I rant you risten

Wednesday, May 10, 2006

the cameo of cameos

free crack and everyone gets laid
I let spontaneity be my guide and that’s the reason for my demise. I am under house arrest (a better word than grounded). The case: feeding my need for speed. Tonight bahraini guy’s invitation to appear as his guest is the only way to nourish my madness.

10 pm. kissed my mother good night and locked myself in my room, immersed in ablution contemplating every scheme in the book to break out of the house. Took a good look down from the balcony, testing the fall, threw down my brother’s stupid cat to see how she lands. Boredom postponed, no broken bones. Fought the faithful donkey in a hurry and bid him farewell. Tied everything together into a rope, climbed the Azalea bush and jumped over the wall into a furry red cab with Harshit the driver.

Monstrous black line around my eye, question mark drawn on a course cloth. Like wind to my endless story, we head to Al Ain, club 44. Looking out to black dunes, flimsy girls picking dates of nakhl trees looking for a magic gang bang, cowboy ghosts rise from the grave to play, feet tied, chain in hands. Between them and oasis full of love.

Arrived at the door, the kandoora asked me for the code. Grasped my ankles to worship an ironic Japanese number seven. He let me in and complemented me on my lilac beret. Club 44 is a bizarre place. Rappers cum belly dancers cum locals cum model chicks cum drag queens and me. A melting pot melting together underground with Mike Jones on the mic. Walked back to a room called little Vegas to gamble for a new car. Like a winning dog with fantasy ambitions I sipped the venom of an origami viper. Played backgammon with the resident sheikh promising hope on the ticking quartz. Restless and peerless in my farewell posture I said amen to club 44.

Hopped into a limo only to find the prince of Borneo. Asked the driver to head to Umm al Quwain to a dirty club called XXX. Employed a play on words, sharp as a cutting tool. For a period of time talked like a flashing light with special delights that drove him wild. Was he a friend or foe. I’ll never know. Everyone bowed as we entered the club. Our table ready, Krystal on ice, that’s nice. Amplified night lamps, brilliantly colored. Fat girls on stage jiggled their body parts to Tchaikovsky’s ballet suite. The place was cramped with men in suits packing velvet revolvers endlessly vogue. Their instruments of communication.

Zero hour applauded the bell ringer. It was time to put on my archer attire with bows in my quiver. Unchained my excited animal, turbo in my engine, left the club. Ran into a blind mudslinger, in Braille he showed me a fast way home. With ping pong pulse I climbed the wall. Like a rodent on a Ferris wheel, my vision warped, I fell to the floor. Woke up majrooh in a marjooha, my fate I believe was a thief.
So, the moral of the story as once said by Timothy Leary is “turn on, tune in, dropout”.

And thanks to Bahraini for giving me the opportunity to have a little fun with myself and I on a Thursday night.

1 comment:

scarlettepimp said...

hey bahraini, whatz up with the cameo? get this wrong, you'll be surrounded by soldiers and a pantomime cat.