New Cross Nectar
"Spoken word artist Folake commands stages across New Cross. When music producer Derek offers to record her poetry, she shows him that her best work happens off the mic."
Folake's words hit like physical things—sharp, beautiful, inescapable. Derek had watched her perform at New Cross venues for months, too intimidated to approach.
Tonight, courage won.
"Your work is incredible," he said at the bar afterward. "I produce music. I'd love to record you."
She assessed him—thick curves in ankara print, natural hair wild from performance, eyes that saw through everything.
"You want to capture my voice?"
"I want to capture... all of it."
"Then you'll need to hear me in private first. Come to my studio. Tomorrow. Midnight."
Her studio was a converted bedroom, draped in fabric, lit by candles. She sat cross-legged, looking like a goddess, and spoke directly to him.
No mic. No recording. Just her voice, filling the space with poetry that was explicit, sensual, devastating.
"I write about desire," she said when she finished. "About bodies and hunger. You can't record that without understanding it."
"Teach me."
She smiled. "Finally. A student."
She spoke poetry against his skin—verses traced by lips, stanzas whispered into sensitive places. Her thick body pressed against his while her voice wove spells.
"This is how words should feel," she breathed. "Not just heard. Felt. Throughout the whole body."
He was overwhelmed—by her voice, her body, her everything. She stripped him while still speaking, her rhythm never breaking.
"Let me show you where poetry lives."
She rode him while reciting—improvising verses about his body, about the sensations, about the joining. Her thick thighs flexed while her voice rose and fell.
"Here... in this moment... where language breaks... and only sound remains..."
She came mid-stanza, her words dissolving into pure sound, primal and beautiful. He followed, speechless.
"Now you understand," she said afterward. "Why my work can't just be recorded. It has to be lived."
"How do we live it?"
"Together. You create the music, the beats, the production. I create the words. We create this." She gestured at their tangled bodies. "The energy behind everything."
"How long will that take?"
"As long as we have." She kissed him slowly. "Poetry isn't a project. It's a practice. A daily practice."
His New Cross nectar was the sweetest verse he'd ever heard. And Derek was ready to practice forever.