Media That Matters Film Festival
Slip Of A Tongue on erittäinkin hyvä setti. Lukaiseppa vaikka:
Slip of the Tongue by Adriel Luis aka Subscrybe
My glares burn through her.
And i'm sure that such actions are not foreign to her,
because her realness charges through my mentality
like a scoundrel rose sprouted from concrete.
But past tupac-influenced linguistics
in essence her beauty is, well, the essence of beauty.
And in the presence of this higher being,
the weakness of my masculinity kicks in,
causing me to personify my wannabe big-baller, shot-caller,
God's gift to the female species with shiny suit wrapping rapping like,
"yo what's crackin shorty how you livin' what's your sign what's your size I dig your style, yo."
Now this girl was no fool
and she gives me a dirty look with the quickness like,
"Boy you must be dumb."
So i'm thinking to myself,
"Boy you must be dumb."
But looking upon her I am kinda digging her style, yenno?
And so this stupid ass (me) opens my mouth again
and instead of addressing her properly,
I blurt out one of my fake-ass playalistic lines like,
"Gurl, you must be a traffic ticket cuz you got fine written all over you."
So she starts to head out the door
and i'm trying to keep her here
because this is the first one with real hair and real eyes that i've seen for a long time.
So at a final attempt, I utter,
"Gurl, what's your ethnic makeup?"
At this point
her glare's scorching through me,
and somehow she manages to make her brown eyes
resemble some brown fire or something,
but there's no snap or head movement,
no palm to face, click of tongue, middle finger,
roll of eyes, twist of lips, or girl power chant.
She just glares through me with these burning eyes
and her gaze grabs me by the throat.
She says, "ethnic makeup?"
Now i'm gulping with nervousness.
She says, "first of all, makeup's just an anglicized, colonized, commodified utility
that my sisters have been programmed to consume,
covering up their natural state
in order to emulate what another sister looks like in her natural state
because people keep telling her
that the other sister's natural state is more beautiful
than the first sister's natural state.
At the same time,
the other sister isn't even in her natural state,
because she's trying to emulate yet another sister,
so in actuality, the natural state that the first sister's trying to emulate
isn't even natural in the first place.
But we won't even get into that though."
Now I'm thinking, "Damn, this girl's kicking knowledge!"
Meanwhile, she probably wants to be kicking my head in.
Her gaze pulls me in again.
She says, "But fine. I'll tell you my 'ethnic makeup.'"
Now I'm gulping harder.
She says, "I wear foundation,
but not that powdery shit,
I wear the foundation laid by my indigenous people.
This foundation is
my foremothers, my foresisters, my aunties, my nieces, and my daughters.
It's that foundation that makes it so that past being globalized,
I can still vocalize with confidence that I know where my roots are.
I wear this foundation not upon my face, but within my soul,
and I scoop this from the sands of my pacific shores
because I'll be damned if I ever let an american or european corporation
tell me what my foundation should look like.
I don't wear lipstick,
but my lips stick to the ears of men,
so they can experience in surround sound my screams of agony
with each lash of rulers, measuring tape, and scales,
like as if my waistline and weight are inversely related to my value as a human being.
Your media fantasies crack constantly on my torn back,
and when one of your brothers tries to sympathize with me,
you have the nerve to call him 'pussy whipped?'
No, my lips, they stick, but not together.
Rather, they flail open with flames to burn down the past mindsets that kept them shut.
But I don't' wear lipstick,
because I want to make sure you're aware that my words come out raw and real,
and not all color-coated and pretty-like.
And I won't mess with eye shadow,
but my eyes shadow over history where you've gone at ends to keep me blind.
But you can't cover my eyes.
Look into them.
My eyes foreshadow change.
My eyes foreshadow light.
And i'm not into hair dyeing.
But i'm here, dying, because this oppression won't get out of my hair.
I have these highlights.
They are highlights of my past atrocities,
they form this oppression I can't wash off.
It tangles around my mind and twists and braids me in layers,
this oppression manifests,
it's stressing me so that even though i don't color my hair,
in a couple of years it'll look like i dyed it gray.
So what's my ethnic makeup?
I don't have any.
Because your ethnicity isn't something you can just make up.
And as for that crap my sisters paint on their faces, that's not makeup;
it's make-believe."
I can't seem to look up at her.
and I'm sure that such actions aren't foreign to her
because the expression on her face
shows that she knows that my mind is in a trance.
As her footsteps fade
my ego is left in crutches.
And rejection never sounded so good.
Slip Of A Tongue on erittäinkin hyvä setti. Lukaiseppa vaikka:
Slip of the Tongue by Adriel Luis aka Subscrybe
My glares burn through her.
And i'm sure that such actions are not foreign to her,
because her realness charges through my mentality
like a scoundrel rose sprouted from concrete.
But past tupac-influenced linguistics
in essence her beauty is, well, the essence of beauty.
And in the presence of this higher being,
the weakness of my masculinity kicks in,
causing me to personify my wannabe big-baller, shot-caller,
God's gift to the female species with shiny suit wrapping rapping like,
"yo what's crackin shorty how you livin' what's your sign what's your size I dig your style, yo."
Now this girl was no fool
and she gives me a dirty look with the quickness like,
"Boy you must be dumb."
So i'm thinking to myself,
"Boy you must be dumb."
But looking upon her I am kinda digging her style, yenno?
And so this stupid ass (me) opens my mouth again
and instead of addressing her properly,
I blurt out one of my fake-ass playalistic lines like,
"Gurl, you must be a traffic ticket cuz you got fine written all over you."
So she starts to head out the door
and i'm trying to keep her here
because this is the first one with real hair and real eyes that i've seen for a long time.
So at a final attempt, I utter,
"Gurl, what's your ethnic makeup?"
At this point
her glare's scorching through me,
and somehow she manages to make her brown eyes
resemble some brown fire or something,
but there's no snap or head movement,
no palm to face, click of tongue, middle finger,
roll of eyes, twist of lips, or girl power chant.
She just glares through me with these burning eyes
and her gaze grabs me by the throat.
She says, "ethnic makeup?"
Now i'm gulping with nervousness.
She says, "first of all, makeup's just an anglicized, colonized, commodified utility
that my sisters have been programmed to consume,
covering up their natural state
in order to emulate what another sister looks like in her natural state
because people keep telling her
that the other sister's natural state is more beautiful
than the first sister's natural state.
At the same time,
the other sister isn't even in her natural state,
because she's trying to emulate yet another sister,
so in actuality, the natural state that the first sister's trying to emulate
isn't even natural in the first place.
But we won't even get into that though."
Now I'm thinking, "Damn, this girl's kicking knowledge!"
Meanwhile, she probably wants to be kicking my head in.
Her gaze pulls me in again.
She says, "But fine. I'll tell you my 'ethnic makeup.'"
Now I'm gulping harder.
She says, "I wear foundation,
but not that powdery shit,
I wear the foundation laid by my indigenous people.
This foundation is
my foremothers, my foresisters, my aunties, my nieces, and my daughters.
It's that foundation that makes it so that past being globalized,
I can still vocalize with confidence that I know where my roots are.
I wear this foundation not upon my face, but within my soul,
and I scoop this from the sands of my pacific shores
because I'll be damned if I ever let an american or european corporation
tell me what my foundation should look like.
I don't wear lipstick,
but my lips stick to the ears of men,
so they can experience in surround sound my screams of agony
with each lash of rulers, measuring tape, and scales,
like as if my waistline and weight are inversely related to my value as a human being.
Your media fantasies crack constantly on my torn back,
and when one of your brothers tries to sympathize with me,
you have the nerve to call him 'pussy whipped?'
No, my lips, they stick, but not together.
Rather, they flail open with flames to burn down the past mindsets that kept them shut.
But I don't' wear lipstick,
because I want to make sure you're aware that my words come out raw and real,
and not all color-coated and pretty-like.
And I won't mess with eye shadow,
but my eyes shadow over history where you've gone at ends to keep me blind.
But you can't cover my eyes.
Look into them.
My eyes foreshadow change.
My eyes foreshadow light.
And i'm not into hair dyeing.
But i'm here, dying, because this oppression won't get out of my hair.
I have these highlights.
They are highlights of my past atrocities,
they form this oppression I can't wash off.
It tangles around my mind and twists and braids me in layers,
this oppression manifests,
it's stressing me so that even though i don't color my hair,
in a couple of years it'll look like i dyed it gray.
So what's my ethnic makeup?
I don't have any.
Because your ethnicity isn't something you can just make up.
And as for that crap my sisters paint on their faces, that's not makeup;
it's make-believe."
I can't seem to look up at her.
and I'm sure that such actions aren't foreign to her
because the expression on her face
shows that she knows that my mind is in a trance.
As her footsteps fade
my ego is left in crutches.
And rejection never sounded so good.