(N.B. Wish we could all brag about being ” that nigga with the hair, poppin’ pills, fuckin’ bitches and livin’ life so trill” but some of us have to pay the bills to see the sun rise one more time, and as if glorifying ecstasy hasn’t been done before, ugh. I just wanna feel the pride Ocean’s mother felt when he got his Grammy).
Run that mouth into the ocean.
I used to have these values,
They bleed into the sea.
Rubbing cocaine on your gums n’ teeth.
Pretending my ex still loves me.
But watch the world drown and of course,
3 rolls of parma violets later,
I’m dragging myself to L12 at 3 am hearing somebody sing “Can’t Feel My Face”
For the fourth time this week
And I think I’m sick.
I put Frank on because A. His hair’s not trying to be something its not.
and B. I like stories and truths and fantasies
And not singing about feeling sorry for yourself.
Meanings of RnB,
That’s why I say
Frank Ocean > The Weeknd.
But trust, none of that actually matters in this poem
I just wanted a title that sounded genuine to this generation
Because if I had called it “The Fresh Green Hills of Yorkshire”
And put a gif up of a landscape
They wouldn’t have looked, so y’know.
I did give The Weeknd a try though.
But somebody should pass a law which prohibits the use of the word “trill” in songs.
Back to how I feel.
The values rolling into the tide, the vowels spewing the foam,
The emotions curdle and I kiss the sand,
I brush his arms with the syllables of every wave rocking into the coves,
But where’s the absinthe to blow away the memories,
Because nothing else works on me, and say what you like,
And we need it, Frank drinks it in ‘Pyramids’. I love his sweatband.
Nobody can blow up squares or inject drugs harder than some of the Fine Art students I know,
“What if my mother came over?”, mate, she’ll join in.
I want 3 mugs of green tea, a labrador and a bag of sugared almonds to get me through this flu
All the while the Atlantic coast smothering my ankles with its saliva.
I remember when all I had was my mother,
And she dropped me into her pool of love and I got brushed into the car
And swept away under the Moon and somewhere far from responsibility
I grew up under a rainbow where childhood never died,
For rainbows to form, it has to rain somewhere.
And my Dad gave me his word
And I mine, that all Earth has to do is show me the way
And somehow the bouncers’ll let me into paradise.
I write and the words bubble and I drink them like poison,
Hearts melt like butter, I stutter at the breeze carrying his smiles
He brushes past in the air
And for a while I am distracted until the night pulls in
And so the tide rubs it salt onto my gums
And so the flat mates rub cocaine onto their wounds
And so the weekend ends and there are oceans of absinthe to drown in,
I am a Fresher and there’s nothing fresh about this experience,
so it becomes a party, soured with separation anxiety, and a distaste for Weeknd lyrics.