Tag: Ghost Poetry Show

Fine White Powder by Naughty A. Mouse

“Fine White Powder” by Naughty A. Mouse

sugar is a fine white powder let me say
that a little louder sugar is a fine
white powder let me say that a little
louder sugar is a fine white powder and
just like crack and smack it’s all
wrapped up in money and power see Coke
comes from leaves and opium from flowers
but the granddaddy of the fine white
powders is made from beets and Cane
people hear the word drugs they usually
think of gangs they think of
cold-blooded Killers with Latin last
names selling PCP LSD and Mary Jane are
moving Mac ecstasy and crack cocaine
people hear the word drugs they think
shackles jails and chains they think
suffering and pain they think Blood
Money backstabbing and innocent slain
but there is no such stigma attached to
sugar cane yeah there ain’t no shame
affix to the sticks of even little kids
get lit they sit and take hits
off of their pixie sticks getting ripped
and no one sees a problem with this
because this is a fix that we all crave
and we are not ashamed although we know
it was built on the backs of black
slaves so I tell y’all sugar is a fine
white powder and I want it to ring in
your brains a little bit louder because
its story is the same as what’s shot in
the veins a shot up the nose to get
straight at the brain I’m talking Blood
Money backstabbing innocent slain I’m
talking suffering and pain shackles
jails and chains headlessness remembered
remains Little Women and Children
backing up the product and Counting out
the change and The Killers deranged who
ran the whole game and who teach kids to
kill for material gain the saddest thing
about it is all of these facts are
already in your brain they’ve just been
sanitized like blood stains washed down
shower drains so only the cold and
boring facts remain
you all sat in little rows frustrated
but so well trained and normalized this
[ __ ] with the phrase triangle trade
sugar for rum for slaves Europeans ruled
the waves and got money in power off a
little grains of white powder so I’m
asking y’all help me make this louder
sugar is a fine white powder come on
y’all louder sugar is a fine white
powder come on y’all louder sugar is the
fine white powder come on y’all louder
the foundation of our nation the
independence Declaration was sung by
kingpins who ran drug plantations so
fast forward just a few generations to
the days when radio stations still sing
the Praises of criminal organizations
but the biggest drug dealers are legally
chartered corporations and on both sides
of the law it’s all about location
location
it doesn’t matter if the battles are
fought in courts over end caps instead
of blocks or if the people that pack the
gats are called cops it’s still cash
crops to define the line between the
hives and the have-nots and I think
we’re all just too high on sugar to call
them crimes when they’re committed by
the Criminal Minds on top so I came out
to tell y’all that sugar is a fine white
powder and I’m asking you spread the
word because knowledge is power

Transcribed from the video Fine White Powder by Ghost Poetry Show and Naughty A Mouse.

Watch the Video “Fine White Powder” by Naughty A Mouse on YouTube

About the poet Naughty A Mouse

Naughty A Mouse’s powerful spoken word poem “Fine White Powder” is a lyrical indictment of sugar—yes, sugar—as a historically overlooked but deeply entwined player in the legacy of colonialism, slavery, capitalism, and addiction. Delivered with rhythmic urgency and a call-and-response refrain—“sugar is a fine white powder”—this poem blurs the lines between drug culture, economic power structures, and normalized consumption, ultimately inviting readers to reconsider the social and historical contexts of everyday commodities.


Summary

At its surface, “Fine White Powder” compares sugar to illegal drugs like crack, smack (heroin), cocaine, and ecstasy. But this isn’t just a metaphor for sweetness and dependency—the poem traces sugar’s origins as a commodity rooted in slavery, colonialism, and racial exploitation.

Naughty A Mouse challenges the audience to recognize how sugar—like narcotics—is a fine white substance entangled in systems of money and power. He critiques how society vilifies some drugs while ignoring others that share similar histories of violence and control, especially when profit motives sanitize or legitimize their use.

Children “take hits / off of their pixie sticks” and society sees no problem, but the poet points out the dark legacy behind the treat: “built on the backs of black slaves.” The speaker makes a strong case for sugar as the original addictive substance of empire, tied directly to the transatlantic slave trade—”sugar for rum for slaves.” He links this to modern corporate and legal institutions that profit from “drug-like” products, drawing attention to the hypocrisy of how some harmful industries are socially accepted or legally protected.


Analysis

“Fine White Powder” is more than a history lesson—it’s an urgent political poem, calling for deeper awareness of systemic injustice. Naughty A Mouse’s use of repetition (“sugar is a fine white powder”) becomes a chant, a rallying cry, and an indictment. The rhythm mirrors spoken word and hip-hop influences, pushing the message past poetic beauty into the realm of protest art.

The poet subverts the idea of what a “drug” is, taking it out of alleyways and placing it on the kitchen table, in the classroom, and on supermarket shelves. He draws attention to the way society separates “legal” and “illegal” substances not by harm but by who profits from them. The “location, location” line points to how geography, race, and class determine what is considered criminal versus what is considered commerce.

Lines like “the foundation of our nation… was sung by kingpins who ran drug plantations” push the reader to reevaluate sanitized historical narratives, including the American Revolution, and recognize their economic foundations in slavery and drug-like agriculture. This is a poem of unmasking and recontextualization—pushing listeners to see the institutional legacy of sugar and question what they’ve been taught.


Call to Action

By the end, the poet isn’t just making a point—he’s building a movement. He directly addresses the audience, asking them to join in spreading awareness:

“I came out to tell y’all that sugar is a fine white powder / and I’m asking you spread the word because knowledge is power.”

In doing so, Naughty A Mouse merges art and activism, using poetic storytelling to unveil how oppression hides in plain sight—in something as seemingly innocent as a spoonful of sugar.


➡️ Learn more about Naughty A Mouse and explore his poet bio page on AZPoetry.com

atlas st cloud grey walls poem artwork | AZpoetry.com

grey walls by atlas st. cloud

“grey walls” by atlas st. cloud

i am laying,
in an empty room.

the temperature is steadily dropping
and frost begins to crystalize on my eyelashes,
playing tricks with my irises.

i am a green eyed boy,
but ice has got me seeing with grey.

grey halls
with grey walls
led me to this hallowed space.

i am laying,
in an empty room.

the ceiling is a motley crew of colors,
galaxies are being spun before me.
two stars collide,
FLASH. BANG. BOOM.
the void opens up.

i stare into the vastness,
and the void whispers back,
“ice cannot kill a phoenix.”

i am laying,
in an empty room.

the stillness of space has no place in this room.
wind begins to howl,
ripping at the walls with nowhere to go.
this wind has teeth and it bites at my skin.

anger manifests monsters,
and this one is trying to
rip, freeze, tear me apart.

i am laying,
in an empty room.

the walls are closing in on me.
i exhale quick and can see my breath in fog.
my skin is beginning to plasticize
and i don’t know if i can move.

there once was a door,
but i can’t move my head to see if it is still there.

i am laying,
in an empty room.

my shoulders start to itch.
warmth floods my systems
and i can feel it in my chest.
my heart begins to beat.

blood flows once more
and something is happening to me.

i am laying,
in an empty room.

my shoulders begin to burn.
a tingle to go along with the itch.
then, suddenly,
i am screaming.

when i wake up,
i am on fire.

i am laying,
in an empty room.

and i sit up.

Originally published in Zilch Qualms, a Phoenix Poetry Slam anthology in 2019.

About the poet atlas st. cloud

atlas st. cloud’s poem grey walls is a haunting meditation on isolation, transformation, and rebirth. The poem places the speaker in an empty room, surrounded by the creeping cold that distorts perception—turning green eyes grey, freezing the breath, and numbing the senses. As the speaker remains motionless, they are enveloped by a void, an expanse of darkness filled with cosmic flashes and whispered reassurances. The line, “ice cannot kill a phoenix”, serves as a powerful moment of foreshadowing, hinting at an inevitable resurgence from the paralysis of despair.

The poem’s structure mirrors a cycle of entrapment and eventual release. The repetition of “I am laying, in an empty room” emphasizes stagnation, reinforcing the feeling of being stuck in an unchanging state. Yet, amid the cold and confinement, fire emerges. The warmth first presents itself as an itch, then an unbearable burn, until finally, the speaker erupts in flames—literally and metaphorically. The transformation is painful but necessary, illustrating a shift from suppression to liberation, from numbness to an awakening.

By the poem’s end, the speaker is no longer trapped in stillness. The final shift—from lying down to sitting up—marks a triumph over stasis, a rebirth from the ashes of struggle. grey walls is a deeply evocative piece that captures the internal battle between despair and resilience, ultimately leaving the reader with the image of survival and renewal.

Discover more about atlas st. cloud and his poetry here on his poet bio page.

Free Admission poem by Cylie Naylor | AZpoetry.com

Free Admission by Cylie Naylor

“Free Admission” by Cylie Naylor

the welcome sign to the gallery of my
heart reads free admission open every
day of the year and everything here has
some history and there’s plenty to see
on account of how I can fall in love so
quickly you know the average heartbeat
of a woman is about eight beats a minute
faster than a man’s which might explain
why it’s so hard to keep up with me so I
hope you’re up to the chase and I hope
you like what I’ve done with the place
take your time make yourself at home
enjoy the space you’re greeted with wine
and a waiver upon entry I’ve done
everything possible to ensure that it’s
not empty and that you won’t be bored
there are love letters scrawled on the
baseboards and the molding and the
hinges of every door it’s a bit chaotic
but you’re intrigued to see more and
please ignore the caution tape as some
rooms are still under construction but
there’s still plenty of me left for your
consumption there are some films about
Obsession and letters from past loves
held in resin the first hand that I held
in the first lips that I kissed this
room interactive at your own risk
because some before have been Reckless
cut their hands on my rough edges left
bloody finger paintings all over my
walls so I have something left to
remember them by
and this room a voicemail playing him
saying goodbye for the last time and
that room shattered glass covers the
floor for every bottle I never meant
more than
every piece of every heart that I broke
on my own accord and this room a single
framed portrait that neatly reads I’m
sorry for every time I messily couldn’t
and this place has a room decorated by
every love I’ve ever met I adorned them
with every memory and story they’ve
given me and on your way out I’ll hand
each of you an apology for anything
frightful that you might have seen But
honestly the one thing this place could
use is a little better security because
you are here every day
first in line to stake your claim as if
you couldn’t see that the biggest room
they gave me is already titled with your
name you are my largest most tragic
display for everyone to see The
Menagerie of the mess you’ve made of me
and when passersby say that you could
just spend days in this Gallery I think
about how there are 60000
miles of blood vessels within you
enough to go around the world twice
which is about how long that I would
travel to hear my heartbeat against
yours for one more night plenty of time
spent wandering trying to find you at
the right place or the right time and I
am the desperate Starstruck Basquiat to
your Warhol and I’ll walk endless Halls
haunted by crooked portraits of our
could have bins and every time I let
myself look around for too long you
become my muse all over again
I begged them not to let you in but you
never listen or you’re forced your way
through them but you’ll still find me
here and my ear is in a box on your
doorstep eager to listen for eternity if
you’ll just come home to me and I’ve
been busy scrubbing this place of your
memory but anyway
I’ll make some calls about that security
thank you for coming please take this
survey rating how much you all felt
loved by me.

Transcribed from the video “Free Admission” by Ghost Poetry Show and Cylie Naylor.

Watch Cylie Naylor perform “Free Admission” at Ghost Poetry Show on YouTube

About the poet Cylie Naylor

In Free Admission, Cylie Naylor masterfully constructs an extended metaphor of the heart as a museum—an open gallery where love, heartbreak, and memories are on full display. The poem invites the reader into an intimate, emotional space, detailing the artifacts of past relationships, the remnants of love lost, and the scars left behind by reckless visitors. The speaker’s vulnerability is woven into every exhibit, from love letters etched into door frames to shattered glass symbolizing broken promises. The museum is chaotic, unfinished, yet mesmerizing—reflecting the speaker’s emotional history and the lingering presence of a past love who still looms as the gallery’s most tragic display.

Naylor’s use of striking imagery and juxtaposition creates a powerful emotional impact. The speaker is both curator and captive, struggling to move on while still hoping for a return. The final lines—where the speaker acknowledges their futile attempts to erase the past while joking about improving security—underscore the poem’s aching vulnerability and quiet resignation.

With its blend of personal reflection, raw emotion, and artistic metaphor, Free Admission speaks to the universal experience of love, loss, and the struggle to reclaim one’s heart.

To learn more about Cylie Naylor and her poetic journey, visit her bio page here.