lady’s lover understands the rules…not quick or rushed, but strong and consistent.  Her shapely figure required  patients…care. The young 30’s something male invited months ago to rid boredom.  The convenience relationship inside hotel bedroom created a silent pact.  Untraceable by the non attentive pastor who chases loose women of night.  The young male heard her concerns, sympathize with them and received unbelievable pleasures.  She did not see youth but mental strength…subtle mannerism, courage.  The relationship strengthen by her being cared for…the her silence at the church understandable.  The first lady understood how the pastor treats women.

She wonders while her stream moves outside how she got here.  The young male moves gently atop her posture..careful not to disrupt flow. This is not evil she suspect but something from a higher being…she wants it.  She misses it at home…and thus seeks her God given gift to engage in this pleasure many times.

 

Story by Robert Williams

 

My Mind is Not a Playground, It’s a Junkyard.

insane mind

I do not feel completely alone, but I’m just waiting.  I’m not sure for what.  This street lamp shines on me each night: It does not say much, or can it?  The sky also stares at me as if I possess a language.  Often for hours, we look at each other.  I don’t like it sometimes because it’s so patient, it boils me with solace.  I normally don’t use big words, but some people think it’s ok.  The water soothes my hot feet; I run but not long, my breath has numerous outside appointments.  I wonder when I think/write like this, has my mind broken or retired.   I think both at times; nevertheless, rarely do such thoughts make the pages.  Hold a second my mind is back.  I see its shadow.  Hmm, it’s dirty, “wash yourself, we’ll eat soon.”  My mind runs like an undiscovered stream outside Madison, that’s in Wisconsin.

Mrs. Jones tend to her garden; the stiff spring breeze shoves her physique about.   Once, a vibrant vixen, now she listens to Beethoven and her garden.  From my second floor, I scream!  Mrs. Jones!  She pretends not to hear me.  Mrs. Jones!  I only want her attention to corroborate my presence.  It is sad to live in your mind.  You’re not sure, if you’re alive or, I hate to say this…dead.   In your mind, you run constantly frightened and unaware of reality.  Mrs. Jones!  She can hear me, I know she can, she just ignores me.  My tomato soup is about ready.  I cook it each day at the same time.  The neighbors complain but this is a ruse, they want some.   No!  You had your chance; they scatter from my mind deep inside my consciousness.  They’ll be back for my soup, they always come back.

My dog stares at me as I dodge the cracks in my mind.  A motorbike’s rumble angrily snaps me back to life or fantasy.  I wonder about a woman who rides a motorbike without a partner.  Where is she going?  Does she have an appointment? I’m not sure.  What woman rides a motorbike alone?  Is this reality?  Hmm…the motorbike seems to be turning around, did she hear me thinking.  Hi, why do you ride a motorbike without a partner?  Her stare punches me in the abdomen; I stumble, but regain my balance to see her coming towards me. I run as fast as I can.  A woman who rides a motorbike without a partner seems nice but they scare me.  My dog barks out a melody that says she’ll catch me one day, I don’t normally understand dog talk.  Also, I don’t understand why a woman rides a motorbike alone.

I’ll take one mister, thanks for the ice cream.  It’s hot outside…I run to stay fit.

My mind is exhausted, Mrs. Jones continues to ignore me, my neighbors pretend not to like tomato soup, and a motorbike ejected a woman onto me.  The street light dims the alley lights up, and I look at it from the second floor.  I’m as lonely as it appears, but I make things up.  I create stories when I’m uncertain, afraid.   I write like this when I’m not sure about reality.  I see a man walking toward the tavern, why does he not have a tie about his shirt and suit.  If it’s one thing I think about is why do a man not have a tie about his shirt and suit.  He turns…and stares at me.  I run.

The Invisible Dragon

(unedited and unsupervised)