The Opiate, Summer Vol. 6
Enheduanna: Rapping With Grandma’s Ghost Malik Crumpler
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ood morning hangover. Where am I? It smells like Old Spice and… This cannot be a man snoring next to me. Don’t panic, your clothes still on. Just open your eyes. Okay, my clothes are on. Thank God. Black on black on black on black. Now what is going on with my breath? What did I eat, rotten cheese and Port? Damn, I must have really turned up last night. What am I, twenty? Just get up and open your eyes. Open my skull is more like it. Why is it so damn hot in this bed? Oh lord, is that perfume I smell, too? Is that a woman breathing? Who are these people? Whose bed is this? I’m too old for this shit… Malcolm? Thank the Goddess, it’s just Malcolm, and what’s her face? What a relief. They’re cute enough. Spooning. He’s drooling and snoring. Now look at her, long stringy blond hair all over his face. Smart face. She’s too boney
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for me though. Chubby face and a skinny body? Not my type at all, but I get it. Good for Malcolm. He shaves now? Wow. He looks like a lighter-skin Obama. She doesn’t look French at all. What does a French person look like anyway? Damn, who’d want to kiss her little Barbara Bush lips. Her face is too young, like a Cabbage Patch doll. Look at those flimsy hands, not a single scratch or a single callus. Bet she never even cut her own nails. Weekly manicures. Precious. She’s not his type. At least not the type he was into. Bet she’s a freak though. I’d turn her out— Oh my God did you hear that? My stomach is a fierce lion. What did I eat? You still drunk, Enheduanna. Don’t I know it, grandma. I just can’t get over this doll house though. The bed barely even fits. All this whiteness is not aiding my plight. White on white on white on white on white. White sheets, white pillows, white couch, white
