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Local Color · by R.H.S.
Yes ma’am, you got me figured! Dry-ass bananabread. Sense of humor, complexion, ‘Lo fleece, loafers. The check-cash/jook-joint/ electro storefront steeplechase broken down by a respectful, if Perry Ellis blazer, interpreter. Circular reasoning keeps us flyer, honeydip, check it: better living through science, Free Borinquen, you got my body now you want my soul, etc. I see your belligerent class clown warfare implodes suggestively into swollen sinews, miniscule imperfections that talk like … cult-classic catsuit disc jockey narrative patter, En Sap, suga.
How in the holy Hudson have hedonists harangued these mean nitroglycerin tomes without disrobing one passage dedicated to your skin? You are one beautiful fucking specimen, f’real. Fly chick I’d dig your back out on some Superlover Cee and Casanova Rud “Do The James.” If you told me to meet you at the rooftop I’d insist on the veranda. Honest. Those nebulous Gato Negro meets Carmine ringlets are giving me that kind of rhythm. Make a nigga wanna elevate, you know. Stop narrowing your eyes, goddamnit.
Yo on the strength I heard Crayola scientists smash their skulls through drywall trying to duplicate electric mahogany. Girl I wanna walk you arm-in-arm through the moon-drops and cypresses to the Cotillion at Mornington Crescent. Without one doubt the bordello-perfumed s’ditty sentries would fume and stomp in their porcelain hoop-dresses, braying indecipherably about pedigree and deportment.
Fuck all this, I know of a cozy cafe out in Somerset: deep, deep down the ‘hood path, situated where the streets begin to nap up lazily. If I wanted to bag a bitch as bland as a District Attorney’s lunch, I’d have gamed your barracuda pre-law roommate. Woulda played like a dozen griot traditions. I need a down-ass breezy the same shade as sweet cider. The kind of girl that fawns over her houseguests. Who begs me to put it down on some Lena Horne nastiness after the sofrito-slogged dishes are said and done.
Vulgar, maybe. Now I could play the role and remind you how you used to knock on my apartment door rockin’ a poor wifebeater worked half-to-death. Your tits and my compsure are two irreconcilable forces. Maybe you already know that I’d bite into that unnamed fold above your hips that winks when you wear a violet shirt too small. Even after superfluous Caribbean grilling. I’ve only ever seen your color on Egyptian urns and I gives a fuck about dead royalty right now.
I know you’re feeling my new haircut, dark ceaser for roaming the ruins. Had to pawn six mini-Uzis and duck the Grove Guardians for it. I’m vexed that we’re meeting for coffee. I never drink the shit except to get over; all this mocha leche mira mira talk makes me jittery. Plus every dame on earth makes the same ludicrous demand on a man’s time. What you say Friday evening you put on something cute and meet me at the Marrakesh? A motherphucka can only sit on tin furniture and debate logic and theory for so long you know.
Comments for "Local Color"
I love you
— Life's a bitch May 25, 10:42 AM
why the fuck are you not on Def Poetry son?
— Town Drunk. May 25, 10:49 AM
damn. can someone write ME a love letter like that?
— anupa May 25, 02:01 PM
Def Poetry? Unfortunately I suppose, this is how I wax prosaic.
— R.H.S. May 25, 03:23 PM
and to think, i just make girls mixtapes.
you’re sprung.
— Lee May 25, 05:26 PM
*finger snappage
— drew May 26, 06:21 PM