| (no subject) |
[Jan. 11th, 2006|11:29 pm] |
The door at the end of the hall's got a curious orange glow leaking out from underneath, and the deep thrum of bass can be heard from the stairwell at the opposite end of the floor.
As you get closer, the laughter of two ladies can also be heard.
You don't even hafta knock, brotha, the door's open. The fine black mama's bent over riflin' through some records and Shady's draped over the edge of one of the purple couches, messing with the shag carpet and smoking something out of that pipe of hers.
Something funky-or-other's blazin' out of the stereo and Cherry occasionally calls out a name to Shady, who says yay or nay by either wigglin' her hips or making a rude noise. There's alcohol everywhere - small bottles, large ones, several flasks and a glass of something that's smoking on the table, courtesy of the hot elf. There's a good deal of grass here and there, if you look carefully, and that's both of their stock.
The party's just started. |
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 6th, 2005|09:47 pm] |
The floor is far more crowded than usual for a weeknight due to the intense heat that makes the asphalt shimmer during the day and the kids pry the hydrants open on every street. The rink's the only place with real air conditioning and beats to satisfy any Funkateer's desires, and there're plenty of them groovin' in the rink tonight.
Couples together and singles weaving in and out, hands on hips and rump to rump, as the Funk pounds from the speakers and everyone skates on the One. It's a blur of colors and beat and laughter and fine brown skin and whirring wheels as they give it up to Starchild and the Docta out of Placebo and into the realm of the Pleasure Principle.
Oh now we'll be peckin' lightly, like a woodpecka with a headache, cause it's cheaper to Funk than it is to pay attention, ya dig??
There are all sorts of brown-skinned honeys to catch the eye of any man, but there's one in particular who's the center of many attentions. A pair of denim cutoffs that hug a fine rump and curvy hips may be the first thing the brothas see, or a healthy set in a faded blue t-shirt made soft by many washings. Bobba's got a perfect fro and the hoops in her ears catch the light as she floats by, hands in back pockets and a pink bubble set between full, smiling lips. The entire picture melts down into long, muscular legs in the required tube socks and battered brown skates.
"Girl ain't got nothin' I ain't seen befo'," 's what some may say, but look closer. Chocolate ain't enough to describe the color of her skin, velvet and smooth. Long fingers drape out of those pockets and occasionally come up to add balance to a turn or adjust the headphone halo on our Funky angel's head. She's skatin' to a groove not found in this joint - maybe not found anywhere around here, cause it comes from higher than the DJ podium and higher than the tallest building in Harlem.
Beamin' directly from the Mothership, our lady's reveling in some pure P-Funk power from her friends partyin' up in the cosmos. She crosses over effortlessly, skating like she walks down the street each day. Weaving in and out of everyone else and glides to her own stride and puts the dip in her own hip. She's hot, she's bad, she's Funky, she's fresh, she's all that and more with nothing but a smile on her face and a boogie in her booty.
Sit back and watch, fellas. This girl doesn't come around here often enough for many to know her name or even where she's from, but she's a sight when she does. Never skates with anyone else but she's always got a word for somebody who's lookin' or anyone who needs a hand.
She's 1979 and yet she's timeless. You get the feeling that you've seen her before, on some street or in some club, decked out in sequins or tippin' a fedora at a brotha, buying groceries or singing in a choir. And maybe you have, but it's hard to say.
So all y'all gotta do is breathe in some of that funky power and watch her move, and then get on up and add your own to the Miz on the floor.
Make my funk the P-Funk ... I want to get funked up!
Turn your head for just a moment and you'll miss her whiz by, eyes closed in pure bliss as she sways to the divine beats. Funk on, her wheels whisper. Funk on, brothas and sistahs.
Open on up to it and groove. |
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 4th, 2005|06:09 pm] |
Sheeit is warrin' up in heah lately, baby. Ain't no party in sight. Girl gotta go all the way out to the Mothaship jes' to find her groove. All dese lines bein' drawn an' shit c'n get yo Funk down if you ain't payin' attention an' ain't nobody takin' dat away from me, fo' sho'.
The heat's keepin' the hustlas off mah street lately which sho' livens the scenery up somethin' good. Ain't nothin' bettah than sweatin' to the groove right on asphalt on dem long summa nights, an' we crankin' the Funk. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jun. 7th, 2005|06:59 pm] |
Took a li'l trip up through time to jam with my brothas in L.A. today, groovin' out to the Funk new style. Wuz nice, dressin' all up like I'm fakin' the Funk an' showin' all dem cats what's up back in Harlem when the groove came from originally, ya dig it?
Not where, bobba, when. 'Cuz cats like Sly and Bootsy and George and Al and all the names spannin' back - Motown and the greats of Soul and Funk - that stuff comes from all around, not jes' one scene. All the scenes. S'all about gettin' togetha and sharin' somethin' a little special with each otha.
Girl wuz trippin' out on her man today, as it is every damn day. I tell her, woman, ain't no "gotta" about findin' a man so long as you jammin' wit the brothas that know how to treat a woman right. Ain't nuthin' shady goin' down on either side an' you got yo'self a mighty fine deal. You keepin' one at a time, 's fine. You don't, it's cool. Work yo' booty on that floor and you find tasty treats to keep ya rollin' right along.
Chocolate-coated, freaky and habit-formin', mmhmmm. |
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| (no subject) |
[May. 30th, 2005|10:49 pm] |
Girl got the skills, yes she do.
Mmmmhmmmm.
DJ wuz spinnin' an' the bobbas got down tonight. |
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| (no subject) |
[May. 27th, 2005|11:24 pm] |
What a fine ass woman like yo'self doin' on a Friday night, dey ask me.
Keepin' dumb drunk-ass fool babydaddies outta mah girl's hair, dat's what.
Sheeit, girl got to learn to take care a'herself 'fore I go off an' she ain't got nobody! Dat kid ain't gonna raise himself, either. No way no how.
Gotta keep the li'l ones in line tomorrow. |
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| (no subject) |
[May. 25th, 2005|05:31 pm] |
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Them disco cats got it all wrong, baby. They tryin' to find their funk an' they jes' not doin' it. |
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