Destinyś x Parish: an *iÝe*dealist tragedy

for every moment that scribes

art *(pieces) into the

                   belly of beasts,

an angel get it’s validation with 

traumatic screams

          ®️🚩

that turn to awkward situations 

when defining straddled 

confession’s to trust?/lust!

Destiny’s (bastard) Child

         asked me what I see in

B minor compositions,

… Parish Accord’s dropped riddles 

about KP seducing

me to give up on romantic 

  idealism, learned from 

singer songwriters 

canvas’ of romance&passion

   STUMPING macho men 

about why I’m seduced by

                      digital bass moan’s,

to explore cinematic visions

of a last hooray.lastimeipromise(d)

…day 49 ends,

    and still have yet to experience 

sentimental tears to,

Stevie Wonder 

with young prodigies in the back

asking why they’re better than us 

**with sprinkles by biĞ BardǏ**

                  🇩🇴

Cherrieš aĻA’ Mode

 Peach nectar trickling down 

Brown tattooed thighs,

          🫆

       rubbing sweet spots extorted 

with nothing but the tip

soft lips kissing cherries (blossomed)

          …‘Till she oozes a la mode 

femme fatale with a gun

in his mouth ♦️

     and his excitement is

decked in neon lights behind

  his pleated pants

Guitar strings line

Her silhouette,

       💌

   and the blood on 

her blouse matches 

her pretty red lipstick

The clock strikes noon

       and his eyes roll back 

laying beside stacks of dollar bills, 

making the ice cream *stains*

on his wine colored suit

a symbol…

Hideaway powdered lines of memory, 

               t h e n ig h t h e 

                       made, Lady Luck scream 

 as he kissed every corner

    of her velvet hideaway.

*exploringcorridorsofnewfoundcourageandforgotteninnocence*

co-Produced by bĨG BaŘdi

Dirty Room Monuments

Girl that was always with Melonie

 intellectual playground scholars 
Debating Blaxploitation & taste,
             ♾️
revealing messy truth’s 
to comfort little stage runners

Orlando sunrises,
      back in the day
when “I was young, I’m not a kid 

anymore, & some days I sit and wish 
I was a kid again”
brother’s, sister’s, and friends
reciting Ahmad

Radio Diva’s that graduate 
big city lights & small 
          stage theatrics

Speaking words to hear Stan, 
Yasiin, & Russell clap
    Bay fog on her taste buds
riding around humble whips,
 

So her & Iss,a can take 
      road trips episodically 
to the biggest phone call of her life 

Only to find out that 
melanated heavenly angels 
gossip and bicker…
      reliving the days 
   white sandbox swimmers 
didn’t go up to 
Awkward Amanda 
and ask “Want to be my, friend?” 
(toovocalfortheconformistinallofu$)

*I understand, the alienation hurts

Memoirs, written on the ceiling

It was a hurtful image for me,

watching young ason pick up a 

dropped cigarette…

followed a trail of spilled soda

on the way to play hopscotch 

on the clouds

where I lost my innocence

puddle’s of whiskey on the concrete, 

dripping down broken streetlights 

where angel’s kissed a runaway

and left stains of unfulfilled desires

on dew damp bus stop’s

a smoking cipher of thieves 

French inhaling replica buddhas 

rolled in ripped out king jame’s

pages

took a hit of Jimi Hendrix… 

now I know

the taste of purple haze 

when the fog hits my palate 

1st chapter written on

Tito Jose’s half smoked

Marlboro 

Epilogue written on forearm

cigarette burns, covered in tattoos 

ink in B minor

Art of Fact (an essay in B minor)

Excuse me, while I attempt to 

compose a song in B Minor by ear 

Be patient with my lack 

of comprehension in regard to 

Music Theory, 

I promise not to 

stop until you feel 

beautiful again.

What to do when your soulmate 

is your significant other’s alter ego? 

She’s left post it notes all over 

the skeleton’s in my closet, 

and has convinced me that 

the bebop I groove to in the 

shadows deserves to be on 

center stage. 

I’ve always thought I was performing for an audience of one that can only be seen through bathroom mirrors, but I’ve come to realize that the whole time I was staring at a hologram that disguised her hiding amongst a full house. Yet, I’m still the only one yelling “It could be better.”

Do I wait for the intermission and pray that she finally joins me on stage?

… tastemakers ball, late entry

a Party of (un)clothed 

Barbie’s

and broken crayons 

accompany her to the 

next matinee of Rugrats

front row on the stained 

brown carpet

…looking for “want to be my, friend?”

on the tanbark,

lost in a sea of 

nameless faces playing

tether-ball

After school meals of

Coffee and rice,

studying the way Nanay

used her sewing machine

to add candy paint

to her weekend gowns,

& once again yell “checkmate” 

on the dance floor

Ten years later,

Roaming carpeted hallways

sporting imposter syndrome

with a cool note…

telling stories about Kuya

and proudly painting him 

on extra confidence

cause she knows he’s shy 

about how he uses tears to fill

his ink pen.nevertoldhimhowmuchitmeanttothem

trying to program drums

with an awkward swing,

empty because bloodline

taste makers didn’t give her 

road maps to her gold chain

Treasure hunting in stacks 

of composition books,

introduced by Serendipity

to how good it felt to

dance to magic.

Standing tall on a hill

of courage & culture,

as she baked biscuits

for Kuya’s ghosts

he felt so protected with how they 

went with butter & honey.trustyallcantdancewithher

To Little Rachel,

who ran up on stage

 

Aztec Jazz Horn’s

The gardener laying gravel

over trap doors for ghosts to

enter a house built over 

indigenous dance floors

She told me to find courage 

in how the drum’s swing

… similar to how the pressure 

in his jeans up against her

waist made her rain, 

much like how 

she guided (en)Richment 

to confidence when 

he found the groove in his 

2-step.turnedthelightsonhisswagger

Azteca ancestors weeping 

for our unity

which fill the puddles 

coming down her waist

As he told her their love was 

meant to be.neverrodeforanybodythathard

Tattooed over her invisible scars

and found art in her tragedies…

His gator skin Stacy Adams

and wine colored suit

… so creamy on her palate 

with her Sunday attire 

and both kids wearing

Barrio Jazz to church  

The warm summer day in

the way he looked at her,

expressed a million thank you’s

when he built a tire swing

for her kids to play on

within his coming of age

Dedicated to Mī Abuelita

Incoherent doses

 (My research paper on nonsense) 

Imposter on salary skipping out on lunch; 

Ancients reptiles in my orchard grifting vocal tones 

and baking apple pie briberies on page 1

My soulmate has come to find me,

distracting with ripped up purple panties

all I can focus on was the 8 count 

on her groovy bass moans…

Dance with me, 

as I insert the last few inches

The drop on my bottom lip causes

 her desires to drip out of her short red dress 

My gentleman swagger is causing me 

to hesitate licking every drop

Tastes like candy coated rain 

with concrete as a side dish 

I whisper stolen verses in her ear,

an imposter  

hiding behind holograms of her teary makeup 

A group hug before slow dances 

to songs in the key of 

b Minor, that they witness with seething stares… 

cantstealthewayshesmileswithhereyes

Eyes wide shut, 

As I dream of crossing lines that

not on the original leasing agreement

Macho men making teary eyed concessions  

Conflicted resolutions as we negotiate

how we die in each other’s arms 

in tragedy or triumph 

*signed, sealed, delivered by 

anonymous Kings and his 3 amigos

Joy Inside my Tears

my imposter in the mirror has taken 
hold of the stirring wheel 

i find that time's shadows 

tends to block the sun in my dreams 

and i don't know if i need a clear view 

of my imagination to enjoy being alone 

on a mountain top 

i've lost my map and 

a bag of your powdered substitute 

is making faces at me 

as it spreads it's leg across my table

purple rain stained footsteps

release a sigh that extends it's hand out 

offering purple shaded secrets

seconds later a shy retreat

running across the streets of infinity

painting on the walls with melted make up

david Bowie counted corpses 

and used a black pen 

there was enough red

earth tones conceal indications 

the reflection has been altered

i still remember the delirium in your eyes

when you sang me that corny song

twisted logic

s/he doesn't even have a face

i tell myself to run away

but i love it,

find me

trying to make resisting

cool enough, again

the bed…

I trace her silhouette in,

still has memories of that look 

of despair in her eyes 

when I didn’t make her feel beautiful, 

enough 

Imagining songs in the key of life

as I lick stains off her neck 

I run a de-thorned flower in between her legs

and it’s the first time I actually showed

her that it’s okay to feel sexy

without tears falling 

                 She kissed me softly,

& whispered “next time, keep the thorns on. So it represents the reality I’m familiar with.” 

                                                    Damn…