My pulse is at 92 BPM.
But it doesn't matter,
I'm the only one who would care,
But I don't.
Not just about the pulse,
But about everything.
It's all a blur,
But not blurry enough to be dreamlike.
It's blurry enough to be sad,
But that's it.
It's blurry enough to see that I'm alone,
But clear enough that it's still sad.
Maybe I should get new glasses.

an average human creature should such a mythical exist
in a lifetime will celebrate about 2,200,000,000 heartbeats,
billions of heartbeats per minute (I prefer moment)
but like everything so essence human there are
those very few heartbeat moments,
the ten or twenty maybe forty total in a lifetime
that you total truly remember,
recalling the cream and sauce,
swell and the hell,
of the pounding so slow so hard,
each one a volcano of
a moment until that day
you don't remember-anything

when she said yes and you're shaking and beating in a
*****-tonk rhythm cause you were heart undressed unsure
and truly afraid of a rejection that makes a heart stoppage
disallowing visions, to be exponentially happy future imagined

you're feeling your heartbeat
in your knees going weak,
when the doctor says:

congratulations healthy swell
and/or
some years later,
I'm so so truly sorry, hell

when they hand you a long handle shovel no instructions needed and that scoop of earth weighs two tons and the sound of slow reverb in your head hurts like hell and you lack the strength to move and they move you aside quiet gentle like
but inside the temple of the two headed hydra-heart,
it's the rock and roll of slo mo, the violin crying, the drumming of
heavy metal chords plucked so slowly, it's you froze screaming

a billionaire of heartbeats you are,
but only ten or twenty maybe forty total in a lifetime
you total truly remember with the perfect clarity and
forever renders into your own unique orchestral symphony,
your true net worth, the stripes you wear
upon your shoulders skin,  
the tune when you hear it and melts you into rigidity

you fall to your knees wherever you are,
that is where you will find me,
just listen for the cars horns blaring
cursing the man lying in the street, re-listening to
ten or twenty maybe forty heartbeats total in a lifetime

you alone total truly that concert set recall and
the win-loss record inherent, inhiment,
in both of them, tears and the rents, all there in the tunes,
of forty beatings you took,
somehow it feels like here is, there was,
the answers to
where is shelter for the heart,
the answers that have gone and come and gone and someone says,

I don't feel a pulse

you should’ve never unpacked your bags,
because it gave me this expectation that you were in this for the long run. i’m still running. i have swallowed so much blood that tastes like your regret from biting down my tongue to cage it behind my teeth from screaming about you to a world that wants my blood for ink.
i am more than a number, but 24 makes me feel better than 26, so i sit in jeans that leave red marks on my hips and make it hard to breathe, but see it’s two inches and
i am more than a number, but i know every test score i ever got and still remember fourth grade and question three and crying because suddenly my mistakes had weight and i couldn’t fix things by saying sorry and
i am more than a number, but i was always the middle child, always the not-quite one, not the best friend to anyone, just a girl with kind eyes and jeans that are a little bit too tight and
i am more than a number but to you i am seventeen, ten and three. and lets be clear; it’s the three that haunts me, because *** doesn’t matter and ‘girlfriend’ is just a label, but i wish i was the first girl you truly loved, and sometimes i still wish i was the last, but with you i fear i’ll forever be just another number.
i drove over 17 bridges the other day and next week i'll do it again and i think nobody gets what that means except maybe you.
i just tell them i love the scenery, that somebody must've made these trees blush just for me.
you know how i love to change the subject?
i bet they'd love the view. i bet you would too.
and all these metaphors for other things are beside the point.
this is a metaphor for why i don't wear my seatbelt, a metaphor for why whiskey knows me better than you could ever try to.
all the buildings seemed to sag yesterday and all the stars are doing that cliche thing where they talk quiet jet noise and some lumbering giant made everything shake.
not those hand metaphors, not another one of those & keep the sea to yourself,
i think it was a train, it's sound hugged the embankment for a moment and then trailed off into nowhere,
and that's kind of like me
how there's a town called 'rescue' close to my home and it's no coincidence that i've never been there.
i’m just flatlining now and hoping that you can look at the next girl the way i looked at you.

PLEDGE TO NIGERIA
By: Adigun Temitope Idealism


From between heaven and earth stand a perilous place
Where poverty kicked us on face
Tears stand as our drinks
Where hunger eat up our meals
Our pain is a poisonous laughter
Where sadness becomes our daily activities
Where hardship becomes our ambition
And sorrow our career
Still, we need to pledge to Nigeria

Blood, bone and oil,
Are the pedestal of earth
Where killing is a lifestyle
And ****** a hobby
Where humiliation becomes our take home
And misfortune our store-house
Where graduate works by the road-side
Where poverty is titillating and titivating before the mirror of our land
Yet we need to pledge to Nigeria

Pledge to Nigeria
Even when the birds refuses to sing,
When moon dims its light,
When our days turn into nights
When sun fails to shine
And flowers refuse to bloom
When life fails to give reasons
When dreams refuse to forgive
When the weep inside birth the smile outside
When tears wash hope from our sight
Nigeria must still be pledge to

I pledge to Nigeria
Not to be one if the ambassadors that sing the National Anthem with a teleprompter smiling at them in a shameful tears
I pledge not to be a naked masquerade dancing at the village square
I pledge to steal government money for the poor when I become the President
I pledge to be loyal and not betrayal
I pledge to fight off vices and calamities with my pen
If democracy must to end
I pledge to go crazy to stop it to the end
If civilization was to make us stupid
I pledge to swim in stupidity not to be civilised
I pledge, I pledge

©2015 Adigun Temitope Idealism (Deacon)


#Muse #PurposefulPoetry #BPM #IIB #Asaplanet #ThoughtAndSociety #Poetfreak
blackpridemagazin.simplesite.com
@blackpridemag1

born in 1975
40 odd beat  
song now old
enough to buy a cold
drink

cold drink

We're hitting funk levels that shouldn't even be possible.
recommended algorithm
algorithm
recommended
for your ears only
We're hitting funk levels that shouldn't even be possible.

come band
funk funkier,
summon Brown
back from the dead.


Fibonacci's rabbit on steroids
what’s your count
Feel this beat
Fibonacci's rabbit on steroids
0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55,

seek me the vodoooo advice
quick turn to  23/16
(3+3+3+3+3+3+3+2)
probably overhearing
overhearing what is truly not there 

it's my juju baby

over the speed limit
sound so slow
150 BPM
we’ve gone over the speed limit
billion BPM
and a
beat

direct line to NASA
monitored funk levels
from outer space

audio crackcocaine
legal be it \
this
speed deep beat

band come
come come
now

funkier,

Brown sermons
back from the dead.

James loves  
brown brow
tall dark seregeti

beat
Mandingo beat

Khoudia Diop Repeats
If they got any funkier,
they'd summon James Brown
back from the dead

Fibonacci's rabbit on steroids
what’s your count
Feel this beat
Fibonacci's rabbit on steroids
0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55,

Warning: Do not turn the speed up to two.
YOU WILL BE OUT FUNKED.
double WITCHED

If speed is increased, wash eyes

Khoudia Diop Repeats
wash your eyes
ice cold

water

speed of sound
quicken your pace
release your soul

seek me
the vodoooo advice.

levels of funkiness been
theoretized
never imagined
achieved

born in 1975
Dumisaning
40 odd years ago.
song now old
enough to buy a cold
drink.
drink

seek me
thee vodoooo advice.
I have beaten about
this beat before.

75
beats per minute,
as calculated
by scientific studies
sometimes,
though,
it feels like
my heart disregards science entirely
in my worst moments
i might as well have been at 1,
not nearly dead
but certainly getting there
my heart still beats,
75 beats
(for the most part)
every minute
75 beats
as you are reading this,
as i wrote it
the average bpm
for an alive person

relaxing? relaxing would be a sin against myself. see God spun and wove golden bits of wisdom in these curls that are mine. see these curls spring loud with
songs of my Nubian
mothers and war cries of my Rasta fathers. see these curls bounce proud to the rhythm of tribal drums and the foot prints of my sisters from Manila reside
there as they roll
lumpia between the coils and springs. see these curls have moved sandstone bricks cross deserts, building divine architecture so perfectly aligned
with cosmos and
planets until Moses told Pharaoh to Let My People Go. these curls have traveled cross oceans and triangles packed like sardines squalid below the decks
of ships. see these
curls have been ***** by the nasty ***** in the big house and suffered sun strokes in cotton fields. see these curls sing loud and strong. See these curls
were branded and forced
at gunpoint behind ******* barbed wire fences gassed to death in the name of so called purification. see these curls bleed the pain of fire hoses and dog
bites and whites
only signs. see these curls wont back down gainst no burnin crosses gainst no swastikas gainst no elephant ******* talkin all that jazz on fox and cnn. see
these curls dance
wildly off beat to straight rhythms that drone on in 4/4 time c major sixty bpm. see these curls are Mas and my Grammas.  see my curls are too proud to sit
back and chill and won’t take no **** or heat or hot air. see these curls cannot be contained in braids or scarves or jars of creamy crack. see
these curls dare you
to force them to
coerce them to
straighten up
their act. my curls.
my curls. my curls.
my curls. my curls.
my curls. my curls.
my curls. my curls.
my curls will not
******* relax.

120 beats per minute and I can’t stop thinking about you
It is the moments I lay under these sheets and
The moments I spend alone
I am tossing and turning with unattainable relief
My lips resembling a dog’s chew toy
Because there are so many words that I cannot say
But I can bite them into morse code on my skin

I am groaning, exasperated, the light beginning to pour in from behind those blinds
6am and I still can’t stop thinking about you

The delicacy of your words flutters and lands upon me like a butterfly
Pounding headaches and strife towards euphoria
All leading towards the realization that
Oblivion is inevitable  
And facing death is much simpler
Than telling you the way I feel
Because I can think about life and ponder about death
but I still can’t stop thinking about you too

I can’t stop thinking
Not about your warm brown eyes
The warmest I’ve ever seen
Or the tone your voice takes when
you begin to explain something to me
And the smooth skin behind your neck
And the taste of your lips
Will have me up all day
Because I sure as hell didn’t sleep last night

I am in some sort of paradoxical tortured pleasure
that picks me up and pummels me down
With each profound effect of your words
Ringing in my ears and
Having my pillow greet my face
For another night of painful thoughts about the pleasure of you

does she know
how many times
p e r  m i n u t e
you tap your fingers on your thighs
when you're about to see her?

does she know
how many millimeters
your eyes dilate
when you see her?
but not me, not me

does she know
how white your knuckles are
when you hear that
somebody hurt her?
and i can hear you boiling

tell her to keep a tally
and beg me to not

i'm good at math;
counting things i'll never have.

I am not a record

so please don't play me.


A play on 78 rpm (revolutions per min for those too young for vinyl lol )

tizz is love it or hate it, nuttin' in between
addicted to yayo like sheen, 500 bpm heartbeat
don't do it anymore, but remain psychotic
and hunt down idiotics like a carnivore

from florida to berlin, from tropic to toxic
deep in da game, da grimy streetz know my name
it'z tizzop, 14.8 inchez of hip-hop

hangin' at rashid'z, shisha ready, cuban necklace
three men in da back but ya don't know who it iz
all of 'em are dark-skinned, all of 'em are bearded
most important of all: all of 'em are fearless

we don't know what it meanz to be scared
just some migrantz who will now be heard
da territory split up: kurdz, arabz and turkz
we got our own law, like omerta, like da cosa

one apartment here, and one block' there
like bushido did, back in da dayz wit fler
sonny black carlo, godfatherz, yeeeah

power is about makin it and takin it, unlike nine said
unlike any other guy said, and if ya don't wanna buy it
find ya eyez in da wine-red, da choppaz are wild catz
ya can use them for da furiouz, some become notoriouz

otherz don't and die, but dey will be honored:
watch da muralz; urban networkz, also in da rural,
and five-o just remainz neutral; it is crucial to be brutal
as it iz to remain truthful; lyricistz can't deal wit diz
g-boy attitude of tizz: letz celebrate diversity
and ante up on google, i write barz and do diz
i'm a little too youthful for these oldskoolish