Sunday, May 21, 2006

It's hard out here for a pimp

“…It's blood sweat and tears when it come down to this shit
I'm tryin to get rich 'fore I leave up out this bitch
I'm tryin to have thangs but it's hard fo' a pimp…”



Only fair, of course, to give the boys a turn. After all, where in the world would we tarts be without our pimps?

[Well, perhaps we should sequester that particular discussion in an annex down a Byzantine little path off the Attic in our glossy.]

Now, for those salonistas who are not familiar with the title we’re referencing, [or at least this evening’s] it’s from a film of some note, and a fine ditty it is. Truly. Those who know me well will know how well and truly I mean the truly.

The hoes might come easy, but no, it’s not all bling and Cristal out here. Would that it were.

Posses, for example. Reassuring, always, to move from place to place surrounded by the usual homies. Nothing like shared history, words and, occasionally, ladies, to lend comfort and endless solace. No surprises, back-up when needed, alibis at the ready.

But they are, by nature, ubiquitous, making it impossible to sneak out for the odd adventure. Not to mention their annoying habit of assuming they know you better than you know yourself, and that nagging sense of being frozen in time, ossified at the age of, oh, 16 or 18, whenever the pack formed.

Then there’s that us against them thing, the filtering of outside evidence through the prism of posse, the fact that some of the older ones really are getting a bit long in the tooth and, frankly, tedious.

But the hoes have become absolutely exhausting.

The younger ones have gotten way too young [some of them can even last for seven hours, and then they still disrespect you]. But the older ones are the devil’s own work. They think they own the street, make you come to them, behave as if they don’t even fancy the bling anymore.

Our hearts go out. Really.

The options seem so limited. One can simply soldier on, slipping further and further into self-parody. Christopher Hitchens comes to mind. And one or two others whom I shall not name.

Blind obsession is another. Raging against the night, caution and wit thrown to the winds. A blaze, most certainly, though not of glory.
Odd, given that what is so often desired - simple understanding, warmth, a heart known and knowing – has nothing to do with immolation, rage or bling. Time, perhaps, to come in from the cold.

6 comments:

Anonymous said...

...another world is possible...

Spark said...

immolation, deep frustration
seeking something
of the fire, of restoration

like al qaeda, cannot free ya
just increase the payback
of the fever

what solution? divine ablution
only through example
can she seize ya

Anonymous said...

higher causes, hellish pauses
always with you as it breathes

ha!

Anonymous said...

Cat in the Hat, redux:

In a wrap or
with a cap
you could find yourself a cat
looking like a new horizon
so imagine my surprise when
here did come a few red rats
in monochrome appurtenance
they snatched the cat and scurried off
like modern day Raskilnikovs

A.

Spark said...

Self indulgent?

immolation, deep frustration
seeking something of the fire,
of restoration

like al qaeda, cannot free ya
just increase the payback
of the fever

what solution? divine ablution
only through example
That can seize ya

higher causes, pregnant pauses
always with you as it breathes
Ah!

Bad assonance - a quest to perfect the verse.

Xx

irlandesa said...

More, really, I want more.

Interior rhyme, seussian homage, devilishly clever reference...

Making it much less hard out here.