{DEEPBEAT}

{DEEPBEAT}
THE SOUND AS IT ECHOES CROSS THE DIASPORA...
http://youtu.be/-Vi1Os6PW5k

We meet... Thunderclap... Fission... Coalescent.
You knowing I was lion from I born.
We dat beatdown... Formed of clay and forged in the kiln Babylon.
We dat breakdown in black and brown.
Bass drums beating our song.
A message to the diaspora as you see I Lion.
Felt it in your core.
I dat thump that shakes the Richter scales.
Nature born Zulu... Heart so black I bleed blue.
My dance a savage series of cutting motions choreographed to slice lies.
Leave them drifting to the ground as flimsy as ripped paper.
Ticker tape raining colorfully on the celebration.
I as warrior prancing to the driving hardcore beat...
Stomping my blackened feet...
Screaming my outrage.
None can make I and I afraid as long as I got you...
Queen of Sheba walking on a sheet of glass...
Boom dat boom in the trunk of yo Cadillac...
Going back to the projects and the corner stores...
The fucked up schools where they make slaves...
Gonna be the storm that they fear...
The lightning... The thunderclap... The ozone.

JERALD HAMZAHFARUQ MURPHY

{HIGH SPEED COLLIDER}

{HIGH SPEED COLLIDER}

THE SOUND FOR THIS RIDE...

http://youtu.be/-j6CWER9uXE

This spin centrifugal exerted liguistically...

                  B

                    e

                  c

                     o

                    m

                       i

                     n

                   g

Actuality...

Scribe of sun... Fire pon the beast.

A arrow flying through the air to stick a heart, The dragon Babylon standing in the pulpit...

Smoke trailing to the skies.

                 H

                 e

                   a

                  v

                    y

Rubber and wood bullets and German Shepherds.

Beating peaceful people down on the evening news and its okay cause the others they rioting.

Make them all suffer.

Paint it necessary.

The good white folks is silent, a part of the vast white majority.

Democrat and Republican.

Dare I whisper KKK...

The.

                    C

              BURNING

                    O

                    S

                    S

Again and again...

We ought to kick a looters ass...

Give him to the white folks and move forward from there.

Spin so fast that we in centrifuge wash ourselves clean...

Washed in a bath of free...

                 H

                     y

                   p

                 o 

                   t

                     h

                       e

                      t

                     i

                   c

                   a 

                     l

                      l

                    y.

JERALD HAMZAHFARUQ MURPHY       

{WAKE UP MY BROTHER... PLEASE WAKE UP}

{WAKE UP MY BROTHER... PLEASE WAKE UP}
THE MUSIC...
http://youtu.be/iroNB8XCVxs

My brother lying cold in the street covered with a white sheet...He having been murdered by the system.
A Blue or red flag hanging from his back pocket.
His brains scrambled on the sidewalk... His blood trickling in the cracks to the gutter.
My brother murdered by the government and I see his hand peeking from beneath the sheet.
Blue and red flashes of light in the night.
My little brother shot down by the cops... Is this shit gonna ever change?
So insane that his life has the same value to the nigga's, to the cops, to the courts.
He deemed worthless has become a piece of meat feeding the beast... Machine.
A victim of our progression to the next level where we, my people seem to have swallowed the pill insanity.
Forgotten that it was our unity that kept us alive when it seemed that we would not make it thus far...
My brothers life crying softly talks to me and I wanna reach down and pick him up...
Carry him across the wasteland...
I warrior know that is not feasible... He needs to stand up.... Become reborn man.
Unafraid to be the brother and not the image nigga created in a brutal hue-man experiment...
How to turn a man into a savage animal roaming the cage ghetto...
Pacing back and forth cause he can't grasp the key as it dangles stacked in a library.
It on the isle discovery if only one were to look past his-story.
If I were an angel I would snatch his soul and take it to the seventh level of heaven where the light ablution shines.
These things I would do for my brother.

JERALD HAMZAHFARUQ MURPHY

{LOVE DANCING ACROSS THE BATTLEFIELD} DEDICATED TO Jemella Drknlvly Boatwright

{LOVE DANCING ACROSS THE BATTLEFIELD} DEDICATED TO Jemella Drknlvly Boatwright
THE BOOMSOUND... MAKE SURE YOU LISTEN...
http://youtu.be/QZNp6kHM0gs

You feel so real to me that I can smell you electronically...
Stimulating the very solid hardness of my sexual beast as I a man wax philosophically...
A prisoner suspended in the fluid depths of your big brown eyes...
The flit of your tongue across your plump African lips...
The strong broadness of your nose.
And I who would split asunder whole planets for thee and the ability of us to be anything we want to be.
I who would expel a sonic boomsound that would lay armies flat as they stand opposed to we and the fruit of our future.
I feel thee...
A gentle hand in the darkness of all this deception... A calm cool breeze in the desert.
I want you...
Drape thyself on me as we become garment... Me and thee... thee and I.
So comforting that we dance against the setting and the rising sun...
Silouetted against the horizon.
We superimposed in relief.
I look at you and you flood my possibilities...
Thee spilling into seas full of what if's that produce food for the starving.
I look at you and I know...
I know.

JERALD HAMZAHFARUQ MURPHY

{DROPS IN THE EYE SEE}

    

                                                          {DROPS IN THE EYE SEE}
                                                        THE SOUND FOR THIS RIDE...
                                                          http://youtu.be/9xYPMRGTCGI                                                                           
                                                                             Drop...
                                                                    I like rain be...
                                                 Melting away stone see...
                                                               Drop...
                                                                              Sparks from the friction of I entry...
                                                                    As Eye be...
                                                                      Spinning 360...
                                                                                        Drop... 
                                                               A 33 dead in his tracks...
                                                           Cold hard body laying on the stained concrete...
                                                   He lacking validity...
                                                              Doubting the God dwelling  in me...
                                                                                       Drop...
                                                   A.L.L.A.H. Arm.leg.leg.arm.head.
                                                                 Scientifically supreme being see.
                                             Don't try to guess my flow...
                                                           Drop...
                                                                       So hard that it would be best you build an ark...
                                         Invest in some orange puffy jackets...
                                               A virtual storm on the metaphorical horizon...
                                               Drop...
                                                                Lightning from heavy cloud see...
                                        The romping stomping epitome...
                                                   Cohesive and fluid be...
                                                                          Drop...
                                             Fell from antiquity visionary...
                                                  Spit spat futuristically...
                                             Drop...
                                                    I be.

JERALD HAMZAHFARUQ MURPHY

[GAS MASK BLAST] LYRICAL DOMINATOR

[GAS MASK BLAST] LYRICAL DOMINATOR
THE MUSIC FOR THIS SUBSONIC EXPLOSION...
http://youtu.be/_opmRGIHen0

DEEPLY EVISCERATING LYRICS WHICH CUT THROUGH THE SUBCUTANEOUS AND IGNITE THE SPONTANEOUS ...COMBUSTION THAT FIRES IN SYNAPSES SPAWNING PAST LIFE RELAPSES.
AS I TAKE YOU WAY OUT THERRRREEEE AND PULL YO ASS BACK...A VIRTUAL BEATDOWN OF SIZZLING SYNTAX PON THE CREVASSES AND CREASES OF BRAINS SUSPENDED IN PANS...FLOATING IN FLUID ILLUSIONS AND DEVELOPED CONFUSIONS.
A BEAST AS THESE ALPHABETIC SYMPHONIES FALL INTO AWAKENED MEMORIES OF THE PAIN OF THESE AFRICAN SOULS...STOLEN AND CORRUPTED INTO TORN REMNANTS OF PAST KINGDOMS...SCATTERED AND SHATTERED.
MAN FELL FROM THE STARS WHICH ARE STEPS TO THE CHAMBERS OF ALLAH. ACENSION TO PLANES WHERE MEN AND WOMEN WALK IN GRACE.ALL THESE THINGS ARE ATTAINABLE BY ALL OF HUMANITY. RISE FROM THE TRIPLE STAGES OH YE CHILDREN OF BABYLON.
A SHOT GUN BLAST OF VERBOLOGY DESIGNED TO ROCK YOUR PSYCHOLOGY AND MOVE YOUR PHYSIOLOGY AS EXPLOSIONS ROCK YOUR ECOLOGY...
BOOYAKA SHOT IN THE DARK.

HAMZAHFARUQ 

[WHISPERS AND BUTTERFLIES]

[WHISPERS AND BUTTERFLIES]

THIS IS THE MUSIC FOR THIS PIECE. LIVE AND LEARN...

http://youtu.be/uT1WrLzv49I

PEOPLE TALK OF BUTTERFLIES...

I DONT MEAN LIKE A BUTTERFLY THAT FLICKERS IN VIEW AS ITS WINGS FLAP... PROPELLING IT FORWARD...PROPELLING IT BACK...FLUTTERING IN STOMACH'S

NO I AM TALKING ABOUT SOME WHOLE OTHER SHIT.

TODAY I SHALL TALK OF WHISPERS...WHISPERS IN THE CORNERS OF FRAGILE MINDS...SOME SHIT THAT WILL LEAD YOU A WHOLE NOTHER WAY.

WHISPERS THAT WILL LEAD YOU ASTRAY...AS THE PATHS SEEM TO MERGE AT THE FORK AND BECOME ONE.

WHISPERS THAT COME EVEN AS PEOPLE TALK TO YOU... WHISPERS THAT SAY "IS IT A LIE ....IS IT TRUTH?"

EVEN AS PEOPLE SPEAK TO YOUR FACE.

WORDS THAT FALL ONTO THE SKIN AND BOUNCE AWAY AGAIN AS GREY MATTER ABSORBS AND REARRANGES...WRINKLES ON A MANS BRAIN.

I HOPE THAT I HAVE NOT TAKEN YOU TO DEEP INTO THE RABBIT HOLE WHERE REALITY AND FANTASY MERGE.

WHISPERS THAT TELL YOU TO SEEK...SEEK...FOR WHAT?

THIS JOURNEY INTO THESE CAVES WHERE THE ONLY COMPANION HAS NO BODY...NO REAL VOICE EXCEPT THAT OF YOURS.

TALKING INTO THE NIGHT BEFORE THE EYES CLOSE AND TRANSPORTATION AND TELEPORTATION OCCUR.

PLANES OF REASON FALL AWAY TO BE SWALLOWED...
DREAMS AND INSTABILITY AS THE SUBCONSCIOUS REIGNS SUPREME...WHISPERS OF INSECURITY...SOMETIMES THESE WHISPERS SAY THE STRANGEST THINGS...

BUTTERFLIES SEEM TO HAVE NO PLACE...THEY HAVE ALL BEEN CONSUMED.

IN A VALLEY OF WHISPERS. 

[BLUE NOTES ON A KEYBOARD IN JULY]

[BLUE NOTES ON A KEYBOARD IN JULY]
THE MUSIC...SO DIFFERENT AS TO BE...WELL... DIFFERENT...
http://youtu.be/09BYP0a-6oI

Somewhere a seed grows in a queen.
Roots that reach into the soul of all things.
A future king... a future queen.
Somewhere a king carries a seed.
Foundations and walls that enclose mentalities.
Warrior knowledge supreme topples steel and stone.
As we float in this space on this ship of allahs construction.
Time unravels in a winding pattern that gently flows.
War rages for a day, peace for a moment.
The smell of ozone so fresh after a summer rain.
Thunder and lightning as they rage.
The moon rises and the tides of man are high and low.
We who die so softly on the notes of this life.
As the storm roars on in full force.
The blood that flows in our veins, flows into gutters and drains.
Amniotic fluid in a womb where an embryo lies in suspension.
Power to bring peace to the world.
Behold...
Behold. 

{BLACK TEARDROPS FROM FINGERTIPS}

{BLACK TEARDROPS FROM FINGERTIPS}
THE SOUND OF A MAN BATHED IN BLUE LIGHT...
http://youtu.be/IVBWBu0IsI4

Here a man weeping bares his soul...
Letters the tears of the poet.
All these things they do press down with tremendous pressure.
Even in the joy the poet sees pain for it is such a part of these lives.
Even when he's smiling he's looking.
Here the poet looks at the sky... Here the ground and he sees such potential in both of them.
He sees how man can work it out but knows that man will not listen.
He is not rich... He has no church... He curses a little to much for some.
He has seen death and held it's hand as it came and took life away.
Here a man weeping linguistically strokes his salt and pepper beard and looks at the long road ahead.
He contemplating a future of which he will not be a part.
He talks of these things to his sons... His Grandsons... Any who will listen for the poet grows tired of repeating these things.
He born of the clay and the rainy days... He born of the dust and the sun.
He looks at his fingers as they dance across the keys... Scribbles these words on paper.
Here a man weeping bares his soul.

JERALD HAMZAHFARUQ MURPHY

[FIELD HAND [dedicated to my ancestors]

[FIELD HAND [dedicated to my ancestors]

please listen to the music. it sets the tone...
http://www.youtube.com/playlist?p=PL078848F810D4CC83

The people in the field work under the hot sun. Their backs bent as sweat pours from the pores of their bodies and makes the clothes that they wear wet. The children who are to young to work play on the perimeters and are watched over by a girl of about twelve.

A white man sits slouching on the bed of a truck and wipes at the sweat, the mosquitoes. He is chewing on a wad of tobacco and his teeth are roughly the same color of the tobacco. He sits up and his stomach falls over his belt.

He is watching a young black man of about 25 who works in the field and it is apparent by the look on his face that he does not like him.

The sound of the day drones in the heads of all who work in the field, who are present. The songs of the insects...the crickets...the cicadas...the birds that rest in the trees and fly from branch to branch.

As the day carries on all the people who are in the field start to fill up their bags with cotton and trail in to have it weighed. A young woman walks up to the truck and the white man licks his lips in anticipation as he jumps from the wagon to help her with her bag. The black people look as he does this because they know what is about to occur. Many of the older women walk away nervously and the men turn their heads.

As the white man takes the bag from the girl his arm brushes against her breasts and she does not shy from him he makes it seem so innocent as he throws the bag on the scale and weighs it.

The girls name is Sarah and she is about 18 and she has grown a lot in the past year. Filled out so to speak.

The white man laughs and seems to be a different person when she is around and he starts to talk to her. This is different because all the black people before her have been only allowed to have their bags weighed. to get a drink of water before they trudge back down the rows to begin again where they left off in their labors.

The girl is nervous herself she has been warned by her mother who is a housekeeper about the white man who oversee the black people in the fields. She turns to walk away and the white man grabs her arm and turns her around.

"You thank you to good for me gal?" He says as she tries to twist away from him.

The other blacks in the field continue to work as if nothing is happening. This is something that they have all seen time and time again and they are not suprised by what is happening. The children are to far away to see.

"Gotdamned nigger bitch" the white man says as the girl strikes out with her hand and slaps him across the face leaving a big red print.

He raises his hand to hit the girl and before he can bring it down his hand is caught in midair. He is stunned and turns to face the black youth who he was watching earlier. The muscles of the young mans body shine as if he is wearing oil but it is sweat that gleams in the hot sun..

All of sudden things have changed and all the blacks watch as the two men stare at each other a second before the white man says to the black one.

"I see you still ain't learned your fuckin place Silas. You still a uppity nigger just like yo daddy. I guess i'm gone have to be the one that shows you yo place boy."

The white man reaches at his belt and his hand come away with a whip which unfurls as he draws his arm back and flicks it at the young black man. It strikes the black man in the side and he jumps to the side as the whip makes his skin split.

He runs at the white man as he draws back again and he catches his hand in the air as he crashes into him and they both fall to the ground.

The black youth ends up on top and he smashes his fist into the white mans face 2 times before the white man flips him over and they tumble into the ditch at the end of the rows out near the road.

They fight for about 5 minutes and both of them are tired and covered in the red dust of the clay as they stand and the dust drifts from their bodies into the light breeze which circulates around them.

The white man starts to move to the truck and the boy starts to run that way as well. Everyone knows that he keeps a twelve gauge shotgun in the back of the truck and the black man is trying to keep him from reaching it. As he runs he sees the whip on the ground and he grabs it and uses it to hit the white man in the back and the white man screams as the whip splits his flesh.


The white man still tries to get to the truck...to the shotgun but the black man is younger, stronger and he flicks the whip and it wraps around the white mans neck and he falls down to the ground. The young man moves to where he lies after being snatched from his feet and sits on the white mans back and wraps the whip arond his hands and starts to choke the white man who looks around frantically as his life slowly leaves him.

The last thing that he sees is the face of a black woman whose son was killed by a mobb that he was leading dressed in the robes of the KKK. She seems so peaceful as she watches him gasp his last breath.

After it is all over the black people start to look around...at the road and at the treeline. They are looking to see if any white person has seen them and they are relieved that that is not the case.

One of the older black men walks over to the boy and begins to talk to him.

"Boy that old white man was mean as the devil and aint no love lost on us but boy you done killed a white man and somebody is gonna pay for that. I would advise you to get in that truck and drive till you caint drive no mo cause these white folks is gone hunt you down like a dog." Silas looks around for a minute and he seems to want to stay. It is hard to leave all you know. All that makes you you.

His eyes fall on the girl and he looks at her as he climbs into the truck. She looks around and climbs into the truck beside him. In her mind she is thinking that no man has ever stood up for her like this and she is proud of the young man who sits behind the steering wheel of the truck.

He puts the truck into gear and pulls into the highway and points the truck north as the black people continue to pick cotton. It will be hours before they send anyone to get the owner of the field and tell him what happened by then the young couple will have a long head start.

As the truck roars down the highway the young man looks at the girl and begins to tell her his story. The story of his family...his grandfather who came to America in the belly of a ship. A prince stolen from Africa.

A week later they are in the north and they start to live a new life.

Eventually the young woman has a child a son and they name him Silas after his Great grandfather and they tell him the story of his people from the time that he is born.

When he is grown and has children of his own he tells them the story as well.

HAMZAH FARUQ 

[SUNDAY BLUES IN BLUE] A PHUNKY SPACE STORY

[SUNDAY BLUES IN BLUE] A PHUNKY SPACE STORY
THE MUSIC FOR THIS PIECE..DONT SLEEP ON IT
http://youtu.be/V-hmypa3wuA

AS WE DRIFT THROUGH THE DEPTHS OF SPACE , TRAVELERS BOUND GRAVITATIONALLY TO A BIG BLUE MARBLE WHERE THESE LIVES PLAY OUT THESE DAYS.
A DROP IN THE OCEAN OF TIME OF WHICH WE ARE BUT A FRACTION OF A FRACTION DESTINED TO DESTROY OURSELVES .
RELIGION, RACISM AND INEQUALITY .
DISEASED PIECES OF A SUBSTANDARD PSYCHE....VISIONS OF DIVINITY ON THE WINGS OF MONEY.
COMMERCIALISTIC VIEWS OF WHAT WE SHOULD BE.
PIMPED AND PRIMPED, PLAYED OUT AND DISPLAYED... A NAME TAG ON YOUR ASS, BRANDED LIKE A COW.
BLOOD AND MISERY THE KEY TO SO MANY, AS TOLD FROM THE PULPIT ON THE LIPS OF SHEPHERDS WHO DRIVE BIG CARS.
DO BIG THANGS.
WHILE THE MASSES WALLOW IN SQUALOR AND DREAMS OF LIVING WEALTHY STANDING ON THE BACKS OF WE.
THATS A FUCKED UP REALITY AS WE DRIFT THROUGH THE DEPTHS OF SPACE, BOUND GRAVITATIONALLY. 

HAMZAHFARUQ 

DAMN WATERMELONS. A TRUE STORY

DAMN WATERMELONS. A TRUE STORY

 THE MUSIC. SOME OF THAT 70S FUNK...

http://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLC7641484D627650D





I get out of the car and the heat of the day seems to ripple in front of my eyes. My mother and father and my sisters climb out as well and we watch as my aunt and uncle and their children come down the stairs into the yard. I see my cousin Mike and we are the only boys so far. He has three sisters that are older than us and my sister is older than me. We all start to talk and forget about the adults as they make their way to the porch,into the coolness of the house.

My cousins live in the country part of Moultrie, Georgia out near Norman Park and my uncle Robert raises hogs. He also has fields planted with corn and all kinds of things, yet there is only one thing that we are concerned with right now and that is watermelons. I look past the barbed wire and I see the striped watermelons and I can already taste the sweetness of them...the coolness.

We look back and the adults have forgotten about us as more family members pull up. Aunts and uncles and plenty of cousins.

My mother has twenty brothers and sisters and when we cousins get together we make an impressive mob. We already have realised that there is power in numbers and we roll as a group almost everywhere we go. Nobody bothers us. There are simply to many of us.

Today we turn our attention to the field which lies in front of us as we make plans to go in and get us some watermelons. We start to pick up sticks and rocks and we talk to each other as we collect these things. We are getting these things because there is something in this field that is worse than all the snakes and the rats, yet we are ready to challenge even this presence today.

There is nothing better than a cold watermelon on a hot day.

We climb through the barbed wire into the field and start to make our way to where we know the largest watermelons are. There are about ten of us in this group, We are the oldest and the boldest. We may not see each other all  the time but we spend enough time together that we trust each other and each of us knows the other strengths and weaknesses. There are only three boys in this group, the rest are girls but they are tough just like us and we do not question their abilities.

We start to walk into the field and the stalks of the corn seem like a forest as we go deeper and deeper into the field where my cousin says the really big watermelons are. As we walk we talk and play around.

The main thing that we talk about is what we are going to do if we see our enemy. I have a rather large stick in my hand and I show how I am going to hit him if he bothers me,..if I see him. My cousins all agree that we are going to kick his butt.

We pass by watermelons but they are all to small for us, We want the big ones that are left after the adults have picked all the ones that they are going to sell.

The corn shades us and we see mice and birds as we make our way deeper and deeper into the jungle of corn and watermelons. The sounds of summer surround us and it seems as if music plays as the insects and the birds sing to us...to each other.

We reach the place where my older female cousins say the the big watermelons are and we start to look around but we stay together.

Strength in numbers remember?

We hear a sound in the corn ahead and we freeze as the rustling and huffing grow louder. I look at my older cousin and she places her finger to her lips in the hush position and we all crouch down. We all raise our sticks and get our rocks in the ready position.

All of a sudden the corn parts and a very large boar hog comes into view. He is much larger that I thought a hog could get and I realize at this moment that we all have the same idea as he paws the ground and snorts. It seems as if smoke comes from his nostrils as the dust from his face blows into the summer air. I see my cousin Mike throw his rock right before all hell breaks loose and the hog charges us. I turn to run and I realize that there are already three or 4 other kids in front of me. I imagine that the hog is breathing on my ass and that makes me run faster and we are all hollering and dragging sticks and running like hell. Something about a hog that a lot of people don't know is that if he gets after you he does not give up until he wants to.

We run across the field and jump through the barbed wire into the back yard and I keep running until I am in the car with the windows rolled up.I do not notice that my cousin Mike is with me until I calm down a little. I look out of the window and I see that my other cousins made it out as well. I look at the porch and I see my dad and one of my uncles, Horace I think... laughing their asses off and I get out of the car and puff my chest out as I walk up to them. My dad tries to contain his laughter as he asks Mike and I what happened and we make up a story about 20 hogs chasing us. As we turn to walk away my dad says to me. " Boy you might want to change them pants since half your ass is hanging out." I look back and see that  my pants are ripped and half my ass is indeed hanging out.

My dad and uncle told that story again and again about the cloud of dust that they saw coming at them across the field that day.

Needless to say when the story was told again and again that summer I was the butt of all the jokes.

JERALD HAMZAHFARUQ MURPHY