The Rupert Monroe

image from the independent



He was invisible to most men, but the world could see him now. Money gave men wisdom and nouns, money had turned him into a king amongst men, and this palace he had built, the stowaway castle mapped out the freedom of his entire bloodline. " How did you do all of this?" The journalist asked with curious intrigue. She leaned towards him tape recorder in hand, a steely gaze penetrating his shadow black cocktail suit. " I built it from dreams, and those dreams tired me,"
"Explain."
"When i was younger, i used to sit by mothers old garden, the one with the old maple tree, and each time out in the cold i would draw distinctions on pieces of paper of what my dream world would look like, i never knew i would be selling products, oil products internationally to build it." She smiled softly. Her hair in a shiny black bobbed almost looked striking amidst the linear splendour of such elegant features. Her lips were soft and polite, each word strong in it's slumber sentence, and he loved the suit.
" What designer is this?"
"Calvin Klein, " she smiled wanly, " i dreamed of lush things too. He studied the grey silk, his brown eyes sweeping over the cut of it, around her small bodice.
"Calvin Kleins?"
" No a life more exaggerated than mine, with Champagne and Caviar and trips to Monte Carlo, i thought i could only dream it, but then it happened it became real." He gazed into the Irish green of soft Mesmeric eyes.
" I've made over a million pounds, 2.6 million to be exact and i've never been to Monte Carlo,"
" You should go it's not one of the most exotic places, but the glitz and glamour does me well,"
" Travelling to places like that is not the same without company, do you ever get lonely?" She switched off the black tape recorder. " I'm so used to my own company now," she blinked back slow tears.
" I had a son. Alexander, we used to go travelling together."
" What happened to him?" His voice was groggy with emotion, he leaned closer, she could smell the allure of his aftershave spicy and masculine. It smelt like something to awaken the senses, it made her ease her small feet closer to the edge of the bar table. " I lost him to Leukaemia." There was a long silence. He ran thick hands through Midnight hair, a leaf of gray lighting through it, she imagined his face to be a Canvas. The soft stroke of ripe cheekbones, to be the work of a sculptures magnetism. His beauty was buoyant, and she took a moment just to gaze at this man. Each breath lingering, each thought hanging tiptoeing closer towards a promised sentence. " It must have been painful to watch?"
" It was. " He shook her hands gracefully, changing the subject quickly. " I built my company almost ten years ago, i started with the framework of an idea Aztec Inka. My cousin designed the Logo from scratch it took him a week."
" How would you define Aztec?" She quickly clicked the microphone on, her words stumbling into play.
"Aztec is a multinational, international , trans location Corporation, we specialise in the import and export of goods to Various Location. From body butter, Exotic fruit scrubs, we use all natural ingredients to cleanse the body, and bring it back to it's original beauty. We have skin care, products, hair care products, for both genders but our most prolific item is the Hans Mozyrem anti aging cream. " She whistled internally, he had impressed her from the minute he walked in. From his quick brisk strides to the way he placed the mats neatly around the dishevelled table, he was an organised man and in the mist of chaos a man like Rupert Monroe is exactly what you need. Handsome, organised, and intelligent. Back in the office she knew she would type anxiously salivating with triumph as the words flowed unto her computer screen, she had met the Rupert Monroe. " Would you be interested in doing Lunch later this week?" he slid in with such ease and charm, she forgot the collection of questions. " You're nothing like the descriptions in the Magazines?"
" Ruthless and arrogant?"
" Im sure you can be that. But for now i'm curious about what else you can be."

Art as Ace: Andre Farquharson

Re: Talent is something were born with, but passion and creativity fused together produce a successful outcome. Currently trending on the web is the prolific Andre farquharson musician, scriptwriter_ comic book artist. with a flair for the creative and characters that bounce off the page and come alive, follow his adventures on: Destined to be a blockbusting success, Andre has many opportunities coming his way and is very active within his community. Having worked with Head for Business, Midi music and currently working with Live.

www.nemesisthehunter.blogspot.com

www.twitter.com/lildre_cains

www.linkedin.com/andre-farquharson/

Check out some of his hits and tracks on my google plus page later
go to google plus red ebony

Awkward ways

The awkward way
You smile at me
I capture your laugh
Within
My fist
And when it bleeds
The nervous skitter of rubber eyes
The champions mask
A starlets cry
And as the wolves they circle still
I eat the flesh
A maggots meal
Biscuits
We crumble
To the acid
In the rum of glass
I only want the rope to burn
To mark your
Colours
And your stern
Brittle the form
A sculptures way
And scribble the exit
In our play

iron girl

image from smashing magazine


Lost girl
I've found your keys
I heard you
Blamed me
When you sneezed
The ink of pen
On shattered foot
Salt dust eyes
Which marred the soot
We blamed the door
It,s panelling
An iron oak
Which promised pain
The eucalyptus womb
Of Eggplant oil
The bits of squealing
Slaughtered brain
The nose it whispers
Paprika scents
Black pepper
Tiles an almost floor
And when you stepped
Beyond the frame
There were no shadows for now before
I christen all the hopes you kept
The dreams
That barked and then they slept
The wizards scar
The trolloppes teeth
The cauldron
Bubbled what you keep
For of the bats which hang and sting
My iron girl
Just turn the key
The watchmen lie near gates
Their eyes they claim
What ghosts don't see

his million dollar dreams

image from fallfade




Stand by me when the chips are down
When I can only
Count fingerbtonthumb
When pain has left me numb
And cheeks are scarred with failed attempts
I have coughed
And hiccupped
For these dreams
Torn out hair by each fine thread
Let its limbre leak on lap
And studied morgues of
Visions dead
This million dollar dream
Count the catch in each
Fine step
Study offices
Never kept
Were gold it brimmed
From sour thoughts
I am man magnificent, hungry in eye
Stealth in organs
That separate like jigsaw
The snail glue snot
In my sausage hand
Open your eyes
I am just a man

makevellian heat

image from paintingsilove


orange sun
With ripened glow
I look at you
And miss the snow
For these beads of sweat which
Often pool
Tell a story that' s far too true
This hanging waist
These snakeskin braids
These crusted feet
Like duck
I wade through
Murk
And narrow slim
I am lost and far within
The city
Pia's
Streaked with pain
It,s ocean blue
And Midas sand
Rubber hands trudge on
As boulder limbs
Whimper
For a throbbing womb
A pulsing neck
Which splits
Gushing with it
The silver foil

the dark misplaced face

image by flickrhivemind.net



I should have
Seen
But never you mind
In the dark
Were blind as mice
Giant arithmetic
Counting ten
You eat the scrapes
Of your rotten fruit
Blizzard bleach to mar
The tide
The wolves they howl
A whimpered whines
Tarzan beats
Upon the hard shield
Of turtle chest
Kings build palace
The doll could have lived in
We pick bamboos
To line our hut
Concrete
Becomes a stubborn slut
Egyptian silk
Mamboes with grace
Whilst he recalls
My misplaced face.

The policeman's siren

Stilts
For the working girl
Porcelain lashes
And chocolate face
A mouth that pleads
To be disgraced
And legs which open gates
That close
I am your watermelon
Each nipple seed
Aroused
Suspicion
My tongue
Not in your jurisdiction
The wise owls watch
From Brooke of electric streets
You claim the dance
You've marked this street
The fish and bird they build
Their nest
Upon the bank despite distress
From the yellow eyes
That claim the night
I am not the farmers daughter
Neither priestess
Belly hot
I age with acid which romps
The bones
The burn in corners
The mermaid moans
Upon the bed
The chorus sings
For our siren marks
The fruits of day
It's wetted flesh carouse
Our bay

the Icarus bird

image from the life normadik



College of suns
Were pyramid high
My Muhammed
Climbed his mountain high
Through dense Goliath
And old mans shame
Its golden rays
Rebirth his name
For you are no archangel boy
Upon the skid
The crust of whip
We lie timid
He touched the ash
Which melted flesh
Clay for fingers
To pupperteers
Descending
To an orbits debt
I chew the tongue
And spit it

courage to fly

image by ideia visual



Werewolves wander in skylit moon
Dragons flame the night skies noon
The eyes which pinch upon
The tusk
Ne,'er the strange ones
With their musk
I compass our
Forever selves
The frozen fruit
The layman's elf
Of shells where
Pearls
They roll
And stride
Far beneath the crescent
Cocoon it sits
Chandelier sky
With buzzard lies
Candles in the wake of swamp
I move with left
As
Rights far gone

Russian men

image from tuttart


Dough eyes
On lambrini pink
Speaks in sleuths
Where clusters think
She likes the Russians
The gargle of words
Their throaty promise
Their husky verbs
And as the wet
Pools from the claw
The tomb
It pulses
For fairy kings,
The ogre places
Tree stump link
But lately she likes Russian men
The Cubans cried
Their storm without
She was a tooth
Without a mouth
The taste bud of succulent yesterdays
The puss of
The Wiseman promise
Take me to that Eden bridge
Where no one crosses
And I the crow
Have ink on skin
With beagle knows
Request the life
The dead men worship
Then I will tell you
I like Russian men.

Half of North

image from pablo ruiz picasso.net


Half of North
for bitter south
naira girl
You've bled your mouth
The peak of bunnies
Between your toes
Of licking teeth
And itching fro
We capture Neptune
Soldier
Fortune
War bikini
Am I right
On tripwire stead
As politicians pump their lead
To wage their corns
On ancient ink
As a man we count each marble
As a woman
We bare the orb
Am I north from north
Or south to east,
I use my dick to wipe my sword.

Wolf lamb

Cry your eyes out little lamb
Yesterday you had a plan
To still from me
My self esteem
Everyday my light wore dim
For with a rattle
sat a brat
with frozen tooth
and blood she spat
for you have venom in your veins
No one wants to feel your strain
I have walked
and i have climbed
I have chorussed far behind
A torrent
with a bitter twist
a drunken self
remains far blissed
Cry your eyes
out little lamb
I am no
doppelganger
Hungry to wolf the edens safe
for while i sleep
You'll lie awake
Cry your eyes out
little lamb
check your notebook
Where's your plan?

Feminism :Sinking the slag

It is only the most insecure, most inadequate feeling of women who  allow themselves to be called such names as slag, slut,whore, by a partner. It is a term of abuse not of respect. It is what emotionally abusive men use to control or devalue the women within their hub, the term itself means worthless. As a slag a woman is replaceable, her feelings are not equal to the feelings of the man she's with because she does not measure up in some way. Women have fought generations back for women's liberation, for some sense of equilibrium and justice. Yet when as a woman you allow a man to call you a slag or a whore, or a harlot, it means you have already set the standard for how you will be treated for the rest of your life. This means if he cheats on you, the whole world will conspire and say with ease, it is your fault, you never stood up and allowed yourself to be counted. Being counted isn't simply about ticking all the right boxes, having a job, having a car, being told that you were pretty in school, what happens when he hits you, or he lashes out from having a bad day at work, or an unexpected rejection throws him for six. The word slag in itself allows men to be the ultimate hypocrites. They can be as promiscuous as they want, attain the interest of as many women as they want, in fact the idea of having threesomes, foursomes and sexual adventures began with the exploits of chiefs and rich men, men who were lavished with a multitude of women, this is why having numbers in the bedroom is seen as sexy, because it is linked to wealth or the abundance of rich men. Ask the woman who puts herself on a pedestal whilst being ridiculed by her partner, what she tells the friends who come around. We know them, the one's who exhaust you with tails of a lobster dinner they had on a romantic dinner for two, the petals and candles in the bath, the night time massages, the holidays planned for two in the Caribbean or somewhere lush like Paris, ask her what she did the last time her boyfriend called her a slag or a slut, ask her if their still together, study her and see if her self respect documents her as fool. How about the girl who was most popular in your school or the one with the supermodel good looks. Afro Caribbean girls are known for one thing often, that is an exaggerated attitude, i'm not trying to argue that black women don't or haven't experienced emotional and physical abuse, they have, throughout history. Yet black women are socially identified as strong alpha females, if you ask them the last time their partner, the one they were in a relationship with, or even family member used the words slag, slut, slapper, or whore, you'll hear a story about how he ended up in hospital, or his mother and sister ended up fighting her in the street. When someone uses those words they don't respect you, it is a man with poison in his heart. Maybe he's not gotten over the last girl who broke his heart, it could have been a mother, sister, a loyalty was betrayed in someway, something unwritten which you never saw, and as a woman if you allow a man to call you a slag, a slut, or a whore, you are saying indirectly the mother who raised me is also worthless because what she taught me is what i'm bringing to the table. Don't be that fool who thinks all there is to life is being loud and being told your pretty, because plastic surgeons will tell you looks easily fade. If he doesn't respect you, he won't respect your intellect, and he'll merely tolerate your friends, you'll have a loud voice in a lonely room, and the words slag wrapped around like a noose in your neck so tightly, every time you attempt to connect to other males you'll find yourself choking on your own words, and the ghost of his person will haunt your every piece of mind.