Wednesday, August 21, 2013

2000 and 13 has come!

By William Pleasant (8-10-2013)

We stand on the despoiled shore of Black political meltdown.
In the far distance we can see a yacht captained by Pres. Buckwheat and crewed by white social dems, greasy-lipped negro preachers and homebettes sporting the latest Belgian-manufactured afro-duds.

High above the deck, in the crow's nest, white knuckled bow ties and turbans beseech Allah to raise the profit margin on bean pies and scented oils.

Our pants droop to expose the waistbands of our Versace drawers. We don't need to run, so there
is absolutely no reason to pull them up, now that cocaine--not cotton--is the cash crop of an imploding capitalism.

And what of Captain Buckwheat?

He sails straight into the rocks, beckoned on by a chorus of skag-blown sirens whose claim to fame
remains a cameo appearance on a reality TV show about their empty, spiritless lives.

We grin and charge our AKs in such a liquid movement that it gives the chicks standing next to us
a simultaneous, bone-deep orgasm.

2000 and 13 has come!


Good night, AMERIKA.

By William Pleasant 

REMEMBER: The joy is in the wrapper, the candy is the poison!

Scudding towards a dysfunctional tomorrow, AMERIKA bends her knee in supplication to an equally hobbled god, pleading for some new contraband to sooth the shame of self-indulgence in her worm-writhing soul.

Black (Brown )(Red)(Yellow) man, meanwhile, flagellates himself against the prickly tree bark of despair, singing to the back-beat of survivalism. Slouching, too, with AMERIKA whose war-puckered sex is bare for all to see on 365 channels, 365 days per year, their eyes rolled to white in their shaved heads, these men march, chanting: BACKWARDS EVER, FORWARDS NEVER! THE PEOPLE DEFEATED WILL NEVER BE UNITED! NO JUSTICE, NO PIZZA! BEAN PIE UBER ALLES! LIFE IS ART, SO THAT'S WHY ART DOESN'T PAY...

And yea, doth the clothes make the man or do their Chinese manufactures make blood the dye of fashion? You tell me, since you're wearing a kufe.

In the end, I got my slogans, now you get yours.

Moaning and groaning, hyper-ventilating and grinding teeth around the clock, AMERIKA 
squats and urinates pure gasoline, as her minions queue up with their dixie cups for a taste of its sweet release. Thrilled, they skip off, highway-bound to 300 million padded nowheres. And they ask at the wheel of the consumer economy:

Is this all there is?

The answer already rattles in their infotainment-grazed minds; and they know not whether to laugh until they cry/cry until they laugh or suck the barrel of a loaded 9MM.


But they won't DO THE LATTER, not when there is a certainty that the morning will bring something resembling the sun and a chance, just a chance that the pushers of my trade will introduce a new drug onto the market and into their soured veins.

They won't when they can easily walk into any nursery school and bayonet their way to instant fame.

AMERIKA? She caresses her flaccid breasts. She picks her nose, mining for CHANGE AND HOPE. but coming up with only a tea-stained media sensation-cum-Trojan Horse for the worse that is yet to come.


My cable bill is over-due and the man in the van is on his way to cut me off.
Maybe this will be the first step to my liberation or the heaven's gate to the final chapter of my madness.