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Desmond the poet May 2018
I'm a DJ, a Disk jockey.
My fingers are like a jockey stick.
I breathe and live House music.
The first descendant of Disco music.

I'm the descendant of Frankie Knuckles.
My tunes ease listener's glooms.
I'm a predator, music beats are my prey.
House music is the only language I understand.
I busk locally and internationally.

I'm a beast, not just any beast.
Beast that play 4/4 repetitive beats.
I play tunes that move with heart beats.
My tunes aren't restricted to race or religion.
Behind the deck, I'm thee "House beast"
Dedicated to my boy Thendo Davhana aka "House beast". One of the upcoming and potential DJ of the future.
zumee  Oct 2018
zumee Oct 2018
Khoi-San Aug 2018
Filled to the brim
Pizza Huts
Burning rubber
Dj''s club'n pub
Dancing duel
Free spirits and
**** riddled
Irie cast Bob's Inn
The beat go's on
Bright lights
Stripped trousers
Men on bikes
Ladies sell flowers
Restaurant's cappuccino
Long street lives
Cosmopolitan heaven
Twenty four seven
Beneath Table Mountain Long Street
A must do for tourists
'And when was this? I dunno, I dunno:
like everything else, twenty years ago.' - August Kleinzahler

Whosis slunk next to the rastamagnet
dj booth, in a limabeanhued suit
jacket, limabean sleeves rolledup to
deploy albino ancons for jostling.
My ****** lungs ached; gluttonous Venomised
pelicanbills. Cig o' no mercy, cig of life.
Serpivolent smoke is nicocreaming
ceiling of this dive Dasein dosses in.
Unrequiting snoutcloud of her chuffing
form siffles thru her mousy enamel.
'Light reflecting booster technology',
advertising Boswellox, scents her hair.
Male Black Widow Complex boings in my brain,
as the vogueress exits conceivable zone
of address. Yet she cigawrenches
my stalking thoughts across the pumptup ballroom.
O those farouche salad nights following
swotting up in the humid Octagon!
Male Black Widow Complex, th'always boinging,
lidded by lemony orange lager.
I crashed Crasherkid frabble, rocked to
DJ Shoppinghour feat. MC Niche Jah.
My Sax Pustules & Dead Kinnocks LPs
accusingly mouldered in my heart.
Crasherkids twatted then, dated now, now
grooveriders haggard. But time was the thud
of arterial Cherry7up
was the dub of their youthful BPM.
Triptown beefnecks w/ classic legoman's
Acid House ecaf (before e-cafes
had come & gone), mandy stag party.
I still slow my pace at their fearless napes.
The rock club had delusions of grunger,
crush at the bar was lumberjack cubism.
Era of Jingajing-chicka-jing-jing Kurt,
anno domudhoney, left a zeitgash.
& in the goth club, cadavolescent,
guylinered Xennials listened to
Placebo, but poo-pooed manginas.
Identi90s: genres, not genders.
Blotto elbows on sudsy bar, I cross
lanky barkeep's gulchy palm w/ nugget
for latest in a lost count of snakebites.
Streak of **** is a broom in a skinnytie.
'I'm hyperboring as much as you!' quip I
to a cheetahthinking softdrinker.
There'd be no ruction if pickled franion
spilt his Tab Clear Kaliber, H2ooze.
Yestreen's teen mums of teen mums, renubile
on the glash. Simuladies who soft soap
saps to buy them...a drink, QVCexy.
If shopgilfs surrender the goods, QVChy.
Whosis, tattie-bogie of the floor,
turned Turok w/ liebestorschlusspanik.
But his limabean lines are jejune, even to
zirconia Zsa Zsas on the zhelf.
Whosis, lima green last chancer, I'm a
aphroluddite like you. Both crud dancers
too, corybantersauruses. It's all
smoke 'n' mingers & we've got lunge cancer.
'There's a party on the hillside, would you like
to come? Bring your own cup & saucer
& your own cream bun!' Friends joyride
home dead, so ride dead joy home alone.
Simian, simulacrum, something for
the weekend, sir? Or are weekends just for
something before ip dip dogshit
******* ******* silly *** meet the kids then what?
Stereotripe, not Stereospeare, yet unknown
plexors would kick in. Or was it the joypop?
Popliteal self on higher neon knees,
Mother Brown's got nothing on me!
Anansesum of my fancy footwork,
Bez in blossom under tiger strobe.
Chemical cochise, call me 'Tarantulip':
totem, tarantism, bruxism, bloom.
Yeah, I liked DJ Offroseanne before
the coward sounds of Simoncowellland
killed Cool. Taxi for the Corpse of Cool/
fetch your coat, love, you've pulled the Corpse of Cool!
Since the ears dot, aural laurels were hot.
& the beat authenticity lays down
is still the drill sergeant instrumental
that leads blind zeit pipers of all pied geists.
Lima bean fugue, forearm flash, Dear John tats.
Nocturnal vernal mental of the comeup
becomesdown w/ no summerlove, bad trip
(Raggaman Kafka say 'Uneazee Dreamz').
'Taxi Driver' cinematography,
neon printcest of clubland signs dimmens.
Pick up your tuttifrutti braindamage
- time to go home, hungover twichildren.
jerelii Jan 2014
Exotic & dangerous

Life is shorter than what we know or think
so i must enjoy my life freely
do the extreme things before i die

Had to do  things that i want
and dreams that i want to fulfill
even from my last breathe

Because i want to
Because im curious of every single thing
Even from the way you breathe or ****
Then i want to spread this
and lend me a hand

Then come with me!
And make this world worth living!
then we can jump to tallest building like ****

This things that i wanted really so bad

To fly somewhere
were everyone can't recognize me

To play in the rain
and be a kid once again

To travel around the world
were i can find myself
and perhaps discover something knew
that i haven't been before

Go picnic and eat some snacks with friends
were i could laugh on top of  my lungs

Go partyin' late at night
were i can control and make some noise
like a dj bass

Go to a concert
to a great rock band

Go shopping to the mall
and be a fashion clique

Produce a music
were birds could come and go with you

Represent to your country
and be a world champion human beatbox

Write stories
and be an author
of my own journey

Cause YOLO
you only live once
in your life
and there




                 A        D       V           E       N        T        
© 2014 January
Deztine Lorenza Nov 2015
Malcom was fed 16 bullets because of his. A slug kissed the jaw of King Jr. and silenced him forever. Gandhi shriveled like snakeskin. Joan of Arc became Joan of Ash- so you can understand why Melle Mel was jittery scribbling it all down, on a napkin, at Lucy's Noodle Shop in Harlem. Sweat poured into his green tea. He thought Jesus hanging from the dull wood. Heard about the poet Lorca under an olive tree, shot in the back. Everyone has felt this way through, he thought, never could he have imagined what would happen when he pressed his thumbprint into vinyl. Hip-Hop was still a tadpole. The DJ had just learned to scratch a record and make sounds no ear had never conjugated. How was he to know Tupac and Biggie would follow his lead and get plugged with lead? So he wrote it down, in big curling letters, emphatic: **DON'T PUSH ME
Nassif Younes Apr 2016
The night began at 9 p.m.
A hundred people filled the room
And when the DJ dropped the beat
The dancers began to dance -
Some in time,
Some out of time.
They danced for hours through
Sore feet and aching legs
Until the soles of their shoes began to wear,
One step at a time
Into the floor.

When their soles had worn too far,
They kicked off their flapping shoes
And stamped them
One step at a time
Into the floor.
Shortly after,
Their socks followed.
They began to pop their blisters
And resign the dead skin on their heels
To the floor.
“Do you think we can stop now?”
Asked someone,
“This is starting to hurt.”
“Absolutely not!”
Said another,
“We have to carry on!
This is a good night
And we have to carry on!”

And so they danced their bare feet
Over a floor of wood
And worn out leather.
They danced until their feet bled
And their soles were perfectly flat.
As they danced through their last
Layers of skin,
Their bones began to grind
And *****
And break off with the beat,
Some in time,
Some out of time.

They danced until their toes
And fifty-two bones
Were worn away.
They danced until they were now
A hundred pairs
Of ****** stumps
On a ****** floor.
They danced on
Worn out leather
Worn out flesh
And crushed up bone dust,
Which disguised
The *******,
The mephedrone,
The 3,4-methylenedioxy-methamphetamine,
And the crushed up pills
Giving the blind bouncers an excuse
To turn their blind eyes.
“Do you think we can stop now?”
Asked someone struggling to
Do the stump,
Do the stump,
“Absolutely not!”
Said another,
“We have to carry on!
The song is still playing
And we have to carry on!”

And so they danced their ****** stumps
Resigning little parts of flesh and bone,
One stumpy step at a time,
To the floor.
The blind bouncers could hear the snaps -
A shin ***** here,
A kneecap screamer there
And drawn out femurs everywhere,
Some in time,
Some out of time.

When the last leg had gone
They began to dance away their hips
And their reasons
For coming out in the first place.
“Do you think we can stop now?”
Asked someone struggling to
Rock the ****,
Rock the ****,
“My stuff won’t work if I beat it much longer.”
“Absolutely not!
Said another,
Already down to his second ball,
“We have to carry on!
This is a good night
And we have to carry on!”

And so they laid to waste
Their waists,
Discarded their stomachs with haste
And worked their ****** torsos
Two ribs at a time -
Some in time,
Some out of time -
To the floor.
“Can we stop now?”
Asked someone struggling to
Do the ****** torso,
Do the ****** torso,
“Absolutely not!
Said another,
“We have to carry on!
The song is still playing
And we have to carry on!”

And so they danced away their torsos,
Clapped away their hands
And wore away their arms
Until the DJ leaned over to see
A hundred bobbing heads
Bobbing away on
The ******,
Powdered floor.
“Surely we can stop now.”
Said one of the heads,
Talking through a hole
She had chewed through her cheek.
“Absolutely not!
Said another,
“We have to carry on.
This is a good night
And we have to carry on.”

And so they danced through
Their necks,
Their jaws,
Their noses,
Their ears
And their eyes.
The blind bouncers
Kept their shades
Over their blind eyes
Until all at once,
Just before the final bass drop
They heard the smash
Of a hundred shattered skulls,
All in time,
And pulled down their shades
To see a hundred brains
Spilled out over the floor.

The music stopped,
The blind bouncers
Turned their blind eyes home,
The DJ grabbed himself
A glass of water
And the manager emerged from his office
To prepare for the next one
Which begins tonight at 9 p.m.

He would remind you not to be late
But he knows you won’t be.
Jordan Rowan Apr 2016
It takes a lot to be level-headed
When I see where we're headed
I think of everything and I just want to sing
Would you like to take a drive with me?
And stay alive with me

I know I probably shouldn't tell you
But I'm contemplating Bellevue
Maybe West Louisiana or eastern Havana
Doesn't matter much to me
Just stay alive with me
And take a drive with me

I know that I'm merely 22
But I'm gonna be dying soon
And I don't want to regret things I haven't conquered yet
So would you take a drive with me?
And be a prize with me?

I can't tell you where we're going
Because I have no way of knowing
Just be the DJ for me and sing before you speak
And take a drive with me
To stay alive with me
How They First Meet~

She wants to hear 'her song'
one more time, that Saturday-
She calls up her favorite station
hoping she'll get her way!

She gets the wrong dj man-
or might... he actually be the right?
They laugh and talk alot-
as she called him twice that night!

He asks for her number
by the end of their call.
She quickly gives it to him,
not waiting to stall!

He calls her, as he drives home.
Her phone rings...
She smiles, knowing 'its him'-
by the song that it sings!


COPYRIGHT; Sabrina Denise Healey,
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