My favorite line: "They say stay with the current but the current makes me sea sick" Anyone can be trendy, can you be a trendsetter? These guys are.
"Where ya zazz at?" Get the NEW After The Zazz Album HERE and Follow @FlyGuys
Monday, December 21, 2009
Make A Statement
As you may now, I'm a HUGE advocate for West Coast Artists (non-mainstream especially) so when on of my favorite groups (and dear friends) Fly Guys put out a new music video for one of my favorite songs "Make A Statement", my first instinct was to blog about it (sorry that the right side is cut off. go here to watch it in full size and HD) :
Monday, December 14, 2009
Now that I'm a "Female Rapper"...
Nicki Minaj + Lola Monroe + Vixen Ent. + CeCe
Please speak up if I offend you. Please speak up if you agree. "Speak your mind, Free your soul"
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Tattooed PlayHouse EDITS
The little girl in me still plays house
Never stopped stuffing
Pretending to be pregnant
But now
Instead of pillows under my shirt
It’s penises under my skin
Boys behind my ribs because I have to let him in if I expect him to hold my heart
Despite what people claim to see in my eyes
Barcodes etched into my thighs show him just how much I think I’m worth
I hide the epic poem of my life behind fairytale book covers
Cinderella slippin my way between the soiled covers of a borrowed lover
I pretend to be illiterate
Not to read too deep into his silences
Not to read fast enough to see “wifey” sending him text messages
We both see monogamy as sentences
But where I see articulation
Structured expression
Shared understanding and talented construction
He sees punishment
Being locked up against his will
Though when he’s out he doesn’t get off the block anyway
I guess the adrenaline rush of a quick nut beats 3 hots and a cot any day
Apparently I’m too maternal for guys my age to appreciate
But he is like a masterpiece of acid tear marks covered by ink
His tattoos whisper volumes of poetry
His stories make murals on his skin
Begging me to dive in and learn their purpose
Because there is more to men than mistakes
And there is more to art than aesthetics
I am juxtaposed prose in a poet’s position
The irony of hoping to find Mr. Right by pretending to be accepting of all types of wrong
Every love song is a slap in the face that no one loves me that way
So I still play house
Looking for a man looking to be loved
And finding only boys looking to be fucked
Savages
Looking for a hunt
With the marks of a soldier but the heart of a civilian
His tattoos were beautiful but only skin deep
The only meaning seeming to be pleas for attention from everyone except apparently
Me
Hieroglyphic hopes to not be forgotten hand painted on his temple
A girl once burned down the chapel of his heart
So he became hard headed and thick skinned
With warning signs spray painted from needled cans saturating his surface
“Do Not Enter!” scream the pinup girls on his ribs because that’s really how he feels about the gift God made of him
Barbed wire on his biceps so I would not be tempted to lay in his arms
A lion on his left pectoral in case I dare go near his heart
Lips traced on his collar to assure me my kiss was nothing he didn’t already have
Countless stars so everyone knows he believes he is above them
He is like a flower
Plucked and placed on the kitchen table to be admired
It was being beautiful that brought him so much pain
I am sorry
But I am playing house
And isn’t that what grown ups do?
Decorate their home with priceless works of art that they won because at some auction they were willing to give more than everyone else
Something like how in relationships I'm willing to give more than myself
So I’ve stopped looking for a partner to write love poems about
And will settle for a prized possession to display in my play house
Never stopped stuffing
Pretending to be pregnant
But now
Instead of pillows under my shirt
It’s penises under my skin
Boys behind my ribs because I have to let him in if I expect him to hold my heart
Despite what people claim to see in my eyes
Barcodes etched into my thighs show him just how much I think I’m worth
I hide the epic poem of my life behind fairytale book covers
Cinderella slippin my way between the soiled covers of a borrowed lover
I pretend to be illiterate
Not to read too deep into his silences
Not to read fast enough to see “wifey” sending him text messages
We both see monogamy as sentences
But where I see articulation
Structured expression
Shared understanding and talented construction
He sees punishment
Being locked up against his will
Though when he’s out he doesn’t get off the block anyway
I guess the adrenaline rush of a quick nut beats 3 hots and a cot any day
Apparently I’m too maternal for guys my age to appreciate
But he is like a masterpiece of acid tear marks covered by ink
His tattoos whisper volumes of poetry
His stories make murals on his skin
Begging me to dive in and learn their purpose
Because there is more to men than mistakes
And there is more to art than aesthetics
I am juxtaposed prose in a poet’s position
The irony of hoping to find Mr. Right by pretending to be accepting of all types of wrong
Every love song is a slap in the face that no one loves me that way
So I still play house
Looking for a man looking to be loved
And finding only boys looking to be fucked
Savages
Looking for a hunt
With the marks of a soldier but the heart of a civilian
His tattoos were beautiful but only skin deep
The only meaning seeming to be pleas for attention from everyone except apparently
Me
Hieroglyphic hopes to not be forgotten hand painted on his temple
A girl once burned down the chapel of his heart
So he became hard headed and thick skinned
With warning signs spray painted from needled cans saturating his surface
“Do Not Enter!” scream the pinup girls on his ribs because that’s really how he feels about the gift God made of him
Barbed wire on his biceps so I would not be tempted to lay in his arms
A lion on his left pectoral in case I dare go near his heart
Lips traced on his collar to assure me my kiss was nothing he didn’t already have
Countless stars so everyone knows he believes he is above them
He is like a flower
Plucked and placed on the kitchen table to be admired
It was being beautiful that brought him so much pain
I am sorry
But I am playing house
And isn’t that what grown ups do?
Decorate their home with priceless works of art that they won because at some auction they were willing to give more than everyone else
Something like how in relationships I'm willing to give more than myself
So I’ve stopped looking for a partner to write love poems about
And will settle for a prized possession to display in my play house
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
New Poem (UNEDITED!)
EXCLUSIVE
(I know its really long, but it's cuz I haven't had a chance to edit it yet...thoughts are much appreciated)
Tattooed PlayHouse
(I know its really long, but it's cuz I haven't had a chance to edit it yet...thoughts are much appreciated)
Tattooed PlayHouse
The little girl in me still plays house
Never stopped stuffing
Pretending to be pregnant
But now
Instead of pillows under my shirt
It’s penises under my skin
Boys behind my ribs because I have to let him in if I expect him to hold my heart
Despite what people claim to see in my eyes
Barcodes etched into my thighs show him just how much I think I’m worth
I hide the epic poem of my life behind fairytale book covers
Cinderella slippin my way between the soiled covers of a borrowed lover
He looks me over
Pegs me as an unclaimed lamb
Butters me up for the slaughter
Never checked for my marks
Never bothered to listen to my scars
Thought he was the only one with permanent expressions on his epidermis
I pretend to be more shallow than I am
Not to read too deep into his silences
Not to read fast enough to see “wifey” sending him text messages
We both see relationships as sentences
But where I see articulation
Structured expression
Shared understanding and talented construction
He sees punishment
Being locked up against his will
Though when he’s out he doesn’t get off the block anyway
I guess the adrenaline rush of a quick nut beats 3 hots and a cot any day
Apparently I’m too maternal for guys my age to appreciate
But he is like a masterpiece of acid tear marks covered by ink
His tattoos whisper volumes of poetry
His stories make murals on his skin
Begging me to dive in and learn their purpose
Because there is more to men than mistakes
And there is more to art than aesthetics
I am juxtaposed prose in a poet’s position
An angel on a Saint’s mission
City-switchin
To-Do list wishin
I am a genius of oxymorons
Staring at the make-up
Looking for the balance between putting more on
And wiping away the lies
I’m not going to find Mr. Right by pretending to be accepting of all types of wrong
Every love song is a slap in the face that no one loves me that way
So I still play house
I’m the mommy and the daddy and the nanny
Looking for a man looking ro be loved
And finding only boys looking to be fucked
Savages
Looking for a hunt
With the marks of a soldier but the heart of a civilian
His tattoos were beautiful but only skin deep
The only meaning seeming to be pleas for attention from everyone except apparently
Me
Hieroglyphic hopes to not be forgotten hand painted on his temple
A girl once burned down the chapel of his heart
So he became hard headed and thick skinned
With warning signs spray painted from needled cans saturating his surface
“Do Not Enter!” scream the pinup girls on his ribs because that’s really how he feels about the gift God made of him
Barbed wire on his biceps so I would not be tempted to lay in his arms
A lion on his left pectoral in case I dare go near his heart
Lips traced on his collar to assure me my kiss was nothing he didn’t already have
Countless stars so everyone knows he believes he is above them
He is like a flower
Plucked and placed on the kitchen table to be admired
It was being beautiful that killed him
I am sorry
But I am playing house
And isn’t that what grown ups do?
Decorate their home with priceless works of art that they won because at some auction they were willing to give more than everyone else
Something like I give more than myself
So I’ve stopped looking for a partner
And will settle for a prized possession to display in my play house
Never stopped stuffing
Pretending to be pregnant
But now
Instead of pillows under my shirt
It’s penises under my skin
Boys behind my ribs because I have to let him in if I expect him to hold my heart
Despite what people claim to see in my eyes
Barcodes etched into my thighs show him just how much I think I’m worth
I hide the epic poem of my life behind fairytale book covers
Cinderella slippin my way between the soiled covers of a borrowed lover
He looks me over
Pegs me as an unclaimed lamb
Butters me up for the slaughter
Never checked for my marks
Never bothered to listen to my scars
Thought he was the only one with permanent expressions on his epidermis
I pretend to be more shallow than I am
Not to read too deep into his silences
Not to read fast enough to see “wifey” sending him text messages
We both see relationships as sentences
But where I see articulation
Structured expression
Shared understanding and talented construction
He sees punishment
Being locked up against his will
Though when he’s out he doesn’t get off the block anyway
I guess the adrenaline rush of a quick nut beats 3 hots and a cot any day
Apparently I’m too maternal for guys my age to appreciate
But he is like a masterpiece of acid tear marks covered by ink
His tattoos whisper volumes of poetry
His stories make murals on his skin
Begging me to dive in and learn their purpose
Because there is more to men than mistakes
And there is more to art than aesthetics
I am juxtaposed prose in a poet’s position
An angel on a Saint’s mission
City-switchin
To-Do list wishin
I am a genius of oxymorons
Staring at the make-up
Looking for the balance between putting more on
And wiping away the lies
I’m not going to find Mr. Right by pretending to be accepting of all types of wrong
Every love song is a slap in the face that no one loves me that way
So I still play house
I’m the mommy and the daddy and the nanny
Looking for a man looking ro be loved
And finding only boys looking to be fucked
Savages
Looking for a hunt
With the marks of a soldier but the heart of a civilian
His tattoos were beautiful but only skin deep
The only meaning seeming to be pleas for attention from everyone except apparently
Me
Hieroglyphic hopes to not be forgotten hand painted on his temple
A girl once burned down the chapel of his heart
So he became hard headed and thick skinned
With warning signs spray painted from needled cans saturating his surface
“Do Not Enter!” scream the pinup girls on his ribs because that’s really how he feels about the gift God made of him
Barbed wire on his biceps so I would not be tempted to lay in his arms
A lion on his left pectoral in case I dare go near his heart
Lips traced on his collar to assure me my kiss was nothing he didn’t already have
Countless stars so everyone knows he believes he is above them
He is like a flower
Plucked and placed on the kitchen table to be admired
It was being beautiful that killed him
I am sorry
But I am playing house
And isn’t that what grown ups do?
Decorate their home with priceless works of art that they won because at some auction they were willing to give more than everyone else
Something like I give more than myself
So I’ve stopped looking for a partner
And will settle for a prized possession to display in my play house
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