the odd thing is i always considered myself a writer
read the greats like Hemingway and Morrison
appreciated a lack of punctuation
or the odd stylistic writing quirk
always said my favorite was alliteration
naturally since I’m a musician
but i find myself struggling
forcing myself to write
like a child sent to his room
you try to do everything but
at times like this
clear my space
where you forget about format
and rhyme schemes
and just say
like why do guys suck so hard?
and our system of higher education
and personal debt is outrageously
suffocating my generation’s livelihoods
like Farenheit 451
everyone is on a pill
getting stomachs pumped
regurgitating our own disgusting apathy towards
a system that uses mimicry
to enslave the masses
and media to tame
how could this be so hard?
when i have so much to say?
the problem now changes
from where to begin
to how to stop!
In an alleyway, on a wet dark street in a cold city stood a vintage motor-car perched upon a black wall; a modern day speakeasy where the neighborhood creepers and freaks frequented for libations, good eats and live music. The steps were made of dark stone, stacked like a road leading you down a rabbits hole through a dark and heavy wooden door. Its antique bronze door handle was frozen and damp.
The green neon lights blinked manically above, Gypsy Tuesdays, it shined down the alley illuminating it to a UFO like orb like old christmas lights or beams from the unknown.
It was Reggae Night so that meant it was a Thursday. Restless, the cool kids made their way down the corridor, joined by the local rastas and bad gals ready to dutty wind and drink all night long. The doorway was filled with smoke and Chena inhaled deeply as she walked through greeting the Gods and Earths who stood politicking about the moon. Her hands in the pockets of a dust leather coat, nails painted a pale pinks, her lips a deep wine, she kissed the many faces of those who said hello, her wild curls covering her eyes and often getting in the way.
The antique wooden bar stood tall, ominously towering over her she reached on her tipy topes to say hello to Santiago behind. He kissd her slowly and sweetly, dangerously close to the corner of her mouth ad shouted, “One BAMF coming right up!” Rum Dinga was spinning on the 1s and 2s, shouting off obsenities every few moments, talking about some girl’s pum-pum and what not, the bass beat so hard it made the bar buzz. And thats just how Chena liked it, deafeningly loud, to drown out the voices in her head.
She rips off her leather jacket, tossing it aside on a black and white paisely sofa, her combat boots stopping and hips slowly twisting, the tight dark denim jeans ride low, reveaing the bottom half of back tattoo that peaks out below a thin white tank top that glows in the black lights and slowing rises with each giration. Santiago signals to her and she sways over to the bar to take a big swig of coconut rum and fruice juice. She sees Ginger and Merlot on the dancefloor and meets them creating a trifecta of fabulous fierceness, all the rude boys watch like hiennas on the sidelines.
Her black bra strap drops to the side as some tool creeps up behind her only to get slapped away and laughed at by the other girls. She wore diamonds in her ears, and lots and lots of bangles that clanged together with each rhythm, hiding the words “cest la vie” etched into her tiny wrist. She almost waves her hand again when she feels a hand on her waist but she immediately recognizes the soft touch of a pearl hand. She turns around wrapping her arms around Katana and buries her face in her equally massive poof of curls. She smells like frankensence and myrrh and her lips taste like cherry. Chena hands Katana her drink as she pulls her into a hallway and pushes her against the wall of a hidden corner. “I’ve missed you,” she breathes into her neck and slowly kisses her collar bone as Katana giggles and put her fingers inside the belt loops of Chena’s waist. They get lost, effortlessly in the taste of each others chapstick and the haze of desire they share. But they are quickly snapped back into reality by the jeering of some drunk douchebag getting off from their intimate semi-private exhibitionism.
Everybody knows them, well most people do. Its a regulars kinda place, where everyone knows your name whether you want them to or not so they hurridly walk outside through the back door to have a smoke and hide from the public eye.
Katana digs into the purse strung across her bussom and takes out a pack on light cigarettes, placing one in Chena’s pursed lips and lighting it before she lights her own. Her green eyes sparkle in the soft spark of the lighter, porcelain skin shinning against the soft glow of the streep lamp. They stand in silence and smoke watching the back alley fill with different groups who all pass rolled joints and blunts to one another aross the street, its just the start of another night at GypsyTuesdays, and who knows how it will end…