serve me rather with a woman fascinated by intelligence.
and this does not fall under the following reason: nowadays, every puppy, sick with love keep branding their intimate-other, ‘intelligent‘.
“Oh my boyfie this, oh my jamaa that…(insert that squeaky irritating voice some squeezes squeal out.) ” yippie yap yap, the hippie puppies rap on and i yawn like am nursing yam and sugarless strong tea hang over (nduma na strungi..).
Noo…noo.. (picture Khalalwe, the fighter Bull tingishaing the Kidole to Baba Poi aka Kimunya)…nooo, i tend to diss this lover’s conspiracy.
See, me i, me i..am just attracted to the slightly above the odd and ordinary rap in life and those who stick to anything close to basically ordinary mentality are hanging about a time bomb..tick tick…i’ll be ticked off!
it doesn’t matter, you weren’t created to please me, by PUH- LEASE, lease me a substantial definition on this:
INTELLIGENT, uhm, inevitably, here comes: Intelligence.
What is intelligence?
Alfred-Mutua-Who-so-reminds-me-of-Sadam-Hussein’s-spokesman ‘warning’ about Mungiki attacks describing it as an ‘government intelligent‘ report?
YET, the previous day leaflets flew all over from the sect declaring the same???
Ok. Not out of topic.
Or is it the fella who churns out witty facebook state-ass messages?
I may not be intelligent, in your definition, i guess, but i won’t fall out and i am tempted to classify this under the file of ‘overly-rated words’…but ridiculous Luda-crisis comes kicking with a live line like live~wire and lends me a life line~~
~~Who said sex is overrated? They just aint doing it right!~~
So, not that am doing it or nime-chill, but the same can be said about the so-called intelligence.
On the other hand, i agree, some women i’ve met could be and thus follows some characteristics; they’re slippery like seals, texts in T9, they good at changing topics when a ‘corner’ looms by, sending mixed signals, swinging the killer line when you think the prize is all yours…leaving you hung dry like a used sheath.
but the game is soon reversed, tail bites head and if you not getting head, nigga, ya need to sharpen your claws and invest in a fishing hook and the sucker may bite the bait.
but mostly, us men prefer women served best…not chilled out, but yeah: S-chew-pid.
Preferably, me too. That is, for running out off ‘fortune’.
Not all…but there is a damn tendency for this breed of turning out the same: same chameleons…different colors, hehe.
Different strokes for different folks, i agree, but my strokes? I catch them with Viola, when she aint violent, she is as violet as a lily, perfect and in-tely-gent ( loves telly) lies perfect and listens to my babble like a cat about to be spayed; hair pulled back like a pony’s tail and her full fly face shines off her water-mellonish head (those round, not red heads, lol)…face, smooth, not mosquito-bite riddled and the rest of the beauty, this beast will boast about it when we float on the isle, wrapped up in a sonnet, the day the pastor will weld us together.
And she is not intelligent.
She resembles any other girl out there many curtsys to Rambo tank tops, Wonderbra (bra-huh?), penicillin (oops pencil) jeans which sadly reminds me of some packed meat, no, parked pork..on yeah: Smokies!
They’re not as oily and edible though.
Should relief escape from my breathe’s sighs or should i squart and squint harder into the hazy horizon?
Close conferencing with my con-science, mind, soul and hearts suggests that i should be compelled and rant on…yes, rant on, rant on, for these are the times!
The times we’ve been told to wait for, for too long….and seated here, seat drenched with sweat from hours of facebooking…i shout it all out like an Obama Rhetoric bouncing off the scrappy walls of Chicago skyscrappers: we are truly the ones we have been waiting for, we be the change, the keys are within our luggage…lets start the search and unlock this chest from the soon-to be dead men…
BUT where does my sudden rush of rants stemmed from?
Simple:Malagasy (they don’t sell ‘kairasy‘ there!)
The moment Mr. Andry Rajoelina pushed his way to the top seat after a 3-months of deadly power with Marc Rava-manananannananana….my world of possibilities began to fix itself like an automatic jigsaw.
Now, more real, the hope Obama inspired on us has some how dried up together with the fascination of his meteoric rise…but the mirage of change should well crystallize in our minds as something achievable.
Many young people, back here in Kenya, have been carrying this vision and we celebrate them (not on Churchill, but in these hearts that hurt with the governments of the day’s shenanigans)..like one one GPO Oloo (former UoN student leader who was sho dead alongside Oscar Foundation chairman) who was fanning the resurrection of student activism– that we so hope, was not snuffed out with his life (may he rest in peace). This can’t be brushed aside lightly because it contributed (shove in Rev. Njoya’s conviction, beatings and all) to the introduction of multiparty-sm in Kenya.
That is why, i see, not dream, i believe, not just say, that soon, poets will run for presidency and no longer will normal breakfast broadcast be stopped to remind us of first family feuds we care less about- rather, if necessary, they’ll pause national T.V. to drop a line or two, lines laden with rhymes of hope, hope to the downcast.
The president, i over see, will appoint Oysters, not ministers, who will flow with the eloquence of their actions and legacy, speech (not-political blabber) will come later.
Can’t you see with me? See that standard raids on substandard media houses will cease and in its place, devils like Devani, Impunity, powersharing, postelection violence, high unga prices, briefcase millers, will all be fairly flanked to Kamiti dungeons and all their (preferably Devanis’s Trick-a-ton) shares and chairs will be re-distributed to poor poets (and bling the beggars).
Therefore, it would not recieve literary criticism that Instead of Arturs brothers-cum-Mamlukis, he will have literary Gangsters for bodyguards…and Pulse his offi-sho ngazet.
He will also understand that the youth need not funds, but a change of mind and heart first fast, then the rest will flow…like his lyrical speeches that will make sense to the small and great alike.
Trees, trees, Wangari Unbowed and with a noble heart, the Nobel Laurette will be brought on board, for he has it within him/her(ha!) that a ‘tree is the greatest living poem.’
Only chicken salad will come out of his mouth for whilst he dozes on unfinished poetry on mega-projects, no strange bed fellows (these ferros, mafi ya kuku) will sneak in.
He will have a poetess for a wife, not a bitter spouse with even bitter vibares (slaps)…rather, her fashion statements, swagger, will inspire like a role model should and roll our little girls into one complete package of respectable states(wo)men oh-not-so-bitter over past heart quakes, for they will have the intelligence to comprehend that men, over the ice, smoke and digital age, are like a rigidly structured poem, engineered to be the the same (and poly-gals-en mass).
The poetic president….!
The poetic president will not dent the freedom of the press, rather embrace the power of the pen in his fold, for journalists, are better in the camp, pissing outside, rather than outside pissing in…and hope he does not forget to replenish their stock of diapers!
the Poetic President…
We hope his presidency, that begins on the springboard of hope, will not descend into Mugabe’s despondency and will not be buried in the syntax of empty verses, instead, streaks and strings of radical change and action, will follow him, till the last line of the day (kibwagizo).
Then, and only then, will this enthusiastic amateur, write to the occasion with a smile on his facebook profile pik-shure- and not a grimace, scaring prospective poetesses 🙂
till then : Ngatheka ndenda!(I will laugh when i want!)
Some sickening familiarity descends on me when i think of this, a certain (satan) fear grounds me…like the uneasiness you get when you dump a freshly boiled egg (mboiro) plus kachumbari in an un-ready stomach….
Serj Tankian makes this worse when he rubs his vocals on my brain…lie lie lie lie lie…la la la la la…
there is something quite amoral about women openly drooling over a guy.
a hot guy.
especially in the presence of a another guy.
but there is something authentic, about ma-boys mtaa, chilling juu ya gomba, colombo naps ama m-kane extra…drooling over a hot mamacita.
but there is something very wrong, with going ahead and harassing a mama to the point of ‘touching her ass-ets’.
Such, deserve chemical castration.
there is something very wrong, with some ladies, proclaiming ‘invincibility‘ in the matters of love, saying ‘Kenyan men are not ‘men enough to handle them…subscribing to some school ‘called intelligence, higher intelligence…like Passaris Esther on Churchill live.
Such women, bleed, and keep on bleeding and poisoning many a Kenyan woman’s mind…when all they’re doing, is hurting and hurtling on the broken hearts boulevard, taking one man’s mistaking and copy and pasting it over all men…’why should we pay for his mistakes?
And even so…have they not found any non-Kenyan man to handle your ‘super intelligence? Why are they still single??
There is something wrong, something very wrong with the way Kenyan ladies are putting on the so-called stunners not considering the simple basics…ending up looking like houseflies walking on twos. But that, that…well, that…is subject to discussion.
Even DNA…yes, DNA, no matter what ‘philosophical’ reasons’ you give…there is sure something wrong, with walking in night with SUNglasses!
NB...sunglasses, not night glasses!
Am i a moralist, no…i am not a moralist…i am neither concerned, but i thought, yes, i thought, that i would vent such out.
in the name of AIDS awareness…don’t do it like they do it on discovery channel.
i am sure my brethren on stage got a moment of distraction and it clearly shows on his face…:)
whatever caught his attention.