Friday, November 12, 2010

Patrón Night Gibberish

Scrap the pages of the past to refresh an aging memory in the present about a time when life's mood was insane, like a Cypress Hill Mane. Boy, sure glad those days are now a fade. Fast forward to a new maze. Social surfing on a Sunday night, Sunday night with Baby, living round in a cramped space, like triplets in Mommas stomach before their birthday, where human birds kissed by the bright starlight sing songs that entertain the Cupid vein and make the soul dance, like Marvin did when he was sexual healing. Struck by matter, clutched close by a Dame as if Louis V was my name. I was Her Pepé and She was my Penelope, but I wanted more than just to pet Her Pussycat.

Black and white, like Tyra Banks, She's a Compton Kid cultured over the years; A little Hood and a little Brentwood, Her life's a Hybrid between the haves and have not's, I call it "Ratchet Class!!" And judging by all the scars in Her convo She must have had nine lives because She hasn't rolled over yet. Pitching Her sell better than a door to door man, She was real psychic about our connection, She said Her palms read a long prosperous future, one that included me, so I fashion my face with a pair of fogged frames to prevent staring at the mistresses of distraction. And not because I'm sold, but to be afforded a better look, to see if I agree with what She's reading. Pipe dreams afloat, parading around a chaos of cobblestone, like a Clydesdale in Downtown STL. Free thinkers with kush for brains crowd a patient pair of ears talking gibberish with conviction, that even babies can't comprehend. Like said before, "It's a Maze," confused and dazed It's a bitch trying to find a way round it.

No comments:

Post a Comment