She says I'm courting death. She says I play too much. Too much, she emphasizes in anger.
Why?
I was soliloquizing out loud about my epitaph, moving my hands in slow, fluid motions as I imagined the inscriptions, the fonts, the colour(s), the word arrangement of the sentence that was trying to flesh itself out. I still haven't decided if I want a monochrome.
"Here lived a man... No no no... Here lived a madman in a suit and tie..."
I still wonder why she gets emotionally aroused at my mention of death. Babe got red-faced while I laughed. I guess my laughter made her angrier.
Like, it's my death I'm dreaming of o. My own. Aren't you meant to be happy I'm not plotting yours? Scratch that. You absolutely misread that sentence. Trust me. (Lolz)
Oh well. In less than 24 hours after the drama, death tried to sing me a lullaby. The one big mistake the nigga made was how he started the song with the word, "SHE(K)PE"
Davids have a thing with being called "madmen" when it comes to music. So, instead of sleeping, my spiritual dada stretched out in full. Now that I mention "dada", I miss having my dreads. But not so much though. Babe now grabs (caresses) my skull when we fuck...
I missed death by the whiskers. Side mirror to my upper arm. Shattered glasses, dangling mirror, and a shocked driver.
Me? Madman. I pitifully insulted the 'odè' and left him at the spot. Walked away like nothing happened.
Maybe next time, that blasted nigga should sing the revamped Nigerian anthem. Slow as fuck and filled with comical ironies like the country itself. Maybe, just maybe I'll rethink my stay here.
But... I'm a madman in a suit. I love style, even though my lifestyle is a contrasting irony.
So I made a request, that we waltz to an interesting song. Something jazzy. You know? But, my life... I might end up crawling into bed and snoozing into infinity.
White rice and white soup at 1 am... Hah... Clown... You're a "mumu-man." So much for loving style. (Laughs like an idiot fellow).
