Afrofuturist dreams

Porn stars and sex on Mars
In Afrofuturist dreams.

George Clinton’s got his groove on
And Sun Ra’s Arkestra are playing Pluto.

Blaxploration of cosmic realms. 

This, the futureperfect, come to fruition,
Diachronic time is the gift of revelation.
Eternity frames all mythic presences,
Swallowing us up in the Black Gold of the Sun. 

Dylan was no hero of mine

She tempts you to defy it.
She invites you to untie it.
She beckons you to supply it.

And its opposite meets you halfway down,
because subconsciously this is what you want,
And you say it’s not what Dylan said would happen.

So we choose our heroes and they let us down
(though Dylan was no hero of mine),
because only you can get up on the ground 

that was 

always here.

You want to be a fraud? A fake? 

A generic mistake?

Face up to the faceless. 

And then that is embodied in this equal.

How then could the back to front be so perfect?
Her diamond mind says it’s just a point of view,
And nothing is as refreshing as every time you looked afresh,
And nothing is as refreshing as this,
And just dance.

Urban savage/wild gent

Each city laced by rough roads, polished paths,
and entwining a legion of stories.
Enough to exceed expectation.
Breaths rising, falling and coalescing
in fumes of carbon dioxide,
expressed thought/persona and divine rapture.

Oversouls embrace both town and mountain.
Gritty granular constellations
of dirt, pavement and rock formations.
The dragon’s wings curve 

through valley and dale, 

stream and striation.
Casting shadows from 

illuminations of the light 

that remains forever.

Urban savages snake up circuitous paths,
whether metropolitan or terranic.
The vistas from each and every worthy of ascent,
bring new and different aspects to vision.

And the depths are still mostly unknown,
like a watery night-sky,
filled with shooting stars 

of aqua-luminescence.

And the particulars are everywhere,
and you love what you love,
and that love transfigures,
making it sacred in your eyes.

Evade the stamp, subvert the mark,
unless it is your own,
and then collapse in communal hilarity,
which we all somewhat forget,
until it comes around again 

and again 

and 

again.