have you ever...

[bluntedcacti]

...

[bluntedcacti]

...

[bluntedcacti]

...

[VirginPussy]

Bell Hooks you prescribe...some how she is very hedonistic about women...but then the prescribed text was not for me...

[bluntedcacti]

Bell Hooks you prescribe...some how she is very hedonistic about women...but then the prescribed text was not for me...

i hope through this, we have made some sort of peace?

[VirginPussy]

no. not yet...but i have my white flag in my back pocket just in case...a surrender now would be sheer calamity on my part...(it) our little wagging war of words will only
end when we are even. we don't really have to be equal but at least juxtapose in opinion

[BHLAKHROZE]

...

[Inca]

BHLAKHROZE

this is for you. i met someone who resonated with the spirit of those things you once knew and attempted to teach me. the things i failed to lend an ear to in my frenzied escape from my own shadow.


position of the woman as multiple: clit, slit, tit, touch, hold, whisper and shout. her sex is two lips and her language a cacophony; the order of the single, biggest, stiffest penis holds little interest to her. discard the one, she wants to say, arm yourself with plurality.
the spliff hung aloft,  she shook her head, letting out more smoke.

 rolling his words around his tongue with lust: 'there is no colour for the bite of fire, no colour for the light flight of a pull of ganja!' i took his manhood as he tried out the shapes of my womanhood. we became fluent in each other's  languages and bodies.
       

 sex an drugs....thats all i picked up from tha  prescribed text;D

[bluntedcacti]

...

[rob_one]

Evocative. I like. 

[lyrical mastermind]

stupendous dude!!!
i wonder what kind of friends u hav.

[Mad]

greetings AGians. here is an excerpt from my upcoming novel, entiltled Afrorisms of a Black Nihilist to be published by Deep South. perhaps you might nourish it with your thoughts?   

   
   
  Nothing phased and or surprised me anymore. The country was built on scabs and you wouldn’t have been too far from the truth to call me one. To call the music I made a wailing call for the bloodshed. But I focused instead on a search for beauty – eyes to pries towards that beauty – and ears.
   The facts were as follows: my name was Phakama. I had been doing music then for six years with little success, no break, and the constant company of a head-bashing anxiety. I was in flesh the cliché of the starving artist, and my complete devotion to a woman who had long stopped loving me was throwing my faculties into havoc. In fact, it could have been her that finally set me off.
   I got to hating time. I decided to live without dates. I knew she wanted to leave and that she eventually would. The question rested more on what I would then do. In my mind she had taken the a**ociation of any and everything worth salvaging about myself. For years, I realized, she had been the only force bracing me against madness. Time with her was time bided against society’s extended hand. I gave her and everyone I knew the promise of fire and creation; that I was born that way; born an artist. And still, the heroism dissipated as I felt her taking that life force out of me and back into herself. Sowing that f***ing tormenting love slowly out of my skin. Panicked, I was filled first with despair, and then with anger.
   ‘Jesus, I’ll simply f***ing die if you do that,’ I had said, suddenly lucid despite half a bottle of whiskey. Only minutes prior had I come in humming, determined to cup her face in my palms and confess that I would kill for her. However, as soon as I had entered something had seemed off, uncomfortable and terrifying, off-kilter. Her head dropped and I read it in the silence: we had been standing on opposite sides of a deep chasm, and attempting to cross it would for me mean nothing but death. I laughed bitterly thinking of the words I had carried for her, like fire, from the counter to her bed: where they true? : would I kill me for her?
    I leaned against the window shivering, amazed, simply amazed, at how strong and dextrous she was in taking me apart.
   ‘We’ve been together for too long. I’m tired. I need to do something else with my life.’
Of course, she was right, it had been long by anyone’s standard. But…looking at her I suddenly realized how much I wanted to be her. To stretch her skin for two, and capture that mindbending power that had my heart stuck in my throat like a wad of cotton wool. Was that not anyway what love was? A complete negation of self in favour of one’s devotion to someone else? Not suicide per se, but a transposition of one’s self to the caverns and confines of another? A vicarious sort of living that siphoned harmony from the object of admiration, maintaining on the one hand sanity for the lover, while on the other hand brewing for them a crippling dependence?
   Linearity dropped out of my perception of time, and I walked around in a rage, my chest a barrel of thunder, rolling into submergence under cascades of beer.
   Another. Another. Another.
   One more.
   Things fading.
    Yes.
    But my mind chased after negativity. I began to see those around me as mere mounds of flesh, uninspired and unsparked; vacuous and purely physical. Held captive by short attention spans, scant tepid orgasms, and take-aways that piled into a foetid tower in the fridge while each TV channel famished a different greed.
  Amongst them at the bar at Rick’s I wanted to kick. No, maybe it was thrash. Strangle? Anyway it was an overwhelming feeling of destruction. Erasing, hanging from the beams and stomping it all to dust. Getting down, getting in, looking around and finding someone to hang. Where they watching back?  I looked up to find pink candle-lit faces there to forget. Or was it to live? A misconstrued sense of recompense on my side? To continue? White people, I was neither here nor there about them, and they held no position of exception when it came to my scathing reviews of humankind. I finished my drink.
    At home I strummed for a few minutes before I let the guitar slip to the floor and threw myself back on my bed deeply inside the blackness of my eyelids. I felt a familiar feeling, warm and pleasant, spreading from my gut to my pelvis. In response I placed a hand on my cock, suddenly fiercely aroused. I had to have someone, I thought. Though I wondered if it would abate my present condition. It would not after all be the first time I had gone elsewhere for relief. Even though I had felt cavernous and morbidly repentant afterwards, in time I grew to wonder if it was indeed something which should have been the object of regret. She had after all refused to let me inside her, and soon after that prohibited any intimate contact. It was after a month when, dizzy with lust, I had found myself inevitably knocking on Zinzi’s door.
   On the phone now she sounded asleep, her voice was groggy and her responses were slow in coming. But she was keen, nonetheless.
  ‘I need you,’ I said, breathing into the phone. ‘I need you now.’
  ‘I hope it’s as good as it sounds,’ she said sleepily, and I imagined her smiling. ‘Bring some things, I’ll take a shower to wake up. Twenty minutes.’
   I put the phone down and back into my pocket, and for a moment allowed my mind to indulge in the luscious image of having her ample buttocks squashed tightly against my thighs. I would spill everything inside me into her and then collapse on her back, sated and momentarily at ease, buzzing from orgasm and marijuana. The thought of it made me feel like leaping off my bed and straight into her, but first I had to get ‘things’ straight.
  The euphemism of course stood for drugs: marijuana, ecstasy, and cocaine. Theo, a contact, had all three. On the other side of the phone he asked me if I knew what the f***ing time was. I laughed at his indignation, realizing for the first time, how drunk I was.
  ‘No. I don’t keep the time.’
  ‘Heh, mjitah what’s the occasion?’
  ‘I just need a bit of help.’
  ‘Ya ne. Whatever you say. The customer’s always right mos?’
  ‘Probably, but not in your line of work.’
  ‘Your overeducated a** should become a f***ing comedian. You’re cracking me up.’
  ‘Hey, I’m just a musician asking for his fuel, my man,’ I said as the phone cut. There was no need to arrange a location point for the rendezvous as the park three blocks from my flat had long become a stock meeting place for most of Theo’s clientele. It was, when one considered it, quite impressive the way his enterprise had budded. He was doing well, better than most, in fact. And he fashioned the conditions of his own existence. Cape Town was rife with addicts that suckled on his stash daily, the wealthy never tired of vice, and the artists, if not hiding, were always trying to pries themselves open. Any concerns about moral disposition could be solved, he once told me, by the hard cold fact that everyone has a price and hunger is brutal and desperate and uncompromising.     
  Outisde, I could feel the sun’s imminent presence despite it being completely dark. It had to be dawn, I guessed. The sky held a deep navy colour while the moon seemed harshly transfixed in its shock of bright white. Like an eye photographed widening at the precise moment of terror it met my gaze, contemplated it, and then cut beyond. I walked briskly to avoid sobering up before arriving at Zinzi’s flat.
  At her door my pockets were full and her beauty jarred me, presently nailing me to the threshold. It had grown complacent in my memory, and now breathing in front of me, it petrified me, playing wild circles with my insides. She lay on the sofa half-naked, watching a film, a joint smoking between her full lips. A mane of dreadlocks brushed on her shoulders, while a pair of wide brown eyes danced daringly above a small shadow of a smile. My eyes, travelling her body, had transfixed on her nipples. They played such a beautiful symphony of colour – dark rings upon chestnut mounds - that I stiffened immediately and had to repeatedly lick my lips before they showed any signs of being slicked.
  ‘Hi Phakama,’ she said, raising her arm. ‘Come in. Lock the door behind you. Do you want a joint?’   
  I had not been able to speak, only approach. She got up and spread her arms. I embraced her. I grabbed her by the waist and pressed her hard against me, breathing into her ear.
  ‘I love you,’ I said.
  She laughed softly – and then began to cough. I squeezed her tighter. She coughed harder. Her arms wrapped around my back and I felt myself vibrate with every racking sputter. She began to throw fists against my back, screaming for me to release her. I squeezed her tighter still, hearing a crunch, certain she couldn’t breathe. I maintained this for several seconds before releasing her to collapse in huffing heap at my feet. Falling next to her, I discovered that I had been weeping.
   She got up quietly and made her way back to the sofa where she began to clean the weed.
   ‘I’m sorry,’ I muttered, mortified.
   ‘It’s okay. But you’re unhappy. Very unhappy. I can’t help you with that. I can f*** you, suck your cock, let you eat me out and f*** you again, but I can’t do shit about that,’ she said fussing over the weed.
   ‘You’re angry,’ I said. ‘Should I leave?’
   ‘No, stay. Let’s have some of this stuff. Let’s have a good morning.’ She looked up and smiled slyly at me. I burst into a racket of relieved laughter, and the tears, though this time differently orientated, came down with even more gusto. I felt like morning!
   ‘I f***ing love you, Zinzi, why haven’t I ever realized that?’
    She pinched cocaine from the gram Theo had sold me in the park and with it drew a line between her breasts.
   ‘Forget love,’ she said, and held out a rolled twenty-rand note. ‘Just come here and give me a kiss me.’
    Inside that woman, I became transformed; exploded; inverted; stood on my head; whirled; and stewed. I wore sweat like fabric, a liquid garment that exploded into a chaos of pellets with every successive action, gesture. I lifted her on to my shoulders and with my tongue, caressed the viscous and salty ridges of her canal. My fingers thrust into her, and her buttocks clenched, squeezing them in deeper, the coarse V of her thick pubic hair playing on my chin as I lapped up the elongated shaft of her clitoris, slicking it with saliva, before gently applying a sucking pressure that made her head snap backwards in a scream I have not forgotten since.
    Zinzi positions herself between my thighs. Her head disappears.
    I am six years old. Everything is red. My shorts. The sun. Blood. Sin.
    The muscles on the small of my back spring, and I clench  my buttocks, ejaculating on her chin.
    f***.
    f***.
    f***.
    They are chasing me - or, I am luring them.
    Shit.
    'I think I'm having a bad trip.'
    'It'll wear off.'
    'Huh? Bats, er...butterflies, bats, butterflies, bandits: please, someone call Polardis!'
    I'm frying, aren't I?
    'No. All is as it should be.'
   
   

waht the f***? i blame microsoft for enbng people to copy anpste matirial. this is some real annoying shit

[WORDSMITH]

This should be deleted...