Rooftop Poetry Club - Nikki Germany

Nikki Germany

Bio:
Nikki Germany is a poet residing in Lockport. She earned her B.A. from Binghamton University in English and Africana Studies with a concentration in creative writing. She can easily be found at a slam near YOU.

Poems:

Hood Diva

I wanna be bad.
I want caged high school girls to look at me and say,
“Yeah, I wanna be
that bitch.”

That bitch
with the switch
that makes brothas ditch superbowls.

That bitch that makes
jealous hoes’ eyes roll
and married couples slow their stroll;
just to behold
that bitch.

I wanna wear my mascara thick,
with glossy lips
and sexy outfits
that make you wanna
whip yo mama ass--
til the belt lifts whets
and rips every stitch
cuz she didn’t warn you bout
this here bitch!

I wanna walk butt naked to bodegas
while men moanin, "morena, can I get a taste?"

I wanna be that bitch with the fattest onion:
causin brothas bunions
bustin holes in new nikes
while hittin high keys
like delfonics
forgettin they ever smoked chronic
cuz I’m the real supersonic.

I wanna be that bitch that makes brothas think of Philly
while they in me--
presence,
exploring the essence
of what a sexy yet chill sista
tastes like.

I wanna be that bitch havin a brotha watchin about three clocks
on boys’ night out,
cuz he know his ass is on lock.

I wanna be that bitch that ain’t gotta pay for shit.
cuz brothas quick to pass the plastic without gettin spastic
instead smilin
and remainin mute,
simply because I’m that damn cute.

Naw, but on the real,
I wanna be that bitch that’s
Confident, independent and able to pay her own rent.

But I still wanna be bad.

Red My Mind

Tired droopy red eyes
greet your smiling red face.
My child runs in dust red clouds
of southern dirt.
She smiles her cherry kool-aid smile,
as I wipe chicken blood from my brow;
praying for evening rain.

Red my mind:
With detestation and plans of escape--
from this strange fruit
that greets me in this Mississippi
August morning sun;
redbone bastard mulattos;
and this slow bloody death of being seen
as nothing more than permanent pussy
to dominant dicks.

Open gashes upon my back heal,
those upon my heart never will.

I cry red for Black.

No Escape

Mama,
don’t tell me how
to tuck my heart
carefully
under each corner
of my bed
and allow the april wind
to exhale new
life
into my room.

I like my bed unmade
and my window sealed
so that I may trap
all my lovers
and airbrushed memories
within
those long
Sunday afternoons
when I have no one.