Jimi Hendrix Cheated On Queen Elizabeth

I hate black, nothing worse than lacking slacks. Don’t tell me it’s fancy. World fell in love with feeling lousy. In regards; I, I, and I, never lie. Truth be told, when my father died, I wore what a terrorist without a plan wears, strapped to 99 Red Balloons flying over the Empire State building. I was a Woodstock child. Remember being told the story thousands of times. Each time my father slightly adhered to plagiarism, changing story plots into dramatic routes engineered by slaves escaping behind Harriet Tubman leading to safety. My father who looked as close to Jimi Hendrix as Jimi looked to Hendrix? My father’s hair was an overabundance of knowledge, ears commanded wisdom to listen. If you ever watched a small blip slowly glide across the sky, as a plane flies closer and closer to its destination. The mass of an object becomes clearer and clearer. My father’s hair admired collegiate athletes who ran 40 yard dashes faster than white counter parts. It was an amazing plot destined for Hollywood spy greatness, but failed at sustaining itself because lack of proper care and affection.

Each time my father sat upon his throne. Chair bought and shipped from England. I was told it savagely ravaged, stripped, decoded bugs, taken as a message. Some time ago, my father was introduced to Queen Elizabeth. Romantic relationship hidden from general perception. It ended in a royal spat. Queen Elizabeth caught my father in the middle of intercourse with several maids. My father grabbed the nears silk sheet. Wrapped it around his waist and ran. It didn’t take long for feet to gather speed. He found his escape, the nearest automobile. From papers I read, my father worked for the U.S government as a ‘consultant’. I was told by my father, he hardwired the Queen’s car. Drove it into the nearest bank. England’s Secret Service searched the river bank for days but never found the body.

So, my father’s eyes were similar in relationship to Cleopatra’s eyes. Dead accuracy, mere coincidence to Jimi’s cleverness, glimpse of insanity and a stroke of genius confronted by teeth touching the guitar and strumming strings. Never understood why father kept his moustache. It was not thick but particularly slim. It was half an inch in width, crept along his top lip like a ballerina creeps silently along hardwood floors. My father’s attire never reached outside the Renaissance, wore purple and pink British attire. Tight socks, wigs, and dressed to impress. If you ever seen the clothes Hendrix wore; frivolous frivols and outrageous textures meant for a woman’s touch. It had produced multiple children but I was his favourite.

As my father sat straight, never slouching. He started out with his quest for unqualified greatness. His footsteps along the Woodstock grass. His hand graced cover of stages. He witnessed the love of his life’s oxygen escaping from lungs. It was the summer that ended his quest for sanity. In due time, enough Coke, call it Speed, Oxy Cotton, bomb Weed, he had done enough to hurt prideful arrogance. After such a long ride of being tossed from service. In actual reality, he had escaped life all together. He was a maniac of honour, believed in ghosts and disappearing. My father set his eyes upon this woman of sorts; wasn’t sure if it was a woman or lady of eternal grace and resurrection? It was the type of woman Hendrix had with his guitar, or the type of love Ray Charles had with his piano. It was similar to the love radicals have with bombs. What religious folks have with books? The type of love stone heads have throwing rocks. What cops have arresting Black people? This was the type of love my father had with intellect finding contraception for knowledge; his perception would release irises and prized viruses. Not sure if desire matched perception; but love was true love. As happiness became attributed to lifelong tendencies. His love continued after I was birthed.

If you hadn’t learned anything from my father; his wayward attitude crept along lines of upsetting fools, causing laughing stocks of politicians crying tears. Evidently, causing senators to suffer seizures, recline from receiving benefits, etc. His attitude of sink or swim; swimming deeper in order to receive news under aquatic levels of diversity. Sink or swim not a motto; it was an argumentative essay embarking on journeys revolutionizing Lord of the Rings. So, when my father passed out, his story seamed itself into private areas of his mind. Fitting with his story embarking on finding the correct ending without plagiarizing. This short story starts out at the funeral meant to mourn but in services and words it was a celebration of masses and shady characters. So many people happy he was dead, glad his vision of controlling territories based on common interests will not succeed. Many of the attendees wore black suits, dresses, and high heels. Never understood the concept of pretending to be taller, wearing heels, intending on taking a gentleman home. It was an easy score for those holding multiple Switzerland accounts. Young women intertwined and taught by older women to self-promote; otherwise I would have stayed away if I had no other choice but to attend my father’s burial and reception.

I was searching my closet, half my life. Born 91, retired multiple batters and crafted bats for protection in case enemies arrive. Hadn’t realized my father was old enough to be fathers of presidents. His facial features and ability to evoke tyrant qualities condemned old age; it was ironically tender and grasped roots of Gaddafi, didn’t need plastic surgery, only a child of good looks and luck from above. I hadn’t any clothes my father would respect, so I entertained my father’s closet.
His room reminded me of the first time I brought a woman home. His response, physical features, how he stood and reacted to what slowly walked through the arch of our living room. My father’s bedroom door silent, golden brown; neither rough nor tough but gentle. Ordinarily tender but scratched, sharp spheres and clever teeth embarked on sheer rage within parameters assigned. His bedroom door proud. When I brought my girlfriend over to meet my father. His fists unclenched, eyes drenched with tears, sheer confidence, nothing could walk through our home, if it hadn’t broken modern scales of beauty.

As I opened his bedroom door, his bed made. Outline of his body casually protruding from covers. He laid on his side, willing to hide his 45 under his pillow. Sheets of purple and pink. Never understood modern stereotypes. Remarkable stories of why purple and pink glorified beauty, always responded with silence if accused of homosexuality; kept secret every major female porn-star from his generation and ours. His wallet, keys, and identification laid perfectly centre on his dresser. Not moved nor touched by inspectors. My feet traced the floor, fish swam underneath watching my eyes please funeral processions. All eyes on my father but soon his eyes would be swaying alongside the beat of Woodstock.

His closet opposite of his door. Hinges made of hollow bark. Not wood but grass. Handles made from Jamaican roots. Green texture hardened from years of crystallization. No smell but covered all spectrums of flower blossoms and escort perfumes. Smells used when one night stands hurl thousands of dollars out of businessmen pockets. Sultry seduction of roses and drugs meant to knock out heavy men. My hand grasped handles not strong enough to bare my father’s history hidden beneath textures of clothes. As I slowly opened each compartment. Revisiting the Vietnam War as my father worked alongside the Vietnamese killing alleged American heroes. His role in the Civil Rights Movement, videotaping the death of King and Malcolm X, both the outcome of FBI assassinations; Prophets of colour. His clothes hung, placed perfectly. Not creased nor edged.

I searched through his wardrobe, found my way to the cleverest of performances. Leather skin tight pants colour of purple and pink 70’s disco. Design of circle eights vertical seams. Shirt pure silk encrusted jewels and emeralds. Slit down the middle so your chest hair felt and touched by hands of women who love speaking dirty. Glasses set aside long the upper right portion of the closet. Not stars but Ray Charles hiding behind lenses. His hair placed perfectly; my hair matched genetics of apologetics. The funeral about to start and I narrowly performed dress-up. I was getting dressed, heard a knock at the door. It had been an old friend, family member, or, an officer of the law. I locked my father’s door and motioned to the closet. I remembered, my father played a prank. Disappeared while I was child. Desperately searching for father, I fell into his closet, bumped my head. I woke up in the garage, my father holding me in his arms.

I made way to the garage dressed in father’s clothes. His car an Oldsmobile. Purple and pink matching the wardrobe. The funeral held at the funeral home of our great Aunt. My father a man of secrets and family affairs. I parked the car and arrived. I heard men and women shouting inside. Placing the keys upon the passenger seat. I opened the door of the funeral home, made my way into a badly scented hospital scene. The casket placed in the centre of the room; unlike my father, he sat back against the wall so his eyes met the entrance of every room. My shoes hitting the floor, making noise, Jimi returning to life. A few heads turned as I made way to my father’s casket. His hands dark, cold, and wet from lotion applied by the caretaker.

‘Father I am here. I borrowed your clothes.’ As I finished my introduction, someone’s hand was placed on my right shoulder. Without hesitation I twisted his or her wrist. They had fallen on the floor and screamed in agony. ‘You broke my wrist,’ someone said. I replied, ‘aren’t you observant? I don’t like people touching me.’ I turned back towards my father, ‘See you soon.’ I turned around, took off the glasses; individuals from the crowd hadn’t anticipated witnessing a crime scene. I started, ‘Someone in this room killed my father.’ As I waited for women in black dresses and skirts to speak of prostitution; doors of the funeral home opened. Without dismay, Queen Elizabeth walked into our funeral celebration. As I turned my head to face my father, his body disappeared and I was staring into an empty casket. Before I could turn towards the crowd, in front of me, I heard my father’s voice. ‘When it is time to rest. No one will reject.’


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