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Showing posts from December, 2017

The Fucking Last Time (Louis Toliver Jr - Swartz, LA)

This is the fucking last time I confide in you To trust you to have my heart and my back You made me a tool and a goddamn fool You backstabbing, heart-grabbing thief
This is the fucking last time I talk to you To tell you that I want you out of my life You made me a liar, a cheater, an addict You deceiver, down right disbeliever
This is the fucking last time I look at you To watch you suck the life out my existence You made me doubt my name and my future You love stealing pirate, sorry rotten corpse
And this is the absolute, fucking last time That I tell you, “This is the fucking last time”

THE final vow - (Louis Toliver Jr - Swartz, LA)

whatever this is our end or our beginning i want THIS vow
the love, the hate the confidence, the shame sunrise or sunset
whatever we become maybe earth’s last hope i want THIS vow
the work, the breaks the rejuvenation, the pain lovers or fighters
till death binds us forever in heavenly eternity i want THIS vow

Bond Memory Fulfilled Papa’s Love (Barry Sons - Berwick, LA)

   Time has covered you but not my memory of you.
You grew up in a palmetto shack, common, illiterate, with French as a first language. Abuse a way of life.
   Time has covered  abuse with love. Your love, Papa. Your love of mama and us changed all for you and us. Your love got the house on land and the big boat. All you had was a pirogue and a “fish cart.” and you grew it big.  
   Time has covered all that you built but not what you taught us. Respect for all no mater the color of their skin. “Until you walk in their moccasins, you don’t know.” You always said.
   Time has covered it all but not your gene-pool. Your grandchildren stands on your shoulders papa… I ran from the killing; not from you .I ran from the wet piercing cold; the blood smell, not from you. I ran to fulfill the Dream-pool, not from you. Death its’ self has not and never will break our bond. 

In loving memory of
Julian Justin Sons Sr.

I'm Queer and I'm Here: Part One (Louis Toliver Jr - Swartz, LA)

All the men in the world are F A But here I stand,L with my bra and panties,L my brawn and brain,I And my pen in hand.N Gtop-i-e-c-e-s.
I’m ready to woman up and be the man that these men will never become. How could any man think he is fit for survival living in the box called manhood?
With my pen,
I can be here.                                                                 I can be there. I can be down.

Men can be so foolish as to underestimate writing. Great societies are built upon the power of words.
Yet here comes the “mighty man” holding high the gun. He trips and falls and shoots himself in the face.
Another let down face in a volume of newspaper obituaries.
Self-destruction lives another day, So this question belongs in the hands of a Queer writer: the brains How do we elevateof men living in woman’s world?
Because masculinity’s days are numbered.

Poet's Cry for Mike Tidewell (Barry Sons - Berwick, LA)

I heard the Politician say in a hunter’s whisper, “There’s a poet in the marsh, I heard one today. He was crying about the marshland’s accelerated decay.”
“Mr. Politician, can you help us anyway? I refuse to think our marsh is so quickly Going away. If we can scan the galaxy And bring men back from the dead, Why can’t we save our marsh? I can’t Get that around my head.”
There’s a poet in the marsh, I heard one today. Whining and crying; Who needs them anyway?” “Mr. Politician, I’m here to make you feel. Try to wrap your heart around the things that Are real. Like love and friendship passion and Sorrow; the love of earth and concern for tomorrow.”
“There’s a poet in the marsh, I heard one today." Mr. Politician, I cry for America’s wetlands,

This Little White Boy Who Wanted Some Nigger In Him (James Leland Ludeau III - Lafayette, LA)

Grew up on a plantation
Secluded from the world
I knew classes but didn’t understand race
Because what raced through my veins wasn’t something of which I could ever speak
My father could fuck the slave girls
But I couldn’t touch the men
It filled me with resentment
Fueled my resentment with lust
Until it was too much to take
It was a small contained community
White as the cotton in the fields
Only dark around the edges where the black men lived
Ploughing the fields
I’d imagine them ploughing me
Glistening with sweat as the sun bathed their shoulders
The sweat running down until it pooled around the waistband of their thin cotton pants
Their skin
Black, almost indigo, like night
Some like coffee with milk in it
Cafe au lait
I could smell their musk
Watched as their muscly bodies worked
I yearned
This little white boy who wanted some nigger in him
To fall beneath the weight of one
As he heaved
As he forced his throbbing cock into my crevice
I longed for even the pa…