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I. Prison Blues and Familiar FacesBuzzed in and buzzed out,Cameras tracking shadow withGlass eye and red blinking lightOne last fuck-up, one lapse in judgmentTo send black ass backUnder boot of man.No luck, no attempt,Just shuffling feet.Trading orange jumpers for denim and whitesA pair of Jordan’s no memory of owning.There’s a pocket worth of changeAnd a broken watch,That skips back and forthTick tock, four and sixFive years skipped; faded to nothingBehind concrete and ironHolding court with the invisible lost. ¤¤¤I did not expect familiar faces, or familiar rides, yet there you, all liquid caramel and hard shadowed eyes, melded to a caddie of happier times.And every gash in the vinyl spins me back into time where that Eldorado idled. Skipped classes, black ass, where we gave our first rubs, where we tripped our first drugs, first sale, first cut. And the bikers and the vatos that we used to know, used to deal, used to fear, are just stains washed away on scorched summer curbs.Gunned down. Dragged away.Nothing left.Just broke dreams in Oakland streets,Kids acting adults and adults acting kids,Forgetting and forgottenUnsure of who and shaky,Shaky with the what.Frightened of the when.Just drugged deliriumin a bubble of graffiti’d ignorance,Failed attempts to just Be Like Mike!So here I am, there I am. Andy Warhol’s 100 Cans, a repetitious grid of ten by ten: yellow kolej escort on red on white on why the fuck can’t I break free from these rusting cans… this nightmare prison of tin on paper. Here I am, and there I go, frenzied and gluttonous, unable to stop gorging on ten cans by ten cans, my life’s noxious flavors, these miasmic beef flavors, rehashed and reheated in different bowls made from different bones.The cold steel on my wrists is familiar weight, familiar flavor. C-Block special. Drifting mind. Black batons on grey bars, sliding metallic like xylophones. Clink. Chime. Clink. Chime. It’s the man’s favorite tune for his concrete jungle and chipped iron cells… torturing souls to bitter bleak maddening hell. Warm hands ease legs apart and warmer mouth pulls flaccid meat to hardened life. I twitch at the touch, so unfamiliar, so unrepentant.Too much.Too soon.Scarred soul forgets meaning of intimacy.I yank at the cuffs. Growl. Reactions taken to mean one thing when really, they mean the tragic other.The flavors are just too similar. The sugared need too great.So I’m dragged further in, sliding through humming wet tightness, past fluttering tongue, until gagged resistance and sharp nails in muscled thighs. She pulls off and wipes her mouth and smiles off kilter and ten shades of wicked. It’s a crooked thing, that wide lush sihhiye escort bayan mouth: painted rich violet, teeth flashing polished pearls… all painfully familiar and nightmarishly sad. Which makes it all the harder.¤¤¤Palms press hard into chest and strong fingers curl to sink cherry glossed nails into pebbled skin.We’re caramel and85% cacaoFolded in with hot pepper,And some crack cocaine.Flavor profiles not intended for second tasting, nor third or fourth. Which is exactly why she craves it… the heat and the burn on the tongue and the cheek. It’s addiction now. Seven years running and she still can’t cum without barbed thorns in fun.Her hips wriggle and wiggle and gyrate and slap hard against mine: a frenetic dance of machine gun prance, like Beyoncé on stage, drowning in, soaking up, sweet drunk adulation. It’s rough and messy and fringed with desperate need. But with her, the soullessness mounts. Fucking for pleasure, and not for connection, not for emotion. And yet, perhaps there are different truths forming in those cinnamon eyes. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe that cloudiness in her eyes, the bit lower lip, is expression of more.- – -I try to meet her halfway, growling and cursing and yanking at the cuffs hooked round the bedpost. I try to let fly mad savage want with bared teeth and a flash in the eyes. I owe her that… Escort sincan at least that. But it’s halfhearted masquerade. And fuck does she know it. We never fully meshed growing up on the streets. We fucked to learn. To pass the time. Until time stopped. Until she came along and ruined me for everyone else. Especially you. Young love’s Trojan Horse.Her bottom lip curls and she screams. Her hips move faster and her hot inner muscles squeeze tighter, rippling along the thick vein on the under-side of my erection. Her red tinted dreadlocks frame sculpted features. A Medusa-like rage fuels the angry rhythm of her hips. Unlike Perseus though, I welcome the end. Deserve the end. For I am no hero of this fucked up Greek tragedy.I reach up and grab hold of her snake-like hair, wishing the sweat slick locks really snakes with poisonous fangs.Cuz the sad truth is this, friends from beyond.I can’t understand, can’t appreciate, this gift she’s but dying to give, these unspoken words with wet angry eyes and scorching hot cunt.So I’d gladly take death over this torturous fuck.¤¤¤She has me finish in her ass, the tabooed deed denied every other brother in the hood from stealing since we were but teens under the spray of a broken fire hydrant. And when that’s not quite enough, she has me pumping her drooling pussy with the compact police baton she stole from a squad car years ago. It’s depraved. It’s wrong. It’s the symbol of power we grow up to hate. It sparks dark thoughts and darker nightmares. And yet, it’s the one thing that has me really feeling anything but numbness and with a guttural cry I let go of… something, and fill her with a deluge of warm semen.
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