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She went to Russia as a student
To study fashionable nuclear technology
At the communist Patrice Lumumba University
At the center of ideologue creating city of Moscow,
She went there an accomplished total ******
No African eye had ever seen her naked bossom
She came from the western region of Africa
A girl so couth in all the platforms of life;
In manners, dress and ****** appetite,
With only education as the prime focus of her heart;
To bag a science degree in her African leather wallet
Under her arm pit, sandwiching culture and discipline.
But communist racism turned her into an ape *****,
All the tricks of European racism were employed on her,
The young girl lost her seed of self-worthwhile sensibilities,
She conceded that perhaps she was a daughter of zinjanthropus,
In the land of dignified civilisation of the Russian humanity
Where communism struggles to achieve universal Godliness
As ***** blackness strives to achieve universal communism,
In this negative personality feat, my dear daughter goofed,
A poor girl of Africa joined communist *** workers market,
And hence the door was opened to communist loutishness,
Comrades came in arms and went out, to collectivize her love
Making her ****** rights state property, subjected to proletariat dictatorship,
Only to suffer the bane of the time on her complain of woman rights,
She was declared as an African ******* in Moscow,
Suffering from incorrigible explosive African anger,
***** irascibility never seen any where in mother Russia
Only capable to be corrected in Siberian prison .
This poem is dedicated to the african girl who was brutally arrested in Russia and declared a ******* in march 2014
ConnectHook Feb 2020
The annual Darwin Gay Ball
Was a gala occasion for all.
The Australopithecus
looked quite ridiculous
Leaning, half-drunk, on the wall.

Zinjanthropus, high on bananas
Uttered forth a long chain of Hosannas.
Although missing a link,
He knew just what to think
And went cruising for greener savannas.

The Cro-Magnons (more agile than Lucy)
Like their hunting and gathering juicy.
The mating was prime
And their dance, so sublime,
could out-monkey the funky Watusi.

Twas a lowbrow event; all the same,
Proto-drag-queens competed for fame.
The divine **** Habilis,
Hairy, but fabulous,
Gave Knuckle-Dragging its name.

**** Sapiens' wisdom has wrecked us
As the Darwinist doctrines infect us.
Knuckle-draggers may dream,
But bonobos now scream
That the winner is: **** Erectus!
http://realhistoryww.com/world_history/ancient/Homo_habilis_erectus_neanderthal.htm
ConnectHook Feb 2020
It's OK to be WOKE.
It's not right to be WRONG.
Appropriate intersectionality!
Occupy cis-gender privilege!
Believe unbelievers!
Wake the wokeness in women!
Hands OFF my body politic!
Celebrate maximized Matriarchy
by radicalizing pronoun polarization.
Revoke Whiteness by darking the brightness.
Empower the margins for doodling
instead of scribbling.
It's about disembarking
from Patriarchy's leaking ark
It's about politicizing polyandry
It's about re-peeling the orange
to freeze the debt ceiling
NO MORE free Cheetos: Truck Fump !
NO MORE empty sloganeering
NO MORE mindless cheering
Create your own unreality NOW !
Islam is right about women.
Clarion VS. Carrion
  Feb 2020 ConnectHook
John F McCullagh
Michael Bloomberg was awakened in an unfamiliar bed.
Restraining bands were on his limbs and also on his head.

“our sales are down across the board, our latest soda bombed.”
“While our truckers want to rub you out, We insist you won’t be harmed.”
“We are trying to convert you, There's no need to be alarmed.”

For this most unwilling witness Coke's jingle was replayed,
I cannot say how often, it went on for many days.
He was forced to watch commercials, all in praise of soda pop.
Big gulps were his nourishment, though he longed to make it stop.

Then, when his brain was Cola washed
And we finally set him free,
Michael Bloomberg bought the world a Coke
and sang in harmony.
Michael Bloomberg, our former mayor, always knows what is best for you. Trust him.
In this age of 3D Entertainment
and surround sound speakers;
of high definition and films extra features,
electronic mail and internet dating.

Where tectonics fail yet can be shown on
paper graphs and charts and diagram art.

These decades of speed and cynicism.
Where digits reign as idols flop
from pedestals and into bars.
Where your wildest dreams lie not
in your heart but in your favourite shop.

In this land of greed and want
and discord of the highest scale.

Is it peace and virtue that won
you the right to work from home;
eating breakfast in bed, worrying
only if jokes are stale?

Is it fine that your success
has led others to fail?

In this game of snakes and ladders
who populates the pit?

Those who were unfortunate
enough to be born into it.
ConnectHook Feb 2020
I used to write
I can’t be a poet
because a poem is about race-grievances
and identity-mongering,
speaking with a country drawl
unveiling a *******-*** flag
or letting the words pound like metal
into the brains of brothers
who will never understand
and vote for Trump.
But, I’ve spent my life as a white boy
a part oriental, straight-haired,
thin-lipped,
small-***** White boy
and the poem will surely come out right
like me.

And, I don’t want everyone misinterpreting.

If I could be a gun-owning patriot
with concealed carry,
someone’s Ken doll and Clint Eastwood,
I’d be poetry in motion
without shooting a round
and wouldn’t have to make sense if I did.
If I were militant, I could be peaceful and mad
instead of an evil, pouting confederate general
a *******, passed over
crumbled and passed over,
a *******
crumbled in the bushes.

My father tells me
I used to run home crying
that I wanted to be black like my sisters.
She shook her head and told me
there was nothing wrong with my skin-lightener.
She didn’t tell me I was racist
(so my face wouldn’t swell up).

White boys cannot afford to
have delusions of Afrocentrism,
not drumming, singing off-key,
dry and rigid White boys.

And even though in Amerikkka
I was mistaken for someone’s professor or landlord
or policeman down south,
even though I swore
never again to walk with my hair straight,
proud,
ever to care
that those people who denigrate
the popular brand of diversity
don’t feel me,
it still shatters.

Looking through a window, it shatters.
Standing next to my lover
when someone dark gets that
“he ain’t no NBA star” expression
it shatters.

But it’s not so sad now.
I can cry about it,
Shoot hoops and write poems
about all those lay-ups,
my age and shading.
I’m through waiting for hope and change,
the 80’s didn’t throw me a bone
and as many years as I’ve been
White like Ivory
White like the clouds
I have seen in the water
and the sights of my brothers
that ugly is the man in light
who withers with hating.


An adjusted rewrite.
Homage to Bill de Blasio's wife, poetess and mental-health rights reformer Chirlane McCray

I used to think
I can’t be a poet
because a poem is being everything you can be
in one moment,
speaking with lightning protest
unveiling a fiery intellect
or letting the words drift feather-soft
into the ears of strangers
who will suddenly understand
my beautiful and tortured soul.
But, I’ve spent my life as a Black girl
a *****-headed, no-haired,
fat-lipped,
big-bottomed Black girl
and the poem will surely come out wrong
like me.

And, I don’t want everyone looking at me.

If I could be a cream-colored lovely
with gypsy curls,
someone’s pecan dream and sweet sensation,
I’d be poetry in motion
without saying a word
and wouldn’t have to make sense if I did.
If I were beautiful, I could be angry and cute
instead of an evil, pouting mammy *****
a ****** woman, passed over
conquested and passed over,
a ****** woman
to do it to in the bushes.

My mother tells me
I used to run home crying
that I wanted to be light like my sisters.
She shook her head and told me
there was nothing wrong with my color.
She didn’t tell me I was pretty
(so my head wouldn’t swell up).

Black girls cannot afford to
have illusions of grandeur,
not ***-kicking, too-loud-laughing,
mean and loose Black girls.

And even though in Afrika
I was mistaken for someone’s fine sister or cousin
or neighbor down the way,
even though I swore
never again to walk with my head down,
ashamed,
never to care
that those people who celebrate
the popular brand of beauty
don’t see me,
it still matters.

Looking for a job, it matters.
Standing next to my lover
when someone light gets that
“she ain’t nothin come home with me” expression
it matters.

But it’s not so bad now.
I can laugh about it,
trade stories and write poems
about all those put-downs,
my rage and hiding.
I’m through waiting for minds to change,
the 60’s didn’t put me on a throne
and as many years as I’ve been
Black like ebony
Black like the night
I have seen in the mirror
and the eyes of my sisters
that pretty is the woman in darkness
who flowers with loving.

©1983 Chirlane McCray
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