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muMs is an award-winning New York City based Poet and a member of the Labyrinth Theater Company.


muMs the Schemer ===> Schemer: fiend, foe, friend, fear, /swallower of your fear, /blasphemer, /dreamer…. /to hold, to have, to be in a condition akin to, to victory he prevails! /A mathematical or philosophical diagram representing the astrological aspects of the planets, emotions and intellect on scales, /teller of your tale /in a letha-phorical outline, /a concise examination crafty and secretive in sign, /a systematic and organized chaotic plot. /I am muMs the schemer and you, are not. ===> The first ‘m’ is lower-cased /concerned with race /and small manipulative matters of that sort: /the things in our face /that bleed into our heart. /The ‘u’- also small- leads me to look to the sky, walk there the edge of a shore equating to particles of sand, stars, the moon. To be under all that which is bigger than me lead’s to the second ‘M’ capitalized for the manipulation /of that that from which all shall begin /and again /from when /we least expect. /The ‘S’ is the trick: the hush of it all. /The control over what we discuss, beckon or call /or plural to represent the many that know /or just that the path is a windy road? /No matter, it also is small. ===> muMs, the schemer and echo-er of it all.

welcome to a new day --goRealer

Sunday, May 8, 2011

TALES FROM THE MOETDEGA part II. Beauteous, the crack smoking heroin afflicter: in three

         Beauteous, who was full of herself,
sat upon the Moetdega stage
lost in the greatness of she.
The struggle of her bones with each movement,
was score to the beauty of her presentation.
Her frail body lay upon a bed of sunflowers,
each, more lively and vibrant than the next.
She hummed popular songs out of key all the while cooking crack rock.
her blood cooked.
and often times her heart stopped.

Oh Beauteous, Beauteous, you are our prayer of the afflicted.
The art of the addicted.

         In the Daily Personal Delving[1]
she would say,

         I walk the way
of the free…

Beauteous was witty
and deathly pretty.

On any given night
her performance
would get standing ovations,
rousing reviews,

         she brought the crack pipe to her lips with the elegance of a swan.

As was quoted by the mortality critics
in the entertainment news.

         On stage,
she would rise to her knees
throw back her shoulders as
her eyes rolling gently
to the back of her head.
She took in pulls of smoke.
The smoke would exit her,
engulf her mind as it did her body
comforting a frail nakedness.
Tugging at a frail will.

The people in the audience would stagger
watching the smoke wrap itself around her head,
pulled into the large ceiling fans,
pushed about the entire Moetdega.
Their raised nostrils, their connection to her.

For Beauteous, all is spiritual, non-material,
life’s captivity is one from which to escape.
The body is a corrupted vessel
seeped in evil,
the capitol poison we all make.   
The purity that children once were born into is a distant dream long gone. For nothing in this life is ever better than being born.

One night
Esai Produku, designer and ceo of the triple 6 soulless
sat front row with the fab-leratti in tow
toasting to takeovers
and millions made in seconds
from the sweat of underage workers
in countries whose governments take kickbacks for weapons.

Beauteous was on a small stage
playing a lullaby rendition of electric ladyland
when she sang,
         Electric woman waits for you and me

Esai wept, enthralled for all to see.
Moved by her five-foot-six, seventy-two pound frame,
the absolute fragility of it all.
He then gave her the name,
Beauteous, the most, loveliest fear.
Afterward she would become the muse
for the collection of the fashion year,

BEREFT OF BEAUTY: the delicateness.

A collection of the most rarest of fabrics,
hand stitched with the finest thread.
As quote from Produku himself, with emphasis,
         The clothes to wear when life is shed.

The mortality blogs are abuzz
over her collection of works, life on drugs.

         Her pipe is Produku
         her needles, Produku
         and the rubber strip she ties around her upper arm
         is a neodymasitc polybutadene blend
         inter-woven and bonded with a Malaysian lace.
         Produku’s finest creation.

This night
might have been the night
Beauteous had so longed for.
to overdose on stage would bring tremendous fame.
The slow disintegration the drugs took on her body
would guarantee all would remember her name.

At this point, she could not see nor ingest anything but narcotic.
her hands shook as she fixed.
Odors emanating from her orifices,
combined with the chemicals used to contend
left the audience euphoric.
The perfect state to witness her end.

Many stars were in attendance
in addition, there were many cameras.
The fab-leratti and the glitterrazzi,
Produku and his many handlers
but as the show neared it’s end
and the coutdown to her demise was to begin
a commotion formed outside.
and many, whom already
had had their complimentary carrot[2],
ran to the front to see what was going on.
Or out the back to hide.
A bouncer, who had secretly fallen in love with Beauteous,
rushed to make sure she was all right.
         What has taken the attention of the crowd so?
she asked.
         I do not know, beauty.
He said. There is something in the air tonight.

Several gunshots were heard from outside
The bouncer held Beauteous protective in his arms.
Patches of Beauteous’ hair relinquished into his palm.

In the ever infinite in between the split of second,
a bright, soundless flash exploded in from the front
onto her final faint grasp for beauty in this realm,
bathing her in the softest, celestial glow.

Beauteous, the road of degradation to eternal bliss.

A smile came across her as
Whatever strength she had
gave way to achievement.
She fell limp.
Nothing averted the bouncer’s gaze into Beautous.
observed by none but themselves.
The two of them together, a heavenly image.
A vision of where both beauty and grief dwell.

The light
slowly faded as the life
slipped from Beauteous
The bouncer sat beside her
after laying her back into the sunflowers.

[1] The Daily Personal Delving- A critics magazine

[2] Fresh produce is complimentarily given to every patron who pays full price to enter the Moetdega.

1 comment:

Nicola Yvette said...

Why you gotta write so good? Why you gotta put it down so real? Why you gotta be so faaaaarrrr away?
I feel you though.