I’m a modern man by George Carlin

I’m a modern man, a man for the millennium. Digital and smoke free. A diversified multi-cultural, post-modern deconstruction that is anatomically and ecologically incorrect. I’ve been up linked and downloaded, I’ve been inputted and outsourced, I know the upside of downsizing, I know the downside of upgrading. I’m a high-tech low-life. A cutting edge, state-of-the-art bi-coastal multi-tasker and I can give you a gigabyte in a nanosecond!
I’m new wave, but I’m old school and my inner child is outward bound. I’m a hot-wired, heat seeking, warm-hearted cool customer, voice activated and bio-degradable. I interface with my database, my database is in cyberspace, so I’m interactive, I’m hyperactive and from time to time I’m radioactive.
Behind the eight ball, ahead of the curve, ridin the wave, dodgin the bullet and pushin the envelope. I’m on-point, on-task, on-message and off drugs. I’ve got no need for coke and speed. I've got no urge to binge and purge. I’m in-the-moment, on-the-edge, over-the-top and under-the-radar. A high-concept, low-profile, medium-range ballistic missionary. A street-wise smart bomb. A top-gun bottom feeder. I wear power ties, I tell power lies, I take power naps and run victory laps. I’m a totally ongoing big-foot, slam-dunk, rainmaker with a pro-active outreach. A raging workaholic. A working rageaholic. Out of rehab and in denial!
I’ve got a personal trainer, a personal shopper, a personal assistant and a personal agenda. You can’t shut me up. You can’t dumb me down because I’m tireless and I’m wireless, I’m an alpha male on beta-blockers.
I’m a non-believer and an over-achiever, laid-back but fashion-forward. Up-front, down-home, low-rent, high-maintenance. Super-sized, long-lasting, high-definition, fast-acting, oven-ready and built-to-last! I’m a hands-on, foot-loose, knee-jerk head case pretty maturely post-traumatic and I’ve got a love-child that sends me hate mail.
But, I’m feeling, I’m caring, I’m healing, I’m sharing-- a supportive, bonding, nurturing primary care-giver. My output is down, but my income is up. I took a short position on the long bond and my revenue stream has its own cash-flow. I read junk mail, I eat junk food, I buy junk bonds and I watch trash sports! I’m gender specific, capital intensive, user-friendly and lactose intolerant.
I like rough sex. I like tough love. I use the “F” word in my emails and the software on my hard-drive is hardcore--no soft porn.
I bought a microwave at a mini-mall; I bought a mini-van at a mega-store. I eat fast-food in the slow lane. I’m toll-free, bite-sized, ready-to-wear and I come in all sizes. A fully-equipped, factory-authorized, hospital-tested, clinically-proven, scientifically- formulated medical miracle. I’ve been pre-wash, pre-cooked, pre-heated, pre-screened, pre-approved, pre-packaged, post-dated, freeze-dried, double-wrapped, vacuum-packed and, I have an unlimited broadband capacity.
I’m a rude dude, but I’m the real deal. Lean and mean! Cocked, locked and ready-to-rock. Rough, tough and hard to bluff. I take it slow, I go with the flow, I ride with the tide. I’ve got glide in my stride. Drivin and movin, sailin and spinin, jiving and groovin, wailin and winnin. I don’t snooze, so I don’t lose. I keep the pedal to the metal and the rubber on the road. I party hearty and lunch time is crunch time. I’m hangin in, there ain’t no doubt and I’m hangin tough, over and out!"

I am Black

I am black. I thank my godhead for creating me dark.
I am black. I accept my complexion.
I am thankful that I am dark-skinned
With white teeth. My skin is not sallow.

I am black. I thank my godhead for creating me dark.
I am black. I accept my complexion.
When black is put in fire, black stays black
When black is washed, it becomes gleaming black.

Black is desirable, admirable, to me
The owner of heaven, change not my beautiful complexion


(Yoruba poem in public domain, translated to English)

Shades of Ochre.3

Some things may vary but of these am certain
As we are all naked beneath our clothes

Smoke from naked fires will rise
Beer from shaken bottles will froth

Music will play and some will dance.
Not.

Debtors will consider their debts
Discharged. Creditors will not

Newspapers will tell nothing new
Some blond will fall for an email scam

There’ll be spam in your mail
The day after you die

Shades of Ochre.2

Why does Obama make me cry?
All the time, every time I watch, read
And listen to his message of hope
When I don’t even like him, I am no
Fawning fan of his rock star status

So why does Obama make me cry?
For African fathers who abandon their kids?
For 1000 Kenyans who needed to die
Just a year before America became color blind?
Because,” No, he can’t” in his father’s nation?
Am I in awe of the white grandmother?
Who taught her grandson what he preaches?
Because it took three generations
Before change can come today?

Why does Obama make me cry?
How does he inspire hope amongst us
Who listened to the radio, late that night
In this forgotten part of the world?

Shades of Ochre.1

If you ask him where he’s been
He’ll say around,
It takes too many words
To say what he’s done and seen

He’s been to heaven
He’s been to hell
But he had to die first
Before he learnt to live

If you ask him what he’s seen
His stories abound
He gambled against the odds
Still winning and still so keen

But he’s been to heaven
He’s been through hell
See, he had to die first
Before he learnt to live

A long road travelled since eighteen
All his life like a lusty hound
He’s been fighting the gods
Still he is betting to win

He’s been to heaven
He’s been to hell
But he had to die first
Before he learnt to live

You were not supposed to

You were not supposed to walk backwards
To point at people, to gawk at strangers
You were not supposed to use the f word
To use the n word or the four letter word
You are not supposed to lose composure
To shout in an argument or slap that bitch
You are not supposed to talk about sex
To get caught doing it or talk about that
You are not supposed to do anything you want
Because it’s either sinful, fattening or in poor taste
You are not supposed to be your self
Be prim and proper like everybody else
You are not supposed to know this…
You had it all going. And then you miss…

Le crapaud (Robert Desnos)

Note: I crammed this poem by force at secondary school. Tonight, I discovered the poem again and for the very first time, I begin to understand it. Ha! If only I had taken my french lessons seriously, what other gems did I miss?

Le crapaud (Robert Desnos)

Sur les bords de la Marne
Un crapaud il y a,
Qui pleure à chaudes larmes
Sous un acacia.

- Dis-moi pourquoi tu pleures
Mon joli crapaud?
- C'est que j'ai le malheur
De n'être pas beau.

Sous les bords de la Seine
Un crapaud il y a.
Qui chante à perdre haleine
Dans son charabia.

- Dis-moi pourquoi tu chantes
Mon vilain crapaud?
- Je chante à voix plaisante,
Car je suis très beau,
Des bords de la Marne aux bords de la Seine
Avec les sirènes

Translation in English

The Frog (Robert desnos)

On the banks of the Marne

A toad there is,
Who cries for hot tears
Under an acacia.

Tell me why you cry
My lovely toad?
- It is my misfortune
Of not being beautiful.

Under the banks of the Seine
A toad there is
Who sings to lose breath
In his gibberish.

-Tell me why you sing
My ugly toad?
- I get to sing fun,
Because I am beautiful
From the edges of the Marne to the banks of the Seine
With sirens.