About Me

Blac Garner
I'm seven different people. Six of them are dope ass rappers.

Gideon Wildflower
Most would call me a writer.. but most don't know what the fuck they're talking about.

We are both @APurpleUnicorn .

Tuesday, August 7, 2012



boomerang ditty. Back in downtown DC with my most imminent problem at the forefront of part of my mind and in the background of another. Part of me knows seeing a situation as a problem can be an unnecessary inhibitor and would like for the rest of me to stop being silly. It's all inside of me, though, and that's something that all of me can fully appreciate. I'm at a gay bar. Funny phrase. "A gay bar." Ridiculous, no? We all need hugs. I'm here to finally see a woman, I've been stalking on the internet. I'm certainly not trying to sleep with her so the prospect of meeting her seems to have lost a lot of it's appeal. I really just want to see her and write about what I see. I don't even know her name, just her username on twitter. ChanelEater. I've always wanted to just sit and watch someone I find fascinating as I write so I'm pretty excited about this. People tend to bore me, with the aspect of our humanity that demands us to mold ourselves in the likeness of one another to feel comfortable. I think living with yourself everyday deadens the miracle of being here. Maybe that has something to do with it. People seem to be the most interesting when they are very close or very far away. When they're far away you can watch them without them being uncomfortable and reacting to your presence.. and the same thing about when they're close. It's hard getting close, though; we seem so very scared of one another. I find that I have to constantly remind myself not to be afraid when people notice me noticing them. This girl from college is here. We know each other well enough to recognize each other but not well enough to show each other recognition. I think it's funny that she's going to think I'm gay now. I chastised myself a bit for being scared of that. I'm really out here, my nigga. This woman at the bar has the biggest, roundest, ass I've seen since my month in Atlanta. I've been wanting to write that for a long time because I've been staring at her on and off for about ten sentences now. The timing of it amuses me, though. How it fit in right after I admitted fear of being thought of as homosexual. Sounded like I was trying to prove something, no? I've yet to see ChanelEater. If she doesn't show, I won't be angry. Peeved, irritated; those are better words for what someone might be after going to a place to see someone and not seeing them. Maybe, dejected as well. I won't feel any of those things. I'm surrounded by beautiful women, even if they don't know it, and I have, at least, a page of written thoughts to show for this endeavor. Haha! I just saw her. The fashion show just started and she's a part of it. People seem so uncomfortable on the runway. It's like knowing that the focus is on you, that the focus is on how you look.. it bothers people to know this. ChanelEater made me smile, though. She's got fight in her. Even with her being uncomfortable, she waved her arms around in a way that one wouldn't be able to do if they were paralyzed by fear. She came out again and looked at me for a couple seconds longer than the norm. If she recognizes me then that totally destroys what I'm doing here but I'm still glad I came. She danced the 2nd time she came out and it was wonderful. Her and the other woman who comes out before her seem to be the most... something. Like they fight the fear that we all feel with eyes on us, a fear which usually reduces it's victims to jerky movements and cold stares. When the fear is too much, we hide. You can literally see it happening because we look around to see if our submission to the fear is apparent. That becomes a part of the fear itself.
Well the show is over. I wonder if I should leave. She was beautiful but perhaps even more beautiful was the strength of spirit she showed. It was fucking wonderful to behold. To write about. To jot down in clear thoughts. The other girl was teh one who put the show together, I think. The other one like ChanelEater. She just came out and said hello to me. She reminds me of this girl I knew in college I called Scooby. Scooby was the shit. I'm going to leave now. ChanelEater is out smoking by the door. I wonder if she'll say something. I'm not sure if I want her to.. I will not succumb to the fear of being seen, though. I'm too beautiful for that. And so is everyone else. Until next time, my friends. 

Saturday, July 7, 2012


Hello all.

It's been a while since I've posted anything huh?

I've been living. Far too many stories to share in the form of a blog post.

Here's what I do want to share.

I'm making new music. I'm very happy about this.

My manager didn't want me to release this. She wanted it professionally mixed and mastered. But things come how they are. Who am I to pretend otherwise? I come as I am. When I'm able to professionally mix and master somefink then that's what it shall be. Until then, they can't keep the genius out of me.

So here's the link.

Without further ado, i present to you..

TAPE, by Swanky Ali


Enjoy, my lovers.

Sunday, May 6, 2012


Swanky Ali

How does a man wear his guilt?
Does he wake up every morning and
put it on like a pair of spectacles?
Or does it stay on him, does he wear it
like skin
So that it becomes so much a part of
him that he can't tell where he ends
and where it begins
How does a man wear his guilt?
Does it mark his dreams with distaste
while he sleeps
Must he shrug off his blanket because it
gets too warm for him,
Does it burn like a fever
Or does he get up deep in the night, tip
toeing quickly to the closet to retrieve
more covering because he can hardly
bear the way he feels the chill
How does a man wear his guilt?
It is like a suit jacket, to be worn on special occasions?
No doubt he wears it inside out
Flipping it on his shoulders with an
ostentatious flair
Does he smirk at others as they admire
its righteous sheen
Does he whisper and giggle at those
who would rather keep their guilt
Does he know that hiding it in plain
sight is safest when pointing at those
who remain blind to themselves?
How does a man wear his guilt?
Does he recognize the choice he has to
discard such a thing
Or more rather set it aflame in his
backyard and dance amongst the
ashes, floating around like fair
weathered faeries in the cool, summer
Does he know that he hasn't destroyed
a thing?
Does he sit by the fire and marvel at
how something that had once made his
spine shiver and quake with the fear of
lasting damage
Now warms his toes and sends shadows
to play with his scars

Tuesday, March 20, 2012

hey, you ..

For the record...

I told myself I wouldn't do this.

And now even as I'm doing this, I don't like it.

There's something very needy in discussing a subject that's being heavily discussed, like a baby crying because all those in the nursery are already doing so. You always know in a part of yourself that, no matter how strongly you may feel about the subject, you are discussing it with the hopes that everyone will finally listen to something that sprang from your own, personal universe.

The only possible good in this , is that I may be right in my own analysis of the depths that I have gone. Hopefully, someone will read this and start feeling strange. Start feeling like someone's watching them, peek around, and find that they've discovered a new thought. I don't just hope this, I have to believe it. Without that belief, I would've died 3 years ago of head trauma due to a self-induced drunk stupor.

So, here you go.

This is for the people who live in the world that murdered Trayvon Martin. I'm addressing you all as one, for a reason many of you will not understand.

But you all, all as one, are good at that. It's what makes you so superiorly devious. You have cultivated the ability to keep the secret of your existence from yourself. If you knew how you were living, if you really fucking saw it, you wouldn't live that way. To exist as you do, you must be blind.

But I'm here for you. I'm here. That's what I can do. Like tossing a torch into the mouth of a cavernous, black pit.

Maybe that's not the best phrasing there, many of you are wasting your time concerning yourself with the color of your skin. Don't worry, I'm not coming down on you.

Sometimes, I waste time thinking you can ever waste time.

So you see, I'm in the darkness with you. So maybe the torch metaphor was weak. I think I may have a better one. I'm opening my eyes, just for a second, in a group of people who's eyes are closed, and simply gasping at the wonders of the horrid, visual effects of our actions.

Yes, that's much better.

I see you world.

We got the same ego. I write to you. & you collect enemies.

You reach inside yourself, pull out your antagonist, and begin battle. You cannot see that this antagonist is you.

That's why a boy can get murdered on his way home. Because you never fucking saw him. You saw all the ideas that you've formed about who he could be and who he couldn't possibly be. You've superimposed fear's eyes on your reflection and now you have blood on your hands.

And you've refused to realize that it's your own blood.

And now you blame yourself. You fight yourself more. But it is still you.

All you who still insist your enemy is one who can be physically destroyed.

all the black people who insist white people are their enemy

all the white people who insist black people are their enemy

all the women who insist men are their enemy

all the men who insist women are their enemy

all the young who insist the old are their enemy

all the old who insist the young are their enemy

all the rich who insist the poor are their enemy

all the poor who insist the rich are their enemy

You are mistaken. And by being mistaken, you have become your own worst fear. You have become your true enemy.

You are sick and quite odious in your sickness. And yet even still, I love you. I love you so much. Paradoxically, it's easy to love you. Because, while my eyes were open, I was well and I know you are not your sickness. I smile at what you really are everytime I manage to see myself in a mirror.

Don't you feel like it's foreign to you? To look around and be scared of other beings when that's all they're doing; being.

You're wearing that fear like a coat you forgot you could take off.

& all you have to do is get up.

Get the fuck up and live. Or lay there and continue to destroy yourself.

It's that simple. Simple, and not easy.


Wednesday, December 14, 2011

the sun's soil

From Lily:

The painter sighed and thoughtfully stroked his beard
Whilst staring at another portrait of his soul
This one, he thought, almost involuntarily,
this one is different
He knew not where this thought came from
It seemed the only thing his work had in common with itself was
Usually he didn’t have the patience to look at them once they were finished
And something had been wrong with this one, missing from it
It had been three years since he drunkenly stumbled into his seedy apartment
Merriment and sorrow exchanging soulful kisses within him
Slashing at the canvas like a lover scorned, he had made…
What exactly?
He didn’t know
And yet for a long time
It was incomplete
He had tried everything to finish it
Drugs. Sleep deprivation. More drugs.
Anything that would change his mind state so that he might return to his work
And leave from it, successfully imprinting whatever it is that we’re made up of
Anything that would make him remember
That he painted to make himself real
And one night it came.
One solitary black line across the painting.
And it was finished
He didn’t understand it, felt it rather than knew it
He sighed once more
Something was indeed different about this one and he couldn’t place it
But life was for living and he soon became restless
And as he left his apartment
The black line on his painting became aware of itself
And as it asked itself why it was there
The painting spoke to it, answering,
“How else would I know how beautiful I am?”
The line shuddered and became a wave
But was straightened out immediately
By thoughts that bled art
Like the movement of everything around it.

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

since i haven't given a verse in a while .

i see,
wombs that i'm growing in
flowing from an everlasting source
that aborts
a different kind of rhythm
wait..listen .
listen to what?
your blood glistening guts?
they call for another and another
watch the hunger make me squeeze from the emptiness
singing in a symphony of difference and similar
with same under it all
the one and the many, as above so below
shut the fuck up and watch how it's insane how you know
how you know who you're dealing with
you listen now but feeling shit
from the day before and the day before
in that way you ignore
the things they doing, misconstruing dreams
so it seems
that reality survives in the seams of your vision
and i would like to take this time to thank you for assisting
in my verse
by going through the purse of your fallacies
and laughing cause you're probably still mad at me ..

ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.

Thursday, November 3, 2011

A Sonnet for Alia

Dear Muriel Alia Solomons,

'ere her sacred shadow lies cast down by the groom
The light by which we all should search reflected in the moon
Such seeking is no more than glance and glance where we begin
And I no more than seed of plant that has and knows no end
Oh Alia, dear Alia if all were right and fair
Then love would drip into your eyes befall'n from your hair
And all would sing the tunes that match the walk that is your dance
And silence would become so loud it fills the world with chance
But as it is when darkness falls we mourn when morning's due
Not knowing, nay not feeling, there's no me, no she, no you
The trees have told me secrets, the cold has shown me death
And all these natural wonders find solace in your breath
So my dear, whene'r you feel your heart has turned to stone
Know that life has writ' you this and you're never, ever alone

Best Regards,
Gideon Wyldflower