Young playa as a altar boy.
Once I heard from some moterfucka dat only what tha fuck is dead can be straight-up understood. Y’all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I be fly as a gangbangin’ falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! I guess there be all kindsa nuff Art movements n’ izzlez which can attest ta dat fo’ realz. And yet, austeritizzlez of Catholic game is discussed ta such lengths you could be forgiven fo’ thankin of it as bein suttin’ dead as fuckin fried chicken. I aint talkin’ bout chicken n’ gravy biatch. Of course Catholicizzle is still kickin it, dat is if you grew up in mah house. My fuckin daddy brutalised tha crew wit tha scam of what tha fuck bein Catholic is. No one could laugh at it, no one could express boredom, no one could play wit it, no one could explore, no one could engage up in any activitizzle dat flossed pimpment or growth dat was independent fo’ realz. And no one could ask what tha fuck bein a Catholic is ghon be if you consider what tha fuck I heard once from some muthafucka.
I remember tha last time I discovered tha macabre paintings from Di Vince, Rembrandt n’ El Greco smokin da sticky-icky-icky wit mah mutha on her gallery trips. But dat shiznit was when I discovered tha ghetto of Andy Warhol, I went there whenever possible, on mah own. I aint talkin’ bout chicken n’ gravy biatch. They was stories bout game; dat show our asses we is one of mah thugs we is something, not one of mah thugs here but something. Then when I discovered tha ghetto of cinema, I didn’t be thinkin bout tha ghetto of Jizzy dyin fo’ our sins. I didn’t be thinkin of what tha fuck it felt like as a cold-ass lil lil pimp dragged outta mah playa’s doggy den down tha street n’ buyin a freshly smoked up suit ta wear ta mah first communion. I aint talkin’ bout chicken n’ gravy biatch. I didn’t be thinkin of mah daddy chargin up tha stairs n’ throwin mah pimp outta our home n’ tha fuck into tha street n’ I didn’t gotta be thinkin of tha tears dat came outta mah boyfriend’s eyes n’ I didn’t gotta be thinkin of mah mutha waterin her plants when mah daddy did these thangs. In tha cinema I found freshly smoked up wayz of lookin at game. Through time n’ space, I imagined a ghetto cinematically. I constructed ghettos made of images n’ montages, flash backs, flash forwards, jump cuts n’ loops. I had a freshly smoked up vocabulary wit which ta apply. My fuckin game became spoilt, spoilt cuz of mah imagination.
As I grew older, mah imagination grew wit me, n’ thangs started ta be affected by thought processes n’ reflection. I aint talkin’ bout chicken n’ gravy biatch fo’ realz. As I grew older, mah scamz of Catholicizzle had become less monumenstrual n’ mo’ as suttin’ dat had died. Y’all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Lyrics become interesting. Lyrics affected memory. Lyrics busted lyrics bout tha indescribable. Lyrics stripped treez of its bark. Lyrics bigged up tha unacknowledged n’ made tha invisible visible, bobbin tha illusory powerz of tha mob menstruality. I learnt dat silence be a killa n’ shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Silence dismantlez our identitizzle fo’ realz. And silence make it harder fo’ vibe ta return.
One dizzle I shared mah stories as our slick asses left class early n’ headed over ta tha church. Da other thugs thought I was mad cuz of its ‘peep show qualities’. Like dat shiznit was some kind of dirty lil fantasy I had concocted, gettin a kick outta shockin dem while satisfyin mah desires. Well shiiiit, it wasn’t a peep show I thought cuz a peep show is likely ta frustrate fo’ realz. And I don’t like ta be frustrated. Y’all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type’a shiznit happens all tha time. I don’t like lookin at images all up in lil’ small-ass holes. Fuck dat shit, up in dis story, its magic comes mo’ via imagination than blatant nudity. I mean, it is purely a visual memory, wit lil punctuation n’ skanky grammar n’ it is straight-up much experimental, as such, it requires imagination n’ belief… a funky-ass belief up in tha imagination n’ all its impossibilities. Put ya muthafuckin choppers up if ya feel dis! But ta be thinkin we was taught by anti-porn Christians whoz ass have always been surrounded by Greek sculpture, Renaissizzle n’ Baroque paintings, which they is used ta lookin at, yet they have always been visual illiterates.
For tha next minute we would be servin mornin Mass all up in tha St Michaels Catholic Church, a honourable assignment dat filled our muthafathas wit pride. Well shiiiit, it aint a cold-ass lil conventionizzle story. Well shiiiit, it has no interest up in verisimilitude whatsoever n’ shit. Well shiiiit, it has not a god damn thang up in tha way of dialogue, deal or character pimpment. What it gives you be a tantalising, provocatizzle invitation ta let tha soundz n’ images wash over you as if yo ass is up in a thugged-out dream, like mah bullfightin fantasy where tha bull is Father Patrick dressed up in leather ridin on a motorcycle n’ mah crazy ass as tha matador where tha whole scene be lookin like it could done been filmed by Warhol his dirty ass.
As we prepare, one of tha thugs scoffed, “I remember when Father Patrick was mah maths mackdaddys yo. Dude strutted around, always dressed ta his thugged-out lil’ position, always smilin at everyone.” We all ignored his ass but his schmoooove ass continued, “This is one place you won’t find mah crazy ass when I’m older, up in dis place. Think bout it, I gots a straight-up boner fo’ helpin others. Besides from helpin others, his crazy-ass motives is insidious.” I wondered if he straight-up meant ta degrade all of us. Then I wondered if da thug was one of mah thugs whoz ass had ta struggle ta be thoughtful bout every last muthafuckin thang da perved-out muthafucka says, as he jumps from one snarky comment ta tha next.
I be a gangsta yo, but y’all knew dat n’ mah stories is lit almost exclusively by pink lights n’ back then where I was tha youngest of all tha altar thugs, I was most definitely what tha fuck you would define as a narcissist, masturbatin while gazin at his own slick reflection up in tha mirror fo’ realz. Aside from one scrilla blasted where I ejaculated right tha fuck into tha Priest’s eyes, tha actual sex is only hinted at. Oh, tha juice of suggestion. I aint talkin’ bout chicken n’ gravy biatch. I don’t be thinkin I’ve eva imagined tha thug body wit such reverence, except like when Pizzle Morrissey pointed his fuckin lens at Joe D’Alessandro. This is eroticizzle taken ta tha level of high art, wit close ups on tha body so abstract they turn tha thug body tha fuck into a funky-ass dope landscape.
As our phat asses dutifully arranged tha communion wafers up in a funky-ass brass bowl, poured tha red Cristal tha fuck into crystal pitchers n’ draped tha cloth over a big-ass gold chalice. Da thugs wanted every last muthafuckin thang ta be just right. I continued wit mah story, movin slowly at its own trip like pace fo’ realz. A fantasy dat is prettier than advertisin imagery. My fuckin obvious self ludd n’ tha obsessive qualitizzlez of mah fantasy peep me play tha role of tha slave ta mah masta tha Priest. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Searin bright colours unite n’ increase tha dreamy feeling. There is no dialogue it would probably fuck up tha dream fo’ realz. At a cold-ass lil casual glizzle it can step tha fuck up as lil mo’ than a seriez of dope, horny-ass n’ obscure imagery. But it is much mo’ than dat shit. I be a altar boy, trapped up in a surreal hell- a environment dat be artificial, manufactured n’ unnatural. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. Da hood outside of his church is even mo’ devoid of nature, or game, wit its zombie like creatures stumblin around, lookin ta either buy, or push horny-ass favours. I retreat tha fuck into a cold-ass lil candy coloured ghetto, where I serve only Father Patrick as his thugged-out lil’ punk-ass becomes mah storybook heroes; Arabian Sheiks, Matadors n’ Roman Emperor fo’ realz. As altar boy, I be tha illest servant, rockin mah own scam of beauty when imaginin what tha fuck these charactas look like. I imagine mah dirty ass up in blazing, dunkadelic colour, accompanied by a eclectic n’ hustlin array of music.
Da others work up in silence, they motions second nature by dis time fo’ realz. As I play up each set piece of mah fantasy, a gangbangin’ familiar image returns repeatedly- scenes up in nature, trees n’ flowers n’ livin creatures, drenched up in sunlight, soaked up in rain, a environment dat is tha polar opposite of tha concrete n’ neon hellhole up in which I be imprisoned. Y’all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I have fantasiez of nature, which is da most thugged-out dope n’ truly horny-ass sectionz of tha fantasy, suggest a thugged-out desire ta return ta suttin’ natural n’ real, up in other lyrics a return ta innocence. I gots a moment where I be behind tha church penetratin tha earth, by lyin on tha ground n’ stickin mah ding-a-ling tha fuck into tha soil fo’ realz. And tha dark, apocalyptic climax, where tha same ground swallows me tha fuck into its underground depths up in a inferno of rollin drizzle n’ thunder, n’ I find his dirty ass back up in mah room, as Father Patrick becomes mah freshly smoked up hustla whoz ass lets his dirty ass inside ta be serviced. Y’all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Do mah mind represent some kind of hell, biatch? Da pimped out thang bout mah fantasy is dat it raises thangs like that, n’ forces me ta think, n’ ta wonder n’ shit. When a gangbangin’ fantasy can accomplish that, it transcendz horny-ass gratification n’ becomes suttin’ else. Well shiiiit, it becomes art fo’ realz. Art born of harmony, gushin from chaos, a recurrin trip dat repeat itself wit lil variation n’ theme. Well shiiiit, it dazzlez a lil mo’ each time.
I be a gangsta yo, but y’all knew dat n’ mah Body. Dressed. Y’all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Undressed. Y’all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Juice supposedly male, masculine wit master-slave relations dat turns tha fuck into pure horny-ass slavery. With tha Romans, show me yo’ loot n’ let me be brutal, probably wit dirtnap all up in tha end yo, but it ain’t no stoppin cause I be still poppin’ fo’ realz. Arabian wit nuff veils, seven or more, dances, pearls n’ jewels. Then there is tha Sultan whoz ass is watching, desirin n’ assessing. Well shiiiit, it be all pictorial titillation n’ substitutizzle contacts wit tha aforesaid pearls n’ other objects, veiled all up in tha least even if only up in a French letter n’ shit. Then we can move ta tha modern bordello, tha red light district, like mo’ explicit n’ so much explicit dat it becomes sickeningly fascinating. Da elements, storm, thunder, lightning, rain, dizzle n’ night is used as representationz of desire n’ satisfaction, pleasure n’ ecstasy. I find tha sex I want up in Baroque choral noize n’ leaves up in tha shape of ding-a-linges. My fuckin horny-ass satisfaction is purely menstrual, inside mah soul, substitutizzle of explicit physical contact. I finally make it up tha fuck into a gangbangin’ frontal view revealin mah dirty ass straight-up struttin all up in wind, leaves, litter n’ multifarious eva changin flavas ta what tha fuck appears mah goal: tha coat hanger of tha beginning. Da eye can merge wit tha light. I be back up in tha bordello area, up in mah bed, up in mah baggy-ass pants dat I take off ta chill up in front of tha mirror n’ trip of a funky-ass bowler-hatted, overcoat, umbrella, hood bankin sugar grand daddy whoz ass can enter since dat schmoooove muthafucka has tha key but mah grill is revealed trippin of meetin mah only ludd affair n’ desired human being, mah dirty ass. I blow n’ break tha mirror. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Da image disappears n’ kind of turns tha fuck into a spider wizzy up in nature wit a cold-ass lil caterpillar crawlin along a funky-ass branch. I be back ta where I started, minus tha moon. I aint talkin’ bout chicken n’ gravy biatch. “I’ve grown so lonesome thankin of you,” Dude holla’d.
Then footsteps, dress Nikes clackin down tha stairs leadin ta tha sacristy. Monsignor strutted in, dressed up in his usual black baggy-ass pants n’ shirt, clerical collar n’ dark cardigan. I aint talkin’ bout chicken n’ gravy biatch. Da other thugs become anxious yo. Dude seems ta ignore em. Without a word, his schmoooove ass closes tha door we all back up against tha wall, shoulder ta shoulder n’ shiznit yo. Dude lingers all up in tha door yo, but shizzle enough, his schmoooove ass comes toward us, as we separate. I retreat wit lil’ small-ass steps n’ bump tha fuck into a mirror. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. I turn n’ peep mah image. In dis mirror mah gestures do not reflect mine. I creep up ta it, mistrustful. My fuckin image is standin ta attention, n’ I move towardz dat shit. My fuckin Image copies mah dirty ass. I brang mah hand up, nervously touchin mah right earlobe. My fuckin Image do tha same. I brang mah clenched fist toward tha mirror n’ socked mah Image up in tha head before his schmoooove ass could move, swayin back. I step back n’ tha Image comes towardz me, emergin from tha mirror. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. We grill each other before I make way towardz dat shit. Da Image takes off fo’ realz. After a while, wit our backs turned, we brushed arms once or twice before we kiss. Our thugged-out asses hold each other, rarely lettin go, n’ all up in tha deal wit uniting, Father advances fo’ realz. As soon as Father grabs me, we is defeated n’ separate yo. Dude draws our asses apart. Me n’ tha Image grind wit Father Patrick. It be a gangbangin’ frenetic dance, revolvin up in perpetual circles, takin up in turns wit each other while tha other thugs look dazed n’ confused. Y’all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Lastly, Father Patrick pursues me, leavin tha Image ta observe from across tha room, while our phat asses dizzle before thrustin me wit a knife fo’ realz. As Father standz over me, I be terrified, bowin mah head, I attempt ta apologise, murmurin ta a mo’ n’ mo’ n’ mo’ fast rhythm, until exhausted, losin mah grip, I continue a sort of miserable rant, a apologizzle ta tha other thugs n’ ta Father n’ shit. With just minutes before Mass was cuz of begin Father countered wit a genuine smile, “Dude shouldn’t apologise. Why tha hell is you playas givin his ass attention anyways, biatch? Why aren’t you bustin suttin’ useful wit yo’ time, biatch? Yo ass should all apologise fo’ wastin precious time n’ jackin his thugged-out attention.”
We stand ta attention, starin beyond Father’s head at a cold-ass lil cross on tha wall. There be a rap bout tha lightnizz of mah posizzle dat maxed so much Catholicizzle heavy handednizz connected ta bein one of mah thugs like mah dirty ass. I wondered bout tha long term trauma where dis cross fits tha fuck into mah history, n’ I’m guessin tha other thugs would be trippin as ta why I would bother ta embark on tha process of remembering. Confoundin n’ hustled. Y’all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type’a shiznit happens all tha time. But I gotta put these stories behind so I could cope. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So I could survive fo’ realz. And although it is hustlin, I secretly wished ta put all dat shiznit behind mah dirty ass. Powerful stories from tha past, dat one of mah thugs imagined would inspire me or one of mah thugs up in dis crew of altar thugs. I wanted dem ta cook up a gangbangin’ finger-lickin’ difference, a gangbangin’ finger-lickin’ difference up in mah game n’ up in mah hood. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So I remember wit hope dat they reveal tha lightnizz of mah ghetto. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Y’all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Memories n’ mythz of stories I engage up in wit mah imaginations, n’ wit which ta KNOW incomprehensible thangs dat done been pimped.
But preparations fo’ mah crucifixion is already bein carried out. To make gaps up in mah beauty, ta look carefully at mah structure as Father strips bare as mah handz which is tied ta a cold-ass lil cross yo. His grill delights up in holdin tha leather strap as da perved-out muthafucka steps closer n’ shit. Da belt consistz of nuff measured, stripz of metal detail standin along its entire length as he motions, directs n’ brangs down wit pimped out force again n’ again n’ again n’ again n’ again n’ again across mah shoulders, back n’ legs.
Da whoopins come ta a end, ceasin as up in a cold-ass lil course or journey, I be near dirtnap, decided upon by tha soldier up in charge, as you find tha un-noted cracks which form tha openin up in tha not yet dope landscape. Well shiiiit, it is determined by tha act or process of collaboration, willingly occupied by our communion between tha processez of tha human mind n’ tha ghetto. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Y’all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! And ta widen tha gaps n’ ta plant scams here, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin’ thru fo’sho fo’ realz. And allow scams ta flourish fo’ realz. And so flourish across time n’ space; endlessly, eternally, always.
Da heavy beam of tha cross, a structure, a symbol, as two intersectin lines is then tied across mah shoulders, begin tha procession. I aint talkin’ bout chicken n’ gravy biatch fo’ realz. As a cold-ass lil condemned altar pimp along wit tha gangbangas whoz ass is alongside me begins our slow journey, from one stage ta another, where tha weight of tha heavy beam, together wit tha exuberant blood loss, is too much, overwhelming. I stumble n’ fall, n’ drop. Da rough, uneven surface wood of tha beam gouges tha skin of mah shoulders. I try, attempt subject ta strain, affliction n’ shiznit ta rise yo, but mah human body has been pushed beyond its endurance.
I remember tha sun… I remember tha garden… I remember tha church… I remember tha day. It make me wanna hollar playa! Explanations is not required. Y’all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I just remember when tha mask was ripped n’ tha silence broken- tha darkness, tha ghetto was up in total darkness, absent n’ deficient of light. I was hung up on dat petty cross while tha sunny skiez of Jerusalem darkened fo’ three hours, from tha sixth ta tha ninth hour, from noon ta midafternoon. I aint talkin’ bout chicken n’ gravy biatch. Upon tha cross, high above tha line all of tha people’s vision, I remember lookin ta tha skies ta discover a moon of blood, lavish n’ enthusiastic, wit a extravagantly reddish color of tha light refracted onto tha moon all up in tha Earth’s atmosphere, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin’ thru fo’sho. This darknizz calls, n’ appears ta mah playas without notice or warning, without reason. I aint talkin’ bout chicken n’ gravy biatch. I peep a eclipse of tha sun, takin place as tha moon comes under tha sun. I aint talkin’ bout chicken n’ gravy biatch. This magnificent obscuration of light n’ its intervention wit tha earth be a phenomenon peeped from far away. Its splendour n’ status was visible from Jerusalem… first seen, available n’ accessible ta tha eye up in Jerusalem.