Kendrick Lamar

 

Disdain sagged in the air heavier than the humidity dripping. I was in a plot of mud at the front of the house, dirty knees and finger nails and shoulders like bread under a grill. He was upstairs on the computer, I knew from the beat that thumped like a headache and the songs that never quite finished before they’d be replaced by another. Somewhere along the line he’d started listening to a lot of that shit. There was a time when all we listened to was Cream and Neil Young and Dire Straits and we’d found this old 45 in a second hand shop with Six Blade Knife on it, and I’d gone down on him for the whole of the B-side.

It made him feel like a man I’m sure. Rap tugged his dick in some way. All the talk of pussy and infidelity and dollar bills. I’d float away into the great abyss when he played it and he’d fuck cocaine girls with big arses in penthouse showers under his eyelids. It was just his way to feel something else, like my thing had become digging rocks out of the garden. We both pretended that the cracking under the earth’s surface and the rush of molten lava oozing and the steam coming from the crater just wasn’t there even though if our eyeballs were cut out and our eardrums were bashed to smithereens we’d still feel every inch of what was happening with all of our being.
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