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Sam WG May 2014
I can hear the Band of Gypsys  
When I find her sitar eyes
But I can guess what she sees
With her moist mouth jarring wide
******* clouds from the sky

Hoodoo Voodoo Medicine Girl
In a thunderstorm of dirt stained pearls
Tranquillity is everything
As we all float down to hear her sing
And she knows full well
That she can pollinate anything
Simply without the need to sting

The half mast will be put in place  
As your heart's pump gathers in pace

If you're anticipating to catch her near
Don't act surprised if you're left to persevere
When you finally catch a glimpse
Things won't quite be as they appear  
She'll be floating in the stratosphere
Soaring high with no fear
Cos if you did not know
The Hoodoo Voodoo Medicine Girl
Burns on the fuel of your fresh tears.
Anon C May 2017
I ripped my love for you from my heart
With a hoodoo doll
I couldn’t take no more of this
Waiting for a fall
And so I let you go
And so I bid you farewell

You see I can’t trust you
Cause I can’t trust me
Not to fall in love with you
Completely
And so I cut you out of my heart
And set you to the side to view from afar

Now you’re safe and sound inside my guitar
So I can hear your love echo through the stars
And now I will be free
Now your love doesn’t live in me

I ripped my love for you from my heart
With a hoodoo doll
I couldn’t take no more of this
Waiting for a fall
As it is sung

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U6Kk3rPBqKg
zebra Sep 2018
have you ever seen beauty in a silky nightmare
have you  ever seen the monster of deprivation in heavens promise?

we speak of private things
we should never talk about
about vailed women
and their terrible secrets
and about myself who remains no longer a secret to myself

somewhere i went off the track
like a  daisy chain saw of honesty
to ensure you knew i was sick
a sick **** with a trick
as if i ate some ****** up hallucinogenic' s
making me spill my obsessions all over you
like some weird perfumed *****
down a swirling rainbow toilet
that turns out to be only jelly and whipped cream
wrapped in colored ribbons on cellophane tampons

i feel like  having *** or going to the toilet in public
while waving my hands up in the air
screaming yahoo i'm free
to blow to kingdom come
the temple of normalcy
you know
the church of rose gardens, cemeteries and deprivations
except of course for the sneers, smears
and self loathing vanilla demons
who wear long see through dresses and crosses
like dash board plastic virgins
with bobbing heads
that make hissing sounds about sin

i confess
i'm attracted to the darkest women
strange *******
and  ******
the stranger the better
who shake their butts
like hoodoo enchanted show girls
doing what they shouldn't do
crying and scrying like cooing moons calling
"drink me like ****** Mary
daddy **** lollypop"
all inky tats and razorblade ouchies

or
you can join those
covered in white collared black as death habits
begging the invisible *** cake in paradise
waiting for mercy and a little ****
that never comes
stuck in an empty
loveless bar of crucifixes that only serves up theology

oh baby
***** dreams do come true
pink ****** ***** gladly widen their haunches
like **** without boots
not caring if they go to hell
playin
like a joy ride of fiddle **** sticks
all freaky tongues and tingling licks
thick saliva multi lingual blow jobs
lathering flashing lipped saliva for the squirt  
with fiery wet hypodermic kisses
that make screams
like creamed upleaping lava and ash
for a million hungry sexed up twisting tongues
in occult ecstasy
fecundating shrouds of steamy clouds
in stained red black lighted rooms
with cherub crowned *****
and their drooling snatches buttered ****

eat quivering
like fowl mouthed piranhas
crying more raw meat please
while you drag your perfect person visage
into hollow caves of despair
cold and lonely

so you forlorn love struck weeping
horney pathetic scarecrow
socially engineered robots
if you want love
like heated buttery waffles with sweet jam
just give your self away like slutty putty
to lust criminals and *** addicted pervs  
until
you feel someone swallow you whole
soul and all
and lick their lips
like your their cherry pie

then look passed your
rats nest of pride and exhaustive approval list
and love them back
like free beer
bang their brains out
be their slave and make them yours
in the mad house of love
of warped shimmering mirrors, straight jackets, and squeezy insertions

and if one day they don't appreciate your imperfect perfection
if they weaponize like critic's
teach them respect
shove it where they breathe
lick your wounds
be brave
throw them in the trash bin of history
and move on

Eros and Venus
take a million forms

look around
your swimming in a giant bowl of broken hearts
hungry mouths, drenched ***** and hard *****

you whimpering little beasts
dress to ****
undress to live

its a movable feast
advice to the lovelorn young
thank you to Lora Lee for the line
" swirling toilet rainbows"
Dawn King May 2017
We crossed into Louisiana
Right about witching hour
The energy there
Invades the aura
Years of compacted sorrow
Combined with the
Old ways of root doctors
And esoteric power

You take the Hoodoo
To the crossroads

We're in the back roads
Of Monroe
They talk to you there
Ya know

I put my bare feet
To the swampy grasses
At the railroad tracks
Illuminated by the waxing moon

Hail Hecate!
We envoke thee
Commit this wax and ash
To the earth
Blessed be )0(
This poem is an original work by Dawn King and my intellectual property. It must not be copied or used in any writings, publications, photos, or online platforms without my express permission.
Brycical Nov 2014
Sing songs of parsley vivacious ***** jazz.                                    

Dance that moon hoodoo rattlesnake tango.

Play ancient games like enter the mysterious iridescent doorway.

Smoke your poetry books.                    

Remember to forget your cell phone in the shower drain.

Cauterize your family pictures onto magazines and newspapers.          

Sail across the ghost waters of unforgiven memories.

Throw yourself into your heartstrings.                                                    

String yourself onto your nirvana sphere.            

Lick the soul.

Burn square enclosures.          

Paint with your mind's mouth instead of the hands.                      

Live and ******.
Chris D Aechtner Jul 2012
The flames be flyin' hot tonight,
so the horns be heatin' up just right!

Skeep-deep-do-bop-bee-bop-do-skeetle-****-woo-woo, hell-bop-ba-ska-da fra-la-la-la-la-la-la-foo-foo, yous,
look-see-dee-wee-boys doin' da voodoo,
look-see-dee-wee-girls playin' wid hoodoo.

Cuz, I'm a ****-man,
it's a fat fact ma'am!
Yeah, I'm a ****-man,
it's a fat fact ma'am.

And I dun gives a ****
if there's no reason to the ****-plan.

If you come across the fancy bowler hat,
dun be afraid to start stuttering the big skat:

Batta-tat-tat looksee-da-flat-uncool-rat
givin' his square-eyed-glare to-the-****-cats     ~meow~
skee-shee-flyin'-the-sillee like a banshee,
singin' sillee-skee-shee-all-fancee-free -

and we putssss on the br(e)ak(e)s

just            
like                                                  thisssssss­s (!)


      and
                in  h    a         l               e ....


Go! Go!              GO!

Skeep-deep-do-bop -bee- bop-do-skeetle-****-woo-woo,
hell-bop ba-ska-da fra-la-la-la-la-la-la-foo-foo,
look-see-dee-wee-boys doin' da voodoo,
look-see-dee-wee-girls playin' wid-hoodoo.

Yeah, I'm a ****-man,
it's a fact ma'am!                       x2
Yeah, I'm a ****-man,  
it's a fact ma'am.
February 18th, 2012
Adam Latham Oct 2014
Where is my left?
Where is my right?
What is this mist that eclipses the light?
What are my bearings
And where is the sun?
I cannot go back
And I cannot sail on.
I am lost,
I am lost,
Will I ever be free
Of this fingerlike fog
On this mystery sea.
Caught the vampire's failing smile,
cracked by teeth & venom,
wind-walking among the trees,
talking to the vipers
& the rats & the bats & the
men of the old bonetown.

Mr Mann had the right idea,
burn your books & get the hell outta Dodge.
Do not pass go & do not stop,
do NOT make out in the back of a beat-up old auto
parked next to the hypermarket on Dawn & Vine.

Mr Mann up front,
peering through the cracks in the windscreen,
the cracks in reality.
He can see the vampire's slow smile,
the shadows passing across the face of the TV screen,
& hear the old ghost voices,
the old radio voices, the 1949 voices.

Blood on leather,
black roots rising,
saliva on after-effects & after-echoes,
the apocalypse riders chasing the moon up the old dark valley,
the moon chasing the apocalypse riders right back
down the old dark valley to whatever hell they came from.

The vampires! The vampires!
Children beat hasty retreats,
hide under the boxes back of the laundromat,
not daring to peek
as black boots crunch gravel.

Mr Mann has the right surmise,
get outta the books & into guns,
get into heavy metal & iron drag,
get into lead & something magickal,
long forgotten lore & hoodoo voodoo
from years & years ago.

The vampire's smile turns awful yellow,
fades as the stars wheel & that tired old sun begins its ascent,
fades as the dawn breaks over the desert winds & cacti
& the lovers wake in their motel room in the back of beyond
& fumble for their stakes & knives & garlic *****.

Easy now for Mr Mann in the sun-kissed big blue.
Hunt it down in the tumbledowns & old desert towns.
Kick off the jams, break open the locks.
Hose it down with oil & strike a match.
Burn the reality right off that face
& that face right off reality

Splat on the sand. Grue on the sand. Black on the sand.
Mr Mann walking back to the autombile, back to happiness,
radio playing a little something from 92,
or was it 93, he really can't remember now.
john p green Oct 2017
To crystalize butterfly mid flight.
Donning brief shades of sight.
Walk nor way for watching strays.
Toss a coin, it clatters it flays.
Twirling echoing mysticism.
Draw deep rhasping rhythm.
Finding minds which boggle.
Exhaling words gods muddle.
Mary Balcom Jan 2016
Here
Is a timely
Noun to consider
From the Merriam-Webster page.

"Trumpery."

Note (at bottom) the list of near-antonyms;
what is the opposite of trumpery?

[Popularity: Bottom 40% of words]

trumpery
noun trum·pery \ˈtrəm-p(ə-)rē\

Definition of trumpery

1
a : worthless nonsense b : trivial or useless articles : junk <a wagon loaded with household trumpery — Washington Irving>

2
archaic : ****** finery

Origin of trumpery

Middle English (Scots) trompery deceit, from Middle French, from tromper to deceive

First Known Use: 15th century

Examples of trumpery

<claims for weight-loss products that are based much more on Madison-Avenue trumpery than on bariatric science>

Related to trumpery

Synonyms
applesauce [slang], balderdash, baloney (also boloney), beans, bilge, blah (also blah-blah), blarney, blather, blatherskite, blither, bosh, bull [slang], bunk, bunkum (or *******), claptrap, codswallop [British], crapola [slang], crock, drivel, drool, fiddle, fiddle-faddle, fiddlesticks, flannel [British], flapdoodle, folderol (also falderal), folly, foolishness, fudge, garbage, guff, hogwash, hokeypokey, hokum, hoodoo, hooey, horsefeathers [slang], humbug, humbuggery, jazz, malarkey (also malarky), moonshine, muck, nerts [slang], nuts, piffle, poppycock, punk, rot, *******, senselessness, silliness, slush, stupidity, taradiddle (or tarradiddle), tommyrot, tosh, trash, nonsense, twaddle

Related Words
absurdity, asininity, fatuity, foolery, idiocy, imbecility, inaneness, inanity, insanity, kookiness, lunacy; absurdness, craziness, madness, senselessness, witlessness; hoity-toity, monkey business, monkeyshine(s), shenanigan(s), tomfoolery; gas, hot air, rigmarole (also rigamarole); double-talk, greek, hocus-pocus

Near Antonyms
levelheadedness, rationality, reasonability, reasonableness, sensibleness; common sense, horse sense, sense; discernment, judgment (or judgement), wisdom
By: Robinson Bolkum
Noel Johnson Feb 2013
Spirits, sages, mystics and wizards
shamans and charmers
voodoo, hoodoo...wanga and juju
and..
old old women- those teller of tales
weavers of dreams....casters of spells

Warnings of darkness and deepness
conjuring clues or readings
from spangled stars on black nights
Guidance on this spiritual journey... this mystical quest
Sunrise into sunset... dark into night

Answers to questions you never asked
Questions to answers
long buried in self shrouded past

There are those who would lead you
to dark alleys astray
Those who would steal your hearts diamonds,
your trust.. and betray

You hear whispers and rumors
strange tongues, and hushed voices... muffled sighs
You search for everything and nothing in the shadowy mist
What are true truths... what are lies?

Keep your eyes open..receive the whole
and know..
That real truth is sometimes
in the unexpected, the untold, the unwritten, the uncharted....

Like..
in the moment of exhale from one true kiss!
Q Jun 2013
We've written volumes
In blood and scars and ink
We've told a million stories
Thought a million things
We've lived some hundred lives
Laughed our faces pink
And we did all just because,
Mischievous little minx

Imagine if you'd never spoken
Never showed me who you are
Imagine if you'd been quiet
And never helped me with wolf lore
(I'm grateful, by the way)
Imagine if you hadn't stayed
Then imagine how you did
And then reach out to feel me
Because I'm not leaving
And neither are you
We've got humor and care
(And your pain-******* hoodoo)
So when we get old
We'll smile and think
And reread the volumes we wrote
In blood and scars and ink
This poem was written for notthequiettype's fanfiction on Ao3. It was a wonderful read, thank you.
Martin Narrod Apr 2017
Undercoverism, teenage soot inside of dry and crusty eyes. When the morning begs alarms to die, and she brings that familiar rain again. Some one that unknowns us, sheds a brutal light. Where the hole inside each child's head, may be disarmed across a deck of cards. In an anti-climactic exposition, where aces climb the sleeves, young Caucasian children find themselves in minorities.

Bubbling voodoo-hoodoo, soda water succumbing the Oro-Quincy spillway until the men have wept and every other woman gleans her brow. When we wake up in the poppy garden, when we've fallen asleep to one hundred cowardly clowns lifting themselves off the heap of a Volkswagen Rabbit. On Broadway heading to 14th Street, avoiding the sidewalk cracks via a jog through alphabet town. There are self-righteous no-ones, famous, auto-inflicted vicious inextricably ordinary and sub-par, barely scratching at their own averages, and hardly shaking words out of their id-sized corner offices at Avenue B & St. Marks.

By the shivering hands can tell, of which lowly smoking dactyls accentuate their currish farce, and amidst a stack of newsprint and cardboard, boxes and the bothersome, the most personal stranger no person should ever greet. Nor mahogany or oak manifold shall ever be select, and the hollowing sheath- Earth in her brilliant hues of green should forever keep unbeknownst to any selves heeding their milky skies' retreat.  

The oder fresh, from digits bending, collapses on the archway round the bed. Its hardened crime, it fails in pretending, like a lust in a sand plume, an eight-shaped glass ornament, arenosely erupting in a drizzling circumstance. We call it time.

It is a noise that summer caught on to, a broken heel, running up ways and ways to concrete squares, like California was only just pretending.

Goodness knows. Godness never around us. Healing can't be done, no book or prose can satisfy her, inasmuch as she belonged, creeping up eyes leapt to their suspension. Nibs erode into the conchoidal zone, some pressure to the ilia fossa. Some work furnishes settlers to the hips, cool wool and linen make an aperture of threading. Dreaming when the moon begins to permeate a looming glow, in an arc during achronychal silvery mists, withering beneath this flume of fancy.

Some of the wet cuts a hole-mess into  us. Wethered nymphs introduce the suffix of their succubus, is this the surreality the ethereal vapors make for our nexus. Beasts in a bold way, crimsony gore-dom, comes dominating greens to overgrow in this show.

Water soaks into the empty breath of words wrapping up tonight's syphon. Some hours of the past inside an alarm's sound torture. Hidden by inches, filling up the glass, every minute, every poppy, all the numbers seemed to help her.

Covers that fixe anew such random sleep, brings the devilish horror to pervert absent beeps. Until  the dots begin to close on us, and in slumber we rotate the words to assemble an acute understanding of being sorry for  sleep that will always continue to be out of reach.
Louis Brown Jul 2015
There was a frog down in the swamp
Who'd leap a half a mile
I chased that sunday entrée
With all my skill and guile

But when I speared that monster bull
I had a weird hunch
Those bulging eyes were warning me
I sure would hate my lunch

It ain't always a gourmet cook
Who serves the very best
I fried those twitching muscles there
And ate each bite with zest

But a funny feeling took-a-holt
That made me want to jump
Soon I felt me start to crave
A cool place for my ****

I found myself a boggy bank
And did a healthy croak
I bent my legs and leaped a block
And thought my *%$#@X!!# back was broke

I learned my lesson messing with
That cussed hoodoo frog
I sit safe on my pillow now
And don't go near the bog

But I'm still haunted by the hex
That ****** old frog applied
And I'm still getting Blue Cross
For a tender underside
SøułSurvivør Jun 2015
~~~=<♡>=~~~

How can you
describe pale blue
if you've never seen the skies?
Don't define LOVE
Lord, above!
Unless you have the eyes!

Is it a hex? Or perhaps ***
that drives us to the brink?
A little thing that makes us sing?
Is it all hearts in pink?

Voodoo hoodoo
what do you do
when you're not that strong?
You may say
it's springing May
and STILL have it WRONG!

Birds on a perch?
A Google search?
Is that how you define?
A little bee?
How can you see?
Where do you draw the line?

Is it a smell?
How can you tell
if someone has the itch?
Look in the eyes.
They can't disguise
They will always snitch!

So what's amour?
What's in store?
Is it a certain glow?
Don't ask me!
Can't you see?

I DON'T EVEN KNOW!


SoulSurvivor
6/15/2015
Dedicated to JP
His poem on Googling "Love"
is brilliant!
Slur pee Jun 2016
My words come out all slurred, blurred, and censored. My heart has a faulty bad juju sensor. My nerves are practicing voodoo, got me all wrapped up in hoodoo. Always asking 'how do you do?' As if you'd ask me too. My world is red, my world is blue. My vision is all kinds of skewed. Skewer me, skewer you. Skewered life 'cause it leaves us *******. Who needs to hear another boohoo? I'll kiss my own **** boo boos. Satan's calling me like 'yoohoo' I'll ignore him like you do me, all passionless and angry. I'm a dead fish in a dead sea just practicing my moaning, for when I'm see-through and lonely. Haunting the world as it's revolving, and it's kind of revolting- knowing life goes on, as you're decomposing. I'm shedding, I'm molting; these feelings of chicken skin and insects. It was really salmonella and pests, and I guess, what the point I'm really trying to get to is nothing, oh and *******.
James Smith Feb 2014
It’s the sound of peeling wallpaper,
Damp seeping in from the frost bitten windows.
Daytime traffic on Christmas eve,
And misted breath between pages of Pound,
Eliot and Rimbaud.

It’s the sound of mouldy drapes,
Clutched to the rail that clings to the rust.
The hiss and crackle of today,
And the wave of the colonial - of Guthrie,
Williams and Seeger.

It’s the sound of a Tangier typewriter,
Clacking to the chimes of a generation.
The scrawl of freedom
And the echoes of our fathers – of Kerouac,
Ginsberg and Burroughs.

It’s the sound of the swamp,
A hoodoo beat winding through the ruins.
From bayous to boroughs,
Following the march of Washington,
Franklin and Jefferson.

It’s the anthem of a teenage disease,
The force of the Devil’s crossroads.
The returning of a light, obscured
In the ruins of time.
It’s the song of the tambourine,
And the lasting footsteps of a song and dance man.
First poem I wrote that I felt I needed to write.
Martin Narrod May 2017
Nyctophilia

Undercoverism, teenage soot inside of dry and crusty eyes. When the morning begs alarms to die, and she brings that familiar rain again. Some one that unknowns us, sheds a brutal light. Where the hole inside each child's head, may be disarmed across a deck of cards. In an anti-climactic exposition, where aces climb the sleeves, young Caucasian children find themselves in minorities.

Bubbling voodoo-hoodoo, soda water succumbing the Oro-Quincy spillway until the men have wept and every other woman gleans her brow. When we wake up in the poppy garden, when we've fallen asleep to one hundred cowardly clowns lifting themselves off the heap of a Volkswagen Rabbit. On Broadway heading to 14th Street, avoiding the sidewalk cracks via a jog through alphabet town. There are self-righteous no-ones, famous, auto-inflicted vicious inextricably ordinary and sub-par, barely scratching at their own averages, and hardly shaking words out of their id-sized corner offices at Avenue B & St. Marks.

By the shivering hands can tell, of which lowly smoking dactyls accentuate their currish farce, and amidst a stack of newsprint and cardboard, boxes and the bothersome, the most personal stranger no person should ever greet. Nor mahogany or oak manifold shall ever be select, and the hollowing sheath- Earth in her brilliant hues of green should forever keep unbeknownst to any selves heeding their milky skies' retreat.  

The oder fresh, from digits bending, collapses on the archway round the bed. Its hardened crime, it fails in pretending, like a lust in a sand plume, an eight-shaped glass ornament, arenosely erupting in a drizzling circumstance. We call it time.

It is a noise that summer caught on to, a broken heel, running up ways and ways to concrete squares, like California was only just pretending.

Goodness knows. Godness never around us. Healing can't be done, no book or prose can satisfy her, inasmuch as she belonged, creeping up eyes leapt to their suspension. Nibs erode into the conchoidal zone, some pressure to the ilia fossa. Some work furnishes settlers to the hips, cool wool and linen make an aperture of threading. Dreaming when the moon begins to permeate a looming glow, in an arc during achronychal silvery mists, withering beneath this flume of fancy.

Some of the wet cuts a hole-mess into  us. Wethered nymphs introduce the suffix of their succubus, is this the surreality the ethereal vapors make for our nexus. Beasts in a bold way, crimsony gore-dom, comes dominating greens to overgrow in this show.

Water soaks into the empty breath of words wrapping up tonight's syphon. Some hours of the past inside an alarm's sound torture. Hidden by inches, filling up the glass, every minute, every poppy, all the numbers seemed to help her.

Covers that fixe anew such random sleep, brings the devilish horror to pervert absent beeps. Until  the dots begin to close on us, and in slumber we rotate the words to assemble an acute understanding of being sorry for  sleep that will always continue to be out of reach.
XnwxrMxlik Mar 2021
Left with no clues
Broken down into two
But who knew
What's into you
Unless relived what's untrue

Trying to move too
In search of new views
To detach feeling need some new tools
From remote access of Bluetooth

Feelings stuck as glue do
What's this Hoodoo-Voodoo
I don't know you
Or your crew
Who are you??
Fly away back to
Wherever you choose to

Need no helping hand to go through
Just an alter-ego to grow through
Don't let your eyes fool you
The end is near aren't you spooked too??
In search of ubuntu...
Derrek Estrella Oct 2018
Music gives my eyes a tunnel and my mind the universe. This much I know and recite in verse- or, prose, well. However I may carry my words, they will do all frequencies a severe injustice. That is why I feel no need to describe the ether and the fluids that compose a tune. They simply are, anyone can perceive and dissect for themselves. The words, they serve to underline the story that an ear might not obtain from music. I aim to achieve a functional, symbiotic, conversational existence with these two chaps. One day, it’ll be great fun and my mind will sideflip its merry way through scrolls of papyrus and the speeches of lutes. Until then, it’s apparent and essential, necessary, to be trudging my forlorn way through the badlands of my cranium. Who knows? I may occasionally find myself an ardent hoodoo to comport my thoughts on. I will live for that and die for tomorrow. By increments, of course. I must believe that we’re not all imbeciles, here.
Jared Eli Mar 2014
Hoodoo, Voodoo
Anything that you do
Think of what it will do
To your friends

Buildings, Guildlings
Masonic or class rings
Remember what the choice brings
When you choose

It's not so simple just to disconnect yourself
It's not about the way that you ***** yourself
There are so many things that go beyond your eyes
And the many things that remain are just disguised
Slur pee Aug 2017
Waves of syllables softly drift me into sleep, I want my dreams to be an endless sea of your soothing voice. Let your words wrap themselves around me and hold me tight as I fall from this great height, cushion me with your sighs; Heavily, against my neck- my thighs. You could breathe life, with the way you ignite my dormant nerves and get my lazy heart to work, double time. Electrify, every atom that makes up my existence with persistence and I’ll shrink down to their size, trying to hide from your naked eye. Bare your insecurities and I’d hurriedly grow and share my flaws that haunt me like a ghost disguised by my shadow. Wind blows cold as the sun crawls against the sky slowly shedding light into our separate lives, in different times; You’re in the future while I repeatedly hit rewind. I’d travel the seconds that separate us in miles, if only to see your smile- or rather, to see if I can conjure one. I’m imprisoned by the thought that I’d never be good enough, as if I’m a jester that can only birth a laugh by recorded track (Or dropping dead of heart attack.) I rehearse my jokes and practice magic on every turn of the world on its axis but I always choke when it’s time for the show, typing words that bore. The audience in my head is always snoring; tossing and turning in their eternal graves. Yet when you talk to me they’re born again like slaves to your hoodoo persuasion, erupting out of *****, grey skin; you make the wrinkles in my brain deteriorate. Clean slate, to etch myself a new face. Waiting for this dying sun to become snuffed and **** the day so I can lay myself thin against sheets and pray that you'll recite a bedtime story to me.

-SLuR
Megan Sherman Feb 2017
It was Eden before they came
A place distinguished by its natural blisses
Where there is no ruse, no game
Only the touch of Creation's kisses
In harmony the spirits dwelled
Sharing in each other's joy
But then they came to dig and fell
Begun to shame and annoy
It always felt a bit weird to me
That feeling of a heaven lost
That feeling of a devil neared to me
Who caused such a spiritual cost
I guess this could all be hoodoo
But I think my eyes are right
For the redemption of Gaia's children
I'll devote myself to putting up a fight
Not swearing on my life, bad mojo, Hoodoo, strange Voodoo's
Not suggesting there are people twisting the thumbscrews
Pleasant people, pleasant thoughts, no unwilling Cards playing 3D checkers.  Did you know there are byrd's they call, woodpeckers?

That cursing curse taking hard-earned dollars out of my purse.
And what is worse...  finally carried off in a Hearse. I best marry a nurse, wait now, I did marry a nurse but she ditched that job.
Stressed-out she followed her heart and took education to work with preschoolers until the course took her off course

Teaching the children not so well, pushing ideas, propagandizing thin-privilege.  Children, it's okay to be that... that rhymes with you know what, it rhymes with fat. She left that stuff leaving her student debt and you can bet she'll pay in off in record time.

Cheap rugs all over the place, cheap rugs all over the place
Cheap rugs in time and space... I bought new sneakers, they're the type you lace. Two-faced discovered to me a disgrace only they too are part of he human-race, causing peoples to be displaced.

The Curse, it might be the first, probably not... praying the bad luck is the last. I want to leave this place, leave real fast. Move on through to that other side. Morrison had his faults leaving a lot in the vaults. Now he's free, the tub scene in the Morrison movie I don't buy, I could tell you why but that borders gossip and a lot of people would flip (out). Not 'fly'.

So, what's it all about, it's not the wordsmithing that I flout
Just me avoiding 'the' gout, getting sick, I'm having my doubt
I'll be taking another route, no matter how many people may pout
Reading tea leaves, drinking green tea, the cup holding posies, showing me I'm free, not only to survive, it's to 'I' am that I thrive
joe king
Emeka Mokeme Apr 2018
You will surely soon become
the sacred animal for sacrifice,
to cleanse the land
and purify the abominable
acts of our people,
instigated by the unreasonable
ignorant elders.
And for those that have died
on account of their ignorance,
have paid with their blood
to cleanse our land.
These sacrifices are
not willingly given.
Will the gods accept such
a waste of human lives
to ameliorate their anger?
Or will another sacrifice
be performed to appease
their already inflated anger
over these ethnic cleansing
by a group seeking for dominance.
These strangers in the land
could not tolerate our differences
in this forced relationship.
Their greediness and overbearing
attitude is frightening.
With hidden intent,
Cunning and Forcefulness,
with intimidation they unleashed
mayhem to our people.
Dazed as if hypnotized,
with voodoo and hoodoo at work.
no one is doing anything about it.
Everyone is watching as our families,
Our friends, youths, children,
women, the elderly,our farms,
barns are destroyed,
properties burnt down by
these strange ones.
You will soon be the next if you
still stand and do nothing.
Do not be an unwilling sacrifice,
do something.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
The killings by the Fulani herdsmen is gruesome and dreadfully depressing. It's time something should seriously be done about it or we will all be killed.
Mark Aug 2019
With the devil at the crossroads,    
it was time to ring Aunt Bess   
I said, ‘wasn't that fast’
for she was gone in under a sec    
Her Mojo brand was leaking at last    
from it's vintage and rare, hot powder box    
The judge, once declared, after viewing the downloads    
that the devil was innocent, from the lower dock    
All black power got its roots, down in good old Delaware    
starting with Bobby Johnson's, rhythm n blues bootleg selection  
While a crooked cross hung out and about Times Square    
at the corner of Hazelhurst and Hoover’s T- Intersection    
Hoodoo Gurus, sitting upon an unmarked gravestone    
in the eerie dark, around about midnight    
Mumbling, they once could move one's hipbone    
Kings of the world, almost at their height    
   
I haven't played in a minute, 'cause of men in black suits    
so you'll have to wait a while, for me to chill    
We should all support local grassroots,    
‘cause one day, they might actually decide to ****    
They were the good old days, without any crime    
that's when New York came out to play    
If she could only turn back time    
and just keep going on, her very merry way    
This misguided world would still feel alive    
It would be such a hell of a better place    
by teaching us how to actually friggin’ survive    
in today's chaotic, fast paced, rambunctious, rat race    
Falling in love and falling out    
Freedom will continue!    
Of that, I have no doubt    
Freedom will continue!    
Of that, I have no doubt.

— The End —