Charles Frempong-Longdon Jr. a recording artist and spoken word poet based in the Twin Cities. He
is a member of the Bosso Poetry Faction of Minneapolis, Minn. he was named by NOTA Magazine,
the University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire's award-winning, art, literature, and music publication, as a 2018 "artist to watch."
is a member of the Bosso Poetry Faction of Minneapolis, Minn. he was named by NOTA Magazine,
the University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire's award-winning, art, literature, and music publication, as a 2018 "artist to watch."
All curled up...and told him truth is a demigod,
Supreme, benevolent, all-knowing, sexless giant
Scratching trenches deep into the earth crusts
Calling them canyons and speaking life into clay that lays on the basin.
I caught Hades and tossed him into the gutter like a rotten apple, cautious of the maggots seeking habitation on a titans corpse...
I didn't see him again until many years later in Indiana.
They kept him in a mason jar at a circus and charged patrons 2 nickels to shake his universe, the operation under the supervision of stout moor with candy skin.
A fortune was distributed amongst those beneath the tent, a fever rising in our immortal structures, a universe lay cracked on its side open for all to see.
Lucien
Green eyes look humble huddled to a timber mast,
ore rowing marvelously in patterned dashes on purple waves ten stories overhead.
Abandoned in liberation and spoken into freedom,
hollow screeches chase Dutchman vessels back to Ville d'Ys.
The peril grew from wanton revolutionaries, told yarns of better ailments and promised conditions of tropical origin.
The whiskers of a swollen face peaked beneath them, calling from ocean depth, the rage of twelve eons. A saga soaked cherry red and laid lengthwise by the coast of Cuba.
As clouds loosen polarity a sun rolls to greet a graveyard archipelago. It stands on two feet and gazes into a swirling bluff of water and bones, trapped calling an anthem never heard in this hemisphere. A low humming with the grace of cannon fire to the tune of the Western winds.
Blue January
"If only my low-end theory could equate to worth I see for myself in purest expectation...Perhaps I might succeed this year."
Pathos is not my comrade, yet he greets me as such and waits for no invitation to enter my home.
He places his feet upon the kitchen table and tells loud yarns of conquest.
How those brown fingers reached out from beneath his boot.
If only blue houses weren’t so cold in the winter time.
Those open doors and the chipped paint on shutters gape about an empty Cul-de-sac, bicycles passing, birds chirping, grass dies.
He is tenant now to this broken home
Calling them canyons and speaking life into clay that lays on the basin.
I caught Hades and tossed him into the gutter like a rotten apple, cautious of the maggots seeking habitation on a titans corpse...
I didn't see him again until many years later in Indiana.
They kept him in a mason jar at a circus and charged patrons 2 nickels to shake his universe, the operation under the supervision of stout moor with candy skin.
A fortune was distributed amongst those beneath the tent, a fever rising in our immortal structures, a universe lay cracked on its side open for all to see.
Lucien
Green eyes look humble huddled to a timber mast,
ore rowing marvelously in patterned dashes on purple waves ten stories overhead.
Abandoned in liberation and spoken into freedom,
hollow screeches chase Dutchman vessels back to Ville d'Ys.
The peril grew from wanton revolutionaries, told yarns of better ailments and promised conditions of tropical origin.
The whiskers of a swollen face peaked beneath them, calling from ocean depth, the rage of twelve eons. A saga soaked cherry red and laid lengthwise by the coast of Cuba.
As clouds loosen polarity a sun rolls to greet a graveyard archipelago. It stands on two feet and gazes into a swirling bluff of water and bones, trapped calling an anthem never heard in this hemisphere. A low humming with the grace of cannon fire to the tune of the Western winds.
Blue January
"If only my low-end theory could equate to worth I see for myself in purest expectation...Perhaps I might succeed this year."
Pathos is not my comrade, yet he greets me as such and waits for no invitation to enter my home.
He places his feet upon the kitchen table and tells loud yarns of conquest.
How those brown fingers reached out from beneath his boot.
If only blue houses weren’t so cold in the winter time.
Those open doors and the chipped paint on shutters gape about an empty Cul-de-sac, bicycles passing, birds chirping, grass dies.
He is tenant now to this broken home
©Charles Frempong-Longdon Jr.
