Queen of the Jungle-Sea

I know a Lion Woman.
She has a delicate, shining fur that embellishes the beauty of the scars she wears under her assumed thick skin. The golden fur and her deep scars that are hidden beneath give her such character.
What people don’t know is that when the hunters try and hunt her, she uses her glowing fur to deter the fear in her eyes. No one can ever read the fear in her eyes. Initially she allows herself to be a spectacle to entertain and even inspire those around her in the wild world. People see how she wears her gorgeous coat with such ferocious pride, that to them she is magnetic, enticing. They all gather around her in worship. She is unlike any other lioness they have ever seen. She wields such power with her roars, yet she also shows such open vulnerability through her deep purr. She is unlike any lioness they have seen

Yet though they see this unique beauty, they still choose to carelessly shot at her and be amused to her stuttering retreat into a quit corner away from glaring eyes. The hunters who have sought her do not have they intention of killing her, unusually enough, they just wish to benefit from watching her in her natural habitation. The way she moves, the way she thinks, the way she feels through things around her. She is unlike any lioness they have seen.
She is impossible to ignore.

When she was first born she was not an ordinary lioness. She had a small bump on her back and she did little allow this to make her feel different, or ostracized from the other lionesses around her. In fact, she knew the nature of survival for a lioness was the coming together of them to hunt to find just the perfect prey. This small bump on her sturdy back grew into a shell, which most resembled that of a crab. Now they were sure that she was unlike any lioness they have seen.

The Lion-Crab Woman.
She is seasoned to firstly protect those who she loves with all the might of her will. For that is what a lioness and a crab do, they protect. But she sometimes forgets how to protect herself.
In the battlefield she has fallen only prey to one defeat. The inability to adapt to the hunters that dangle meat at her face and then leave her with nothing but rotten meat to consume. This makes her very, very ill.

She is unlike any lioness-crab they have ever seen.
When she is ill, her guts are openly expelled time and again.

A Tribute to Lesbian Film...

Brown People Are Scary Because...

Alright! Here it is kids. What you have been waiting for. A good old racist battle! My dear friend and fellow art genuis, Shaun "The Dace," aka: The Tall White One, wants to get back at me for all my anger, agression and RACISM towards white people. So he is coming back with some ammunition aimed at my phamily!

So here is what he has to say against my people.

5. They tilt their heads back and forth when giving attitude, telling a joke, giving instruction, or taking orders.

4. They don't understand when its is appropriate to give comments...usually yelling out their opinion in an exajerated accent...and then repeating it in a softer tone to make sure those around have heard.

3. They call each other by weird baby names...Gigi, papa g, uncle g, bunty, etc...

2. Everytime they dance they think its some kind of Bollywood movie...Women motioning in the air and completing slow full hip movements in large circle formations, or men moving side to side pretending they are moving giant scarves across their shoulders...usually hitting us white people in the head with no rhyme or rhythm.



1. Their B.O. STINKS!!!!
like moldy curry

There bitch. You gave your kind of people a voice. Don't forget I still have the power of the bobble-bobble back-slap! Watch your back T.W.O.

Kiss a cow in a chunnari with your white, pointy cap on, I say! I am sure we can all get along.

Cheers Dace.

In My Secret Garden

I open the gates into my secret garden.

They are antique, made of a golden iron that looks like it has weathered from many violent storms passing through.
My garden is a place of sanctuary. A place where I escape into sheer silence, besides the noise of the wind and the insects flying by. BzzzZZZzzz.

I can sometimes hear the petals of the flowers opening to reveal a beauty of a world that could fit into the palm of my hand.
When I close my eyes and listen, I can hear them coming to life, like a baby crying when it breathes its first gasp of air in the world.
My garden is a place where I do belong and my heart does not harden.

I walk slowly, my hands neatly tucked at my side. One step forward and I wiggle my toes in the dirt, two steps forward and I raise my head to feel the magic that surrounds me against my face,
I stop and I close my eyes. My hands begin to feel sticky from quenching my palm. I relax my arms, then my fingers.
I breathe in the air and I get a little tickle in my throat from the pollen.
I resist the temptation of a sneeze and instead I control my breathing.
My eyes begin to weld up of tears from the power of the sun and the sensitivity of what my eyes have seen.

I can feel the glory of the sun pulse against my brown skin and with my small fingers, I begin to caress the growth of my curly hair.
It feels like my hair has grown three inches in a few minutes, accelerated by the authority of the sun over my vessel, my follicles.

I take another few steps forward and I turn to see a little bird gently hovering over a gathered group of Gerber flowers. The bird seems to soar above worries, above fear. I am entranced. I watch it with such admiration for rising above dangers and burdens, to levitate to a vantage point of gaining a unique perspective. I wish I could fly like the little bird.



After being transfixed for a few minutes and feeling the first beat of sweat drip down my brow, I decide to move deeper into the garden, into her womb, to hide inside the organ of roses — long stemmed and full of colour, function and importance. Under the shade of my willow tree, which stands alone to the right-side of the garden, I decide to lay my burden down.

I bend my knees and slowly sit down, breathing in every ounce of air as it were my last. I feel Mother Earth tell me it is my time to grow, to be nourished by her and her infinite desire to cultivate growth.

I look at my fingers which now show dirty from running my hands to stroke the earth. I sit by the elbow of my willow tree’s largest branch and close to the rose’s bed. I prick my finger on a thorn of a delicious red rose and I watch the blood ooze up and over, like a pot overflowing from boil. In slow motion I watch my blood hit the ground. I prick myself time and time again. Each time I am equal in pain and I become more hopeful of understanding why it is that these roses have thorns.

A rose without a thorn, a lover without scorn.

I begin to feel light-headed from the heat of the sun and loosing so much blood. Enough infliction, I decide. I rest down on the ground and wash the dirt all over my body, tucked between the roses and my guardian willow tree. I turn to the left and there it is again, the little bird sitting on the red rose I had first pricked my finger upon.

It seems to be looking at me. I smile and we observe one-another with curiosity and admiration. Until the pain of the wounds subsides, I stare into the birds yellow face and examine with jealously, the beautiful blue colour that dresses its feathers. The bird encourages me to rest, with a small soft noise and a polite pecking sound that reminds me of my cockatiel when I was a child.

Eventually I fall asleep…with the little bird at my side. When I wake several hours later, I am sheeted in my own sweat, but I feel as though I have allowed my body and soul to be cleansed by everything alive.

Until I return again…I get up with a smile on my face and forget about all the pricks on my fingers. But I never forget that yellow-faced, blue-feathered bird.

Suck On Me: SHE'S BACK!

Hard Candy: Official Press Release

'HARD CANDY' DELICIOUS NEW MADONNA ALBUM SCHEDULED TO BE RELEASED ON WARNER BROS. RECORDS APRIL 29th
Madonna's 11th studio album for Warner Bros. Records 'HARD CANDY' is scheduled to have a global release on April 28th and a US release on April 29th, it was confirmed by her label.
'HARD CANDY' (the follow up to Madonna's 'CONFESSIONS ON A DANCE FLOOR' which debuted at No. 1 in 30 countries and sold over 8 million copies), has been described as a brilliant up-tempo collection of 12 songs in which Madonna remains ensconced in club mode but this time adds an urban hip hop beat in collaboration with musical partners Timbaland, Justin Timberlake, Pharrell Williams of The Neptunes and Nate 'Danja' Hills. The debut single, the pulsating '4 Minutes' will be released at the end of March.
'The title is a juxtaposition of tough and sweetness - kind of like I'm gonna kick your ass but it's going to make you feel good. And of course, I love candy' laughed the material girl.
Madonna, a multi-Grammy-award-winning singer, songwriter, producer, cultural icon, world renowned stage performer, video visionary, children's book author, director and documentary film maker has sold 200 million albums in the course of her unprecedented two decade plus career and is slated to be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame on March 10th.

From madonna.com

When? How? Why? Who?

When did I loose my faith in having a worthy path, a purpose that would see me uncover my destiny?
When did I forgot that I was someone who was worthy of seeing my dreams come true?
When did I feel so scorned that I forgot that I was seeking a real love that would always happily be strong for me, as strong as I am for her?
How did I get so far away from knowing what was good for me, that I came close to suffocating my own soul?
How did I become so weak that I was no longer a positive role-model for my un-born child, or even those around me who believe in me?
Why am I not smart enough to know that you are not the one?
Why can’t I just appreciate the beauty of life, without fearing never seeing you again?
Why does it hurt so badly when I know that there is so much I am grateful for?
Who’s gonna rescue me from myself?
Who am I?

White People Are Hazerdous Because...

5) They eat lots of macaroni and cheese and when it comes out of them in fart form, it smells like dead babies.

4) They have no sense of style and they try to hide it by wearing ethnic, trendy items. Don't wear headwraps, Jamaican colours or a sari. You ain't got no flava...it's written all over your boring skin.

3) Their babies are see-through. They look like tadpoles. Notice how white parents always over-compensate their love for their white babies?
Patty: "Isn't she a doll!"
Henry: "We are the luckiest parents alive! She looks like a beautiful angel!"
That is because they have no soul and are afraid that they will kill them at nighttime. Angel of death, yes.

2) They steal everyone’s land. Colonization ring a bell? Perhaps slavery? We wade in the water and picked cotton because we are obviously far more capable of survival through instinct and adaptation, than their funny redneck skin. Burn mutha, burn!

1) They always spill their drinks on the dancefloor and scream really loud. This is clearly to cover up the fact that they can't dance, for they have no innate rhythm. If you’re going to spill your drink, spill it into my mouth, you stupid-ass!
Patty: "Look Martha! I am really busting a move!"
Martha: "Yes you are Patty! I would say you are even shaking it like a salt shaker! Oh my!"

Fall On Your Knees

I have been told I am an idealist. At times I see this as true. Don’t be misled into believing that I do not struggle with the strangulation of pain, depression, desperation and the endless demands and hustles of this so-called “game”. I have been forced to loose so many things that I value, without ever having someone comfort my miserable disdain. But I fight hard to remember, even when I am face down in the gutter, of another’s amplified and omnipresent pain.

I do not wish to leave this world alone, with nothing but my own anger and pointed blame. Though each day I feel lonely, though I have not slept in solitaire tranquility in months. Though I have been afraid to let love be free and find its way without being in my captivity. I know my fears are not helpless, they are capable of control. I must remain as strong as the body that carries my soul, exercise to keep it feeling alive and bold. I do not wish to revel in happy memories past, only to have them converted into a liquefied serum of disconnection at last.

Open your eyes and see the condition of misery that is beseeched onto those who are not rich in purse, but rich in soul. On the colourful news, in the black and white paper, that is what I see everyday. I am constantly reminded of how little we really care. Flies hovering around corpses of dead babies, humans that have nothing left but bone on their skin. Yet they still manage to survive with an endurance, without receiving little of anything.

We should all be ashamed of what we claim to be. We are far from being the greatest of societies. Progress is stagnant if you do not save others before yourselves. It is not about being a noble martyr. It is about unconditional care for those who have been handed into a responsibility of our care. I am not talking about lovers or even friends. I am talking about those who do not have the ability to escape the regulated neglect of our capitalist world. Those who have no food to eat, those who have no clean water to drink. Those who have been raped and tortured by the hands of a savage militia, those who have been beaten for their system of beliefs. Truth should always comes before dare, anywhere.

Shove a needle in your arm, smoke a joint to numb the pain. Desensitize yourself from flying emotions, or their possilble worth. For without them life would appear to be such an insatiable flame and you would have nothing but a private pain. I stand to observe and understand the power of kindness alone, for I have seen from my own path alone, that there is an opportunity to turn into still marble or stone. Our ability to create marvelous structure, and then feel no shame, when it is ripped into pieces and left in the rain. Those who are able to see that there is so much more suffering in life than what is inflicted on you and me.

Those who inspire me in life are the philosophers of humanity, the writers of humanism, the artists of the human condition, human musicians. They inspire me because of their fascination with understanding our mortality, morality, our toleration of love and pain. History will repeat itself until we are no more. Now is the only time we can change this future, or we will not endure.