MY little BROWN BOOK

THE RIOTERS: chapter 1

The Boy was barely out of his teens.
From the hotel lobby he could see the "scenes".
A solid mass of chaos spilling into the streets,
the uproar severing the space between desk dames and deadbeats
But work is over and the Boy was cheerful about the seriousness going on
The chants were terrific, the language was strong
And He stepped out amongst them not knowing what would become
Of his innocence after the March was done

The scent of revolution is cranberry and zinc
Worn by a flowered Girl stitched in ink
The Girl was louder than peacetime bombs, and from Her bullhorn Her swollen thunder begs....
Born deaf to The Left, the Boy swept unkept flower tattoos from His eyes, stolen from her legs
She summons his gaze and quiets her tongue, mouthing for him to come
As the rest of the revolution continues to butcher "Redemption Song"

The Boy approaches with the cheap antidote
for silence; He clears his throat
Offering weird weightless words, they float
Into the calamitous footsteps of the Revolt
"Ramen noodle" nerves shrivel in the face of True Beauty
And the Boy becomes aware of this "cotton mouth" Cutie
Why was there fire in the lava leaping from Her lips?
He was a singer but His booming voice failed to eclipse
Those of the daytime dystopian carolers who got high on their own chants
Winding down the paths of commerce like pheromone driven ants
Still the Boy watched the Girl as if they were about to dance
At the heels of every worthwhile Uprising follows a parched romance
So They Both took a second to drink in each other's glance

White noises made with Black voices as well
Faded away long enough for the Girl to tell
The Boy to hold her bullhorn as she put her nappy hair upright
The freckled Female so thin her skin so White
The Boy was speechless but called out with his eyes
They sparkled like pools of weak coffee, shallow cups of lies
The Boy had no real world experience but She was all knowing
He scared away His own stare for fear of his innocence showing
She takes back her loud mouth device and begin blowing

"I'm Candace. I feel and I 'phukken' hurt. I hurt!
Sitting there in their Banker chairs above the Dirt."

Looking up at random windows She grew short
She spat at them from her turtleneck and jean skirt

"I know you're up there! Why don't you share!
You can't be everywhere, We can... so beware!
The People are here!" And then a single tear
Slid through a spray of freckles from a burnt brown eye
Trickling down as if a pinball machine had learned to cry
And the Boy didn't know what most men needed to
But in that moment he stiffened at the size of Her blue
He was a fool amidst the Mindset of the melee
But He grabbed Her hand as She led the way

He shouted whenever and whatever she did
He didn't know what for. He was just a kid
He loved books and cartoons and processed food
His heart was soft and undisturbed, He was a good dude
But He was useless in an idealistic War for he hadn't seen any
waste or action
But on that day, on those rowdy streets, he'd come face to
face with passion
And the Girl recruited the Boy with only a bullhorn and college agenda
She saw His soul through sheepish smiles and adjusted His antenna

When all hell broke loose the Two of them remained peaceful
Despite the tornado of flesh releasing Beast Men in a creep show
Packs of looters and destroyers of shops
Screamers of threats and sadistic Sirens of cops
The Bankers pressed their windows as the Dirt grew impatient
With their hive-minded rampage resembling an ancient
form of retribution through brute force
And the Boy and Girl was swept away in it's destructive course

Their hands released and The Girl was captured by the Craze
The Boy lost in panic, looks for Love in the Movement's maze

But His shiny new companion had been swallowed in Scum
His heart held the weight of buffalo tongues and by the heads to which they belonged
For just a whisper of a clue He'd search for diamonds in dung
More tear gas and no tear mask, the Boy stung with Her gone
Where could She be? Glass bottles were exploding everywhere
Stop looking for Her skin you fool! The Boy searched for hair
For wouldn't Her hair be the landmark given in all Gas Stations
If He were lost and asking directions to Her destinations?
Then a tuft of Her brown mane flurried like beacons to sea men
And a tough Lover's, round-face worried like Deacons who see sin
Hope bit down on His shoulder blades as He rumbled to
Bodies bumped by the Bull jumped, the Boy stumbled through