DASUN SHINE

The Cornerstorm of Urban Poetics

Archive for the ‘spoken word’ Category

THE TIME TRAVELING MINI-VAN

Posted by Dasun Allah on June 11, 2010


Looking through some photo files, I came across a picture my Sun had taken. The image caught my eye and deeply intrigued me. I looked at it, and to me it looked like the minivan in the picture was in warp speed like on Star Trek. Plus, I like the red, yellow and green lights in the picture. But as I looked at it, it began to appear to me as if the minivan was time traveling. It was also apropos, given one of my prevailing themes of the veneration of oriental thought, that the van is eastward bound.

As I thought of this time traveling minivan, the opening line of the poem occurred to me. Then by association, the next thought was of the soccer mom. From there I was phonetically led to “sock a mom,” And the floodgates were opened.

The minivan took me back to bear witness to time. To testify and to lay bare these ugly truths…

TIME TRAVELING MINIVAN

I travel a minivan through time
To days when I knew not of soccer moms
Only dads who would sock a mom and
rupture her eye sockets
Punch her in the ear, so it would leave no marks
Or make like a bar-fight
And break a chair over her back by starlight
Then wake up next morning
Roll over
Apologize and
ask for peace
and a piece
And she so in love would give it all
but ask him to be gentle because
the previous night
has left her just a tad bit sore
I can see them in the rearview mirror
Traveling a minivan through time…

(to be continued…)

Posted in Essay, Life, Love, poetry, prosetics, Relatiosnhips, Sex, spoken word, Thoughts, Writing, Writing Life | Tagged: , , , | Leave a Comment »

SUGAR HONEY ICED TEA

Posted by Dasun Allah on October 25, 2007

Depictions and descriptions written on the foreheads of victims smitten / See verbal vixens and sex kittens cruising on a carnal crucifixion mission / college shotLayered thought / Green North moss fought / we balk at white chalk / When this red-tailed hawk squawks / angels swarm and storm the devil’s forts / Krazo Loco like Destro / Cobra’s Cobo / Cobo Bobo / Awesome powers of the mojo we the / spooks who shagged by the door of final war / Abaddon Don Quinteson sick with psychosis / Can bring dem sharktikons or the scorpions and locusts / X-man as if I’ve been in the 7 temple / Mind detect mind is teaching real and keeping simple / Slick with the sword slay / syndicated sluts and media whores / Harvest is great / handle chores and worlds are yore forever moors.

[cobo bobo] is first and foremost a creative, artistic energy and CULTURAL MOVEMENT.

It is a style of expression, a naturalistic mode of thinking, a celebration of NATURAL MYSTICAL living. [cobo bobo] is CHI, BA, and KA. It is divine force, ETHER. It is FIRE-WRITING, EARTH-QUAKING, WIND-TALKING and LIFE-WATER BEARING.

In its fullest simplicity as a CONCEPT, it is a movement of RIGHTEOUSNESS. ZION LIONS in GOAT clothing. CRAZY WOLVES at the service of the SHEPHERD.

A COBO BOBO can be likened to a front line SOULJAH in the midst of ARMAGEDDON. They can be initiates into a secret, ancient and mystical warrior society that EXISTS ONLY IN THE SPIRIT of knowledge, wisdom, sound drum and music of THE WAR NOT AGAINST THE FLESH.

They can be the JOHNNY APPLESEEDS of truth, power and justice and fruit of the HOUSE OF DAVID. They are likened to the MASONS of the foundations of a newly restored ANCIENT sovereignty. They aspire to a tribe among TRIBES SEALED, within tribes sealed, and a tribe sealed unto the UNIVERSAL solve reign.

A [cobo bobo] can be the essence of the ANGELS OF THE SEVEN SEALS. It is specifically an inspiration of the fifth angel, the keeper of the abyss, ABADDON or APOLLYON. Known as the DESTROYER as CHRIST the KRISHNA is CRUSHER or as the MADHI leads the armies as MICHAEL leads the army of armies.

COBO as a BIRD OF HEAVEN is synonymous with the CROW and RAVEN in Native mythology, and by extension the EAGLE, the HAWK, FALCON and CONDOR. All ultimately represent the PHOENIX, THE SUN BIRD, THE FIRE BIRD, THE DRAGON. They are DEATH-EATERS and thus clear the pathways of LIFE. EYEBALLS of the OPPRESSOR are promised them as LORD’S EVENING MEAL.

BOBO is inspired by the BOBO ASHANTI order of RASTAFARI as shepherded by MATTHEW 1:23. I AM I-MAN IMMAN U-EL

[cobo bobo]

Spooks who stand by the door.
Spooks who kick in the door.
Spooks who burn down the whore.
LOON WOLVES WHO WASH UP
LIKE WHALES UPON YORE SURE

Blasted by a
middle passage
for at least three breaths
held captive
reckless eyeballed the irises
seeking symbols(cymbals?) of raptures
INI roar and roam with raptors
organized into leagues under seas
and Cesar’s siege
despite pleas for peace
in leaves of chapters
I’m playwright not the actor
A director with a grip
Tru blue cuz it’s a trip
Cobo Bobo Abaddon
From the crib(carib?) to the crypt(egypt?)…

[cobo bobo]

UNIKRON DON ABADDON DON DADA!

www.myspace.com/dx21

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Enta Tha Stage

Posted by Dasun Allah on October 25, 2007

SUNSHINE

As artists we are continually on a quest to find new ways to express ourselves, ferreting out new easels upon which to place our canvasses. This is one of the success factors of the great social experiment of the weblog, places where the world’s Doogie Howsers end the shows of their daily existence typing some life lesson onto a computer screen and, with the push of a button, make it available to the entire world and not just the television audience. While Neil Patrick Harris and his hokey background music has given way to Rev. Run thumbing out words of wisdom while sitting in a bubble bath, the need to self-express and be heard remains.

Sociologists of the future will have a wealth of information from which they will cull their analysis of the 21rst century. Time capsules are no longer some concrete items placed in the cornerstone of a given structure, everyone can create their own in the realms of cyberspace. Bloggers chronicle the everyday from the mundane to the profound, and while some may just follow the light, many will evolve into beacons hailing historians to examine the hallowed halls of their word-processed recollections. Those future souls who will write the tomes of our times, will surely have their work cut out for them as they sift through the masses of data this age of information expends.

Thus I must pound my keys and keep myself in tune. Thus I must chronicle the creativity. Thus I must publish or perish, fasting and praying that the Darwinistic forces that separate the wheat from the chaff of the blogosphere propel these words to eternity.

I am the phoenix.

I rise from the ashes of
the masses of them asses.

I am Dasun.

www.myspace.com/dx21

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