Tag Archives: BeaBop

SST 11 Idea BeaBop Forking Flames

24 Apr

(For St. George’s Day 2016. I am playing with the theme of a dragon and loss and heat.)

Last night I played with fire

Stood on a mountain of twigs charring

Keen to dance energy into ice-aged hearts

Spinning yarn lacking usual sparring

Drunk on memories thronging

I tip-toed Azonto to loss and longing

Amid smoked photos and stories big

Their words began a frivolous Derby jig

All awhile their eyes pricked

Bearing holes into decades of paper shavings

From family trees

Barren of fruit

But full of the flame seed

I planted a seed on the topmost twig

It toppled to invisible depths

I rested on the tail of a dragon

Reached into his abyss

and stoked the flames

Teasing lies that were full of gasses

I can no longer love the way you used

Can I love longer? No, you used the way

Love used me way longer I can breathe

No longer can I breathe love your way

I used to breathe love in as you inspired

Breathe inspired love in as you used I to

Balloon my image above your own like deity

Above your balloon image

Love inspires breathe I used to

Used breathe to linger on lobes

filled with love

Pops out to

you used to your dragons breath

The heat you used to

He used me

To destroy myself

And laughed in the face of the dragon

I rose up and bearing teeth holding back the rancid gasses of futile years

Advertisements

BeaBop: Tribute (SST10 Final Draft)

28 Jan

 

She lived for that green
the shade that bled the sun through
tall stems full
of the stuff of life
laying foundations in the moss
cultivating a kind of eco-festival
full of cool, hip-for-you stuff
-BEAT-
She hailed from Masaka in royal Uganda
she whispered evergreen national parks
wore celebrations piled atop afro coils
a silent disco danced behind cocoa eyes
and like a sister
yet more a daughter, she wrapped me in tribute
Pursing lips to my dimples

Once, I thought I had jailed my chance
to mother after severing myself from a house
full of too many women
growing big for their boobs
I kicked the dirt and left my idea of family
to flap in the cross-winds
in a pea-green boat
-BEAT-
She was the road sign green
that directed me back to motherhood
back when truth was wedged
between puberty and middle classdom
a detour made through males too old to be boys
I would hide my dreams behind
a padlocked Brady Bunch

Her face was the key
opening the old fashioned golden door
a beacon for folk to stay awhile
empty their souls
rest up and ease lines
carved across play dough
whilst sharing a little philosophy
-BEAT-
Her voice was the architect
plucking my dimples
to loosen my shadows
The chef: pressing jerk, pimento
scotch bonnet, garlic cloves
into my middle
seasoning me for motherhood
-BEAT-
She loved the little bit of apple mixed with olive
the kind that took the edge off a hard day
of walking wards
in worn-in clogs
her uniform a starched green
the type that made you stand to attention

Or hide your boyfriends attitude
until he wanted to do the right thing
all by himself

And she would call me

-BEAT-

Now she whispers to me

-BEAT-
And I mother a handful now
using those tints
of her cool, hip-for-you, stuff of life

BeaBop SST10 (3rd Draft)

8 Jan

She lived for that green
the shade that bled the sun through
tall stems full
of the stuff of life
laying foundations in the moss
cultivating a kind of eco-festival
full of cool, hip-for-you stuff

– Beat –

She hailed from Masaka in royal Uganda
she whispered evergreen national parks
wore celebrations piled atop afro coils
a silent disco danced behind cocoa eyes
And like a sister, scrap that –
a daughter, she wrapped me in tribute
Pursing lips to my dimples

Once, I thought I had jailed my chance
to mother after severing myself from a house
full of too many women
growing big for their boobs
I kicked the dirt and left my idea of family
to flap in the cross-wind
in a pea-green boat

– Beat –

She was the road sign green
that directed me back to motherhood
back when truth was wedged
between puberty and middle classdom
a detour made through males too old to be boys
I would hide my dreams behind
a padlocked Brady Bunch

Her face was the key
opening the old fashioned golden door
beaconing for folk to stay awhile
empty their souls
rest up and ease lines
carved across play dough
whilst sharing a little philosophy

– Beat –

Her voice was the architect
plucking my dimples
to loosen my shadows
the chef: pressing jerk, pimento
scotch bonnet, garlic cloves
into my middle
seasoning me for motherhood

– Beat –

She loved the little bit of apple mixed with olive
the kind that took the edge off a hard day
of walking wards
in worn-in clogs
her uniform a starched green
the type that made you stand to attention

Or hide your boyfriends attitude
until he wanted to do the right thing
all by himself
by presenting himself to her
to ask to place a ring on your finger
before even thinking of
taking your crown

And she would call me

– Beat-

Now she whispers to me
And I mother a handful now
using those tints
of her cool, hip-for-you, stuff of life

 

[Tech requirements:3 – 4 colour washes – different shades or intensities of green cycled for each stanza. Timing/length : 2’25”]

BeaBop – SST10 Idea

2 Dec

Light is part of our physical world – electro-magnetic waves, which is much more than we can visibly see.

Metaphorically, there are people who consume light; give off light; emanate light.

Every day people are affected by light – emotionally, physically.

I want to explore this powerful force as a metaphor for someone special in my life.

Posted by BeaBop via WordPress for Android

SST9 BeaBop Final Draft – Carnival Queen of Fights

2 Jul

She senses that I am watching
Again.

I am crouching tiger,
Hiding my aggression.
She is my Queen.
Queen of fights.
Queen of the carnival.

I try connecting my thoughts with hers.
She jolts and
A fountain of feathers
Spews twelve feet high
From two dimples at the base of her back
Shielding me from her nurturing rhythms.

I remember in HD how
I would lord all of my yesterdays
Along her undulating vertebrae.
Cusses, flinging
Acid from my mouth
Taunted her to glitter
Like schizophrenic sparkles
Tussled atop
Hundreds
of
Sequinned
Thousands.

I used to be her masquerade
Bringing messages of expectation
Dressed up in crimped coca-cola tops,
cardboard mâché Ikeji masks
and tricolour ruffled trousers.
She would flirt with my djembe and
Surround my pan-pipe
Band of merry macho-men
Vibrating their pans of steel
Waving opulence at demure crowds
As we marched
On
‘Road.

Tomorrow,
Her chariot awaits
Waist wines carelessly her wheeled hooped skirt.
Framing her girdle –
An aluminium corset
Covered in purple batik and red raffia
Into which slots left wing and right
Her right to taunt me in the custardly light

On her right glows her Mas band,
Angels trouped ready
To set firework rhythms.
Stomps pierce the tarmac
And yes,
Now I can feel her vibration
And I feel like marmalade – thick cut.

On her left
I see my spirit jump and wave
Tempted to touch
A body which defined my mood for years.
My masked taunts
Carried along rainbow-veined tendrils
Collapse her soft-skinned sonnets
To feed a cockiness with no soul.

Now.

I sense her watching me –
Again.
Scraping at my heart
With grooved toes, clenched.
She aims her vibranium-tipped arrow
Knocking me off-balance,
Krumping my spirit.

I have lost our connection.

However her crown
Reigns historic
A rock ruling for equality.
My Queen
My Carnival Queen of Fights.

SST9 First Draft BeaBop

1 Jun

Smiling On De Road

Two dimples brand the base of her back –
Carries my chants along veined tendrils
Emanating from soft skin to feathered-edged sonnet

Her body defined my mood for years
Sometimes I was marmalade – thick cut.
Others I am a crouching tiger hiding my aggression

Soured reprisals are balanced on her left
Proud to remind me of her worth
Weighted in gold-coated vibranium

Cusses used to fling from my mouth
Taunting her schizophrenia to tussle
Glitter sparkles atop hundreds of sequined thousands

On her right is a Mas band of angels
Lined up like a troupe ready for fireworks
Rhythms pierce the tarmac

Around her girth is an aluminium frame
Into which slots in her left and right
Her right to be objective in the custardly light

This idea is still cooking in my head. I see it being performed by somebody else or two. The construction of a carnival costume being the metaphor. It will last for 3 minutes.

Posted from BeaBop’s tablet thingy

BeaBop SST9 Carnival – DRAFT

16 May

Marmalade is the new brown. One half dipped in Marmite. The other rotated in a vat of feathers.  Frantic streams of rainbows popcorn into summer soca. There is a bass urge to screech from the bottom of magnolia-lined lungs. Profane examples of society prefer to jam like berries in Tory blue. I breathe in candy-floss coated chicken and a float whirls by carrying a super-princess wearing steel pan pants, thumping her feet to the rhythm with pride eminating from her waist.  Her beat wakes up deadbeats resting in the ruts between cracked cobble stones. De road marches from The Forest to mirror the sky.  I am greedy for more magnolia clouds.  Around the corner a page is turning again. An eruption spews Nepalese rocks from my chest. As I exhale I m