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Invoices · by R.H.S.
*There are no polemics in these paragraphs.
Don’t front, this dark moment got you pegged as an anti-ingenue double agent, sugar shorty-wop synthesis. Dum-dum zeitgeisters murmur that you moonlight as Scientist #26, steady pushing pending patents for grapeskin-flavored antidotes to chanteuse multivocality disorder. (When you’re not cavorting like a beheaded orisha in Eurotrash vineyards after virgin hours, that is).
It could be. This blackberry pearl nanotec launches satellites with a provocative cursor but pinning you down is just Uniblab doublespeak. To drape you smartly in sixty-six sextillion iridescent Aztec timepieces is to Lite-Brite smutty palindromes out of Times Square’s event horizon at the summer solstice. The temptation ebbs precisely as you tap my shoulder on an unseasonably temperate terrace, looking right. Enough so to startle.
Our first real playdate at an Amharic watering hole last December (highs around 70) saw you spirited in ever-symbolical scarlet, bemusedly blessing the rains down in … well, you know. Tonight I bet the evil within you rejoices to see your boy smacked-out on your prettiest white dress, re: Boss Nova Baccahanalia Shindig At The Center. Had to prop up a foggy treatise on acculturation to distract myself from submitting an uncanny flan request. Early.
Short of a blackfaced Peter Sellers and/or a Freaknik-approved punch ladle, Fri. Night/ Sat. Morning promises to be the jam of the year, you suckas. Reconnaissance tells me we got, what, maybe twenty-two minutes before your Athenian sisters and all of them land their overcrowded whip in the monitored parking deck packing enough red, black, and green solo cups to get the Kingdom of Mali and the South Bayshore, Strong Island Elks Club fucked up.
Expect no less than a cavalcade of Ipod donations from armchair martyrs and debauched guest lecturers. Playlists for pining selfishly, for solipsistic carousal, for ethereal sugarwall tagging, for alphabetized mystical tomfoolery carried out in the name of the Movement, the Struggle, the War Outside. ‘Nuff respect goes out to the priesthood mafioso, the scholarly courtesans, the cubicle pimps, the shady profiteers with spiffy bureaus, the ghetto diva philanthropic, and the future cabinet fixtures.
Off the subject, you look mega-dignified and moxie as Mambaza in that heavily discounted royal blue negligee you wear when I text you at bedtime. The way I see it, you mobilize like a million marimbas as manifold electric kites slink swayze-ly, breaking in and then booking out of lofty suede Timberland boxes tastelessly indundated with imperiled statuary. Coldly clownish, leering Masonic curiosities that do not grasp the monogrammed manuscripts merging your way.
Bless those baby par excellence Easter Islandish jawns, though. Afro Pick’d and all-wise, they will one day clink clumsily against lead crystalline decanters topped with (Isis-earring) stoppered lids that hurt so good. Vibraphone death threats, stolen legacy tattle-tales, and stepped-on cocaine anthems will whiz by at Warp 7 in fugitive departure from sublunar fuckery. The jet screamer zephyrs will encounter no static at all, and the guest-listed Cleopatras will shimmy and Shasta-bounce ‘til sunup.
Don’t front: you know one embrace beneath the sleazy date palms on the outskirts of Luxor will have your Christ-reared romantic monologue traveling at magnificent speeds throughout the greater metro region. You and I, self-identifying telepathic conversationalists, versus the porcelain feline idolatry on display in two hundred thousand tenement salons. Carve a spiral banister smooth enough to house this most hostingest team entrance or move out the fucking way. Pyramids 2 Projects.
I’d venture to guess that your recently acquired day-planner conscience harangues you: Shit is just just precociousness, banter-laden pillow talk , meaningless “g.” Word to that, but for my velvet-caped Viziers and coquettish blade-tongued sirens sounding off in hardly-acquired finery, shit is realer than skipping church.
Somebody’s gotta conjure drink recipes in full of view of rooftop snipers, impious rental cops, and info-desk ministers. We have a flourishing affair to attend, let’s put 105% into giving the party people what they want then split the dishwashing detail, aight?
Comments for "Invoices"
this reads like el-p lyrics.
— khal Jun 18, 10:06 AM