I Will Never Forget
------------
The child was ecstatic upon
receiving its new doll.

Every spoon held an ample portion.
Every dialogue danced with joyful cadence.
And every embrace dreaded its release.
...

The love affair lasted 
all of six weeks.

For
then 
time 
came.

And eroded its affections,
diverted its gaze;
protracted the period
between each praise;
...until the minutes
turned to days;
and she sat all alone
in the shade;

Men are like children.
Who forget:
their violent treaties with God,

The magic of the first kiss,

And allow time to play its oldest trick:
that of confusing constancy with monotony

And
blanching
the 
beauty
of a 
woman
by keeping
her in
constant
sight.

Men, like children, may be fooled.

But, I, my dear,

Will
Never 
Forget

Your
Eternal,
Unchanging,
Beauty.

She smiled middle-fingers at the world 
And it was whoa;
Lighting up the room
With her cigarette glow.
Five men hovering like
Helicopters, zooom;
But she laid them so gently
In their tomb.
I stood like a church apse,
Silent like the grave;
Trying to be brave
In the aisle by her nave.
Maria Magdalene,
I'll be your only son;
Invite me to your bed, ah,
If I could only come.
I can chase away the demons
In your bedsheets;
Let me pick the apples
On your red cheeks.
We can spend eternity well,
Dancing in the stars;
You'll look at me and tell me
I look handsome with these scars.
We'll publish short-stories
Just like Chekovs;
Collect checks from publishers
And tell 'em all get lost.
I can see us drinking 
Cheap wine in Paris;
Give me your body
Your sweet mind to cherish.
I'll read you some Bukowski
On the river Seine;
And we'll die sweet death
And then we'll live again.
I said I'll read you some Bukowski
On the river Seine;
And we'll die sweet death
And then we'll live again.

'Cause I will never forget ...





















I Will Never Forget (Jay Dee)

Les Hip Hop
---------------------
I walked down to the gallery on 54th and 7th street.

The gallery "Les Hip Hop".

Curated by a large, elephantine bald man,
who confessed that he had little interest
in the medium.

"It's good money."

I disagreed with the fellow ( I have
never met a money with morals), but I make
it a point not to respond to philistines, 
and so I nodded awkwardly and removed my
sunglasses.

He ushered me into the main hall, where
my cheap sneakers were snubbed by the
gold-coated linoleum. 

I was served expensive wine by a lantern-jawed,
cadaverous model, who then followed
me around the room as I observed the 
paintings.

I saw Drakes valued at 13 million.

I saw Kanye Wests appraised at 24 million.

I saw Jay-Z's estimated at 27 million.

And I saw Lil Waynes 
selling
for
35
million
dollars.

The emaciated model made 
high-flown remarks as we passed
each painting:

"Drake certainly possesses a certain
vocal flair so often concomitant with
the artistic element in the north,"

"but, Kanye definitely exhibits an
ethereal imaginativeness, a how do
you say, 'joi de vivre', that I find
to be an absolutely essential quality 
of great works of art,"

"however, Jay Z is so au-courant, so,
abreast of recent artistic developments
in the cultural community, as you Americans
would say, so 'nitty-gritty'."

"But, but but but but, Wayne is my
absolue favorite: 'The Hip Hop premier'. His 
brushtstrokes are so bold, he is the
quintessential art provocateur. Don't you
agree, monsieur?"

...

I had long since stopped listening to
her pretentious rambling.

Truth be told, 
Apart from the signatures at the bottom,
the paintings were all the same.

I exited the gallery and tossed
my glass of wine into the garbage.

Fools.

...What is art? Does somebody have a definition?
...Cuz I'm staring at the paintings without recognition
I saw a new sketch by Kanye this morning
And wondered if he invented the crown, just to pawn it?
"Watch the throne"...I'm watching it it's empty
You don't need a chair, you got a seat within the bentley
While I'm sitting on the curb reading poems by John Keats
...And can't relate to a beach house in Palm Beach
...There'll be no anticipation when your song leaks
So you can tell Mr. West...that I've gone east
...I was the first one to notice, but the last one to say it
But now I'll say: I'll be the last one to play it
...And all my friends say: "bury it"
But, stupid me, I went ahead and married it
I'm here to put a fire to the belly of the beast
Either to wake his ass up, or stop his snoring, at the least...















Les Hip Hop (Madlib)


Poetry

What is it?

A means of communication
more imaginative,
more lucid,

and infinitely
more interesting

than 
the  
superficial
drivel
of daily life.

Antithetic to gossip.

The poet uncovers
secrets by plucking at
the loose threads
of life's fabric,

And thereby,
he
uncovers

its paradox

its contradiction

its beauty

its evil.

The poet 
incises life
with pencils.

He mulishly
renounces even
the most obvious
assumptions,
and with a
glowy-eyed curiosity
he questions 
everything and 
everyone. 

The poet purposely
eclipses the sun
to illumate the 
world on his own terms.

Why would anyone
be anything other 
than a poet?

Its the lank sage
Trapped in a dank cage
With a blank page
And rank rage
And swank shades
looking like one of the blues brothers
Fuckin' rap its dead
We cracked its
poorly packaged egg
...Someone wrap its head
And get it back to bed
while we flee with rapid legs
Towards a new genre
Rappers write poetry stoically
Thats some stupid shit
This is Stanley kubrick shit
Anton Chekov, Baudelaire
This is, bitch, go grow a pair
And tell your ovaries to go somewhere
Uh Huh
This is the bright sun burning
in the midnight sky
While I bleed onto the page
in my pig-like sty
Life is but a big white lie
Told to protect us from death
As he hid right by
And I feel its alabaster
claws moving closer
This is goodbye, I´m leaving 
rap behind
´cuz half the time
I spoke empty words through 
crafty rhymes
And seeing these
nitwits brag about big dicks
in front thick chicks
This isn´t art - this
is the product of a decadent age
The poets of the past are whetting
the blades, trying to sting us 
through the past´s velvet curtains
questioning why we´re forgetting their page
This is Bukowski´s revenge
Its the ghost of Shakespeare
Its a cider from a bygone age
thats why it tastes weird
Something you need to get used
to thats why I got a whole case here
Hip Hop is dead, don´t bother
to waste tears!

And as I place a rose on its
grave and move on
A baby is born
Its shrill cries usher in a new era
The restoration of poetry

Dedicated to Charles Baudelaire






Ragnar Tómas