My mental window is having a hard time being clean; when I spit freely in front of people the words flow from my mouth like sperm from a man’s balls. When I touch my keys and try to ejaculate my thoughts on the screen, I become mentally impotent. Unfortunately, they don’t make Viagra for my mind my friend. Some would say weed would be the inspiration but instead that just makes me want to play video games and eat Cupcakes; the chocolate kind, with little cream filling. My mental window is covered with sludge; it’s as dirty as Joe Pesci’s mouth. No matter how much I try to clean it I can’t see my way to write something. I’ve stared blankly at this stupid screen for three hours trying to write because I know if I don’t then Chronic will cut off my lyrical balls; and I don’t know how many black people you know, but are balls are important to us. How else are we supposed to get women pregnant and leave them? You can’t do that with a pussy. I guess that’s the benefit of being a lesbian; you never have to worry about if your lover is missing her period that having anything to do with you. I wish I had the words to express that polkadot blanket that is my soul; it has so many colors but I wouldn’t know…the window is too dirty.
The Mental window is your third eye. The one the Buddhists use to have tantric sex with your mind. That window is where we first saw a cross on our lawn, and a man nailed through it looking like he got fucked up worse than Bobby Brown fucks up Whitney. My mental window sees nothing; knows nothing; maybe is nothing. Supposedly, the wise man knows that he knows nothing. Am I a wise man or just empty headed? I can’t tell. The window is dirty.
Ideas usually spring forth from me; my muse seems to have left me. Maybe she went to Amsterdam, leaving me behind to deal with a slowly sobering situation: I am shit without her. I hope she comes back, and cleans my fucking window. If she doesn’t come back, will any of you clean my window? Just be random, have nice tits, and a great ass. Giving a quality backrub would also earn you a raise. Monetarily, and also from my pants. A writer needs a muse like Jesus needed the cross, like Moses needed the commandments, like David needed a slingshot.
C.S. Lewis is rolling in his grave right now. Mark Twain is laughing his fucking ass off though.
Ha Ha fuckers.
My window is dirty. I need a muse. Leave applications at www.myspace.com/negro4lifeent
Inspire me to hail your name to the heavens. Goodnight.
Alexandre (Ale-Shaun-Dre)
The Jesus Christ of Space Funk
and Leader of the Revolution
Written by Alexandre