There’s this asshole who every time he sees me with my ukulele he thinks he’s funny and asks “Can you play any Metallica?” but the joke is now on him because I just learned how to play the intro riff to Master of Puppets.
I did it. I fucking did it. He asked me again just like I knew he would and I stared him straight in the eyes without blinking and just fucking shredded on my ukulele
a poem for Hip-Hop
Kendrick Lamar splits open monsters
and fights on the virtue that to get stronger,
you only go to battle with armies
that are capable of stampede.
Those who tread lightly are not worthy
of your warpath.
Lupe Fiasco ties his tongue into a
cat’s cradle and whispers sweet everythings
into the ears of middle schoolers who
by the end of the night will know
the brutality of the Audubon Ballroom
Talib Kweli lectures behind a podium with
Howard Zinn to the ears of college-somethings
about the nature of history:
everyone is a writer
but the best authors do not pen the past:
only the victorious do.
A columnist in the New York Daily said that Hip Hop emphasizes
"the crudest materialism in which the ultimate goal
is money and it did not matter how one got it.”
Jay-Z sits on the steps of his former housing project with Oprah Winfrey,
then shakes the hand of the most powerful man of the free world.
He and Beyonce are American royalty
and their bloodlines are unconcerned with its
50 Cent demonstrates a contrasting irony
as his money grows up to be worth
his namesake tenfold and then some.
Sean Combs drapes the resting place
of The Notorious B.I.G. in jewels as
he whispers to his best friend,
Don’t worry, I made us enough money
that it’ll follow me into the afterlife.
We’ll be more than taken care of when we meet.
Republican senate member Chris McDaniel
was quoted to say that Hip-Hop is a culture that
"values rap and destruction of community values
more than it does poetry.”
Kanye West and Nina Simone
swing dance in an orchard
as the farmers peddle their strange fruit.
Tupac Shakur figures out the equation for immortality.
It is 6 albums, 8 movies,
and an understanding that
power moves create fame;
influential motion crafts legacy.
Andre 3000 writes a song about the
devastating separation between himself and his love.
The world cannot help but pulse to it.
Andre knowing this, before the second chorus
in Hey Ya!, laments:
"y’all don’t wanna hear me.
You just wanna dance.”
Across the internet, Hip Hop is not regarded as a musical genre.
Criticized for lack of originality, vapid lyrics, and a monotonous sound,
the overwhelming statement is that Hip-Hop has nothing to do with music.
The RZA and Just Blaze
sit behind monitors and soundboards
as they begin to summon the spirits of
Bill Withers, Gladys Knight and Curtis Mayfield
into the studio.
Hip-Hop has nothing to do with music.
Nicki Minaj simpers and then ferociously
spits at kings as they watch the queen conquer.
Female named hurricanes kill more
than their male counterparts.
Hip-Hop has nothing to do with music.
The beat slam rumbles the speakers of your
'98 Toyota Camry and transforms these
3 minutes and 32 seconds
into a parade etched into a dream that grips your shoulders
and the only way to release the tension that rides on top of you
is to take these songs as an instruction,
it was written like a manual.
Hip-Hop has everything to do with everything.
She doesn’t need to be defended,
doesn’t need to explain herself,
doesn’t need your permission.
Hip-Hop walks with the hypocrisies and the benedictions
of every great art form in our existence.
You only notice her because of
how fresh her hips swing,
how zealous her disciples are,
how scared you get when she uses those big words in conversation,
and you beg her,
talk to me in a way that I can understand.
And you turn up the radio and feel safe.
I really want a well thought out les mis fic, with les amis caught in the arab spring- arab characters who have been oppressed for too long. Young students vitalized into action against a corrupt government by the vision of a brighter future.
Imagine Enjolras standing on a disabled tank; a single tear trickling down his face as he has to kill a governent ally who could easily have been his neighbour in another time.
Combeferre and Joly trying to fix up the most horrifying wounds with next to no aid; while hospitals are being bombed, no electricity. Imagine them sitting with their friends as they scream in pain or pray to Allah or are simply silent as there last few seconds tick by and with ever last breath they breathe they truly believe that tomorrow there will be change and they died for a cause that will become historical.
Jehan producing songs and nasheeds while Courfeyrac tries to start up and host an illegal radio/tv station even though every base is being bombed and littered with government soldiers laying in wait. Feuilly making all sorts of paraphernalia with the new and improved flag colours, Bahorel is their main fighter, taking people down, collecting bullets. Gavroche, little Gavroche, dies in action while being taped by Courfeyrac for Al Jazeera; this image becomes iconic throughout the world and it makes even more horrific that the western world didn’t rise when they called. do you hear the people sing.
#oh my god#oh fuck me#this is actually everything i have ever dreamed about#this would be so amazing and important and would rock everyone to their core#because THIS is a modern au#i’m all for happy aus where no one dies#but fuck#the time of revolution is not over#revolution didn’t end in the 20th century#revolution is ongoing and it will never end#so don’t keep les amis in their pretty white eurocentric boxes#don’t have them protesting soft easy to swalow topics in france or america#shove the readers into this#make it upfront and personal and uncomfortable#yes it would just be fanfiction#but it could affect people#give it to middle cl;ass kids in america and europe#use it as a tool to make them care#there’s this giant disconnect about the arab spring#even the news never gets into it#it’s glossed over pretty and palatable#but give a fic like this to these kids#make them invested and angry#you could make them so angry#make them stop removing themselves from what’s going on in the middle east#you could make them care#and with this fandom#once you got them to care they wouldn’t let go#they wouldn’t let this go#Les Miserables
Hair is time.
Women with short hair always look as if they have somewhere else to go. Women with long hair tend to look as if they belong where they are, especially in California. Short hair takes a short time. Long hair takes a long time. Long hair moves faster than short hair. Long hair tells men that you are all woman, or a real woman, or at the very least a girl. Short hair always makes them wonder. Short hair makes children ask each other —usually at the school-yard gate, when parents are late— “Are you a boy or girl?” Men married to women with short hair should not have affairs with women who have long hair kept up with many little pins and combs. Once you have cut your hair you have to remember to wear lipstick, but you can put away the brush, elastics, and the black barrettes in the form of shiny leaves with rhinestone hearts. When you cut your hair you lose a nose and gain a neck. A neck is generally better than a nose. It does not need to be powdered, except on extreme occasions. It does, however, need to be washed more often.
With short hair you suddenly dislike the month of March, when the wind blows down the back of your neck. With short hair you begin to crave pearl necklaces, long earrings, and a variety of sunglasses. And you brush your teeth more often. Short hair removes obvious femininity and replaces it with style. When it starts growing out a little and losing its style, you have to wear sunglasses until you can get it to the hairdresser. That’s why you need a variety. Short hair makes you aware of subtraction as style. You can no longer wear puffed sleeves or ruffles; the neat is suddenly preferable to the fussy. You eye the tweezers instead of the blusher. What else can you take away? You can’t hide behind short hair. Your nape is exposed. Men put their hands around your neck instead of stroking your long locks. You can only pray they have friendly intentions. The backs of your ears show, your jaw line is clear to anyone watching, and you realize —perhaps for the first time— how wide the expanse of skin is between cheekbone and ear.
You may look a little androgynous, a little unfinished, a little bare. You will look elegant, as short hair requires you to keep your weight slightly below acceptable levels. However, the first time you wear a bathing suit with short hair, you will feel exceptionally naked. People who used to look straight at you will love you in profile. Short hair makes others think you have good bones, determination, and an agenda. The shape of your skull is commented on, so are its contents. They can pick you out in a crowd, and you can be recognized from behind, which can be good or bad. But your face is no longer a flat screen surrounded by a curtain: the world sees you in three dimensions.
Chase to the cut.
i. do not fall in love with me.
for i am hungry and cruel & i
will hollow you out with heavy
secrets & ugly insides.
i am not beautiful, i am scarred.
my mind is dusty archives with
paper thoughts that my wildfire
heart has a tendency to burn.
i will burn you. i will not provide
because i am selfish & frigid &
i will steal your offered comfort.
ii. do not fall in love with me.
for i am a killer.
finger pointed in a permanent
pistol, i will whisper compassion
with the heavy barrel of my gun.
iii. do not fall in love with me
because i am cruel.
i am jealous & messy & savage
& i will show you what a true monster
is. i will posses you utterly.
i will suffocate you.
iv. do not fall in love with me.
for i am a sadist and i will feed
you my chaos affection & you
v. do not fall in love with me.
for i am a liar.
i will hurt you & crush you & scream
my strength into the air between us.
i will make you feel wonderful & worthless.
vi. do not fall in love with me.
for i am weak.
& i will inhale you more than the
stolen oxygen in my butterfly lungs.
i will rely on you with my life & i will
lock my heart away inside your ribcage
because I do not trust myself with it.
vii. do not fall in love with me.
for i will need you.