B-Children

 

I woke up this morning got out of bed and the “sun is shining the weather is sweet * sings bob Marley* make you wanna move ya dancing feet” ! YES! breakfast on the balcony for madame Blaqua.

Whilst sitting on my cheap arse Ikea outdoor setting i couldn’t help but wonder “what on earth is that smell?” no it was not the smell of my pomegranate tea infused with chrysanthemums, nor was it the smell of the rubbish truck going past.

Omg I said to myself I know what it is… It is the smell of INDEPENDENCE!

You know the type where you don’t have you’re parents around nagging you to do you’re chores, telling you  to leave the fridge alone because Africa has put a bounty on you’re head because you’re the reason they suffer in poverty and of course you’re parents are tired of paying levy’s to the Shakazulu tribe to keep you well protected from the mighty ShakaKAHN mafia who live in the black mountains.

Anyhow you get my drift.

I was seventeen when I let go of my parents apron strings eight years later I’m asking myself what would i be if i was still hanging on to those apron strings? I couldn’t imagine what life would be like for me if I was still at home with my parents.

Now I guess you’re all going to flood me with emails when you read this one, but hey no worries I will just forward them on to the complaints department situated in India where you’re complaints will contribute in helping stimulate their economy, give my regards to Apu and tell him to save me a doughnut!

So I guess where all this curiosity has stemmed from this morning is how I have a friend who is in his late thirty’s and still hangs on to his parents apron strings for dear life.

Now before you all get your panties in a twist over how this type of behavior is OK? just know that I am merely sharing an experience that is currently in action and I of course am just the on side observer so my opinions are valid and there’s the red X icon in the top left corner if this is all too much for you. *smiles*

Continuing on with my thoughts of intrigue I would like you all to imagine that you are a parent and you love you’re children dearly and you only hope to see them succeed one day, this is any parents wish as I am sure they all bend over backwards to see a smile on you’re face and hopefully their unconditional love for you inspires you to choose the right course of action for yourself and your life.

So while you are imagining this..imagine you are a parent who is now ready for retirement and you have a dream of one day buying yourself something great just for your pleasure and it has been so long since you have been able to put aside some money for yourself to enjoy a little happiness that you think you deserve…for example you are thinking its definitely time to buy that car you always wanted because walking the cobbled pavements all you’re life has really left you with a pair of crusty club feet.

WELL THINK AGAIN DUMB-ASS!

Because the Shakazulu tribe from Africa is on you’re front door step ready to burn you’re house down because your child has not been paying their bills.

You sigh in agony…*sigh* you consult with all those around you for guidance, you really don’t get the sympathy you so well deserve.

So there goes you’re dream of having that car… and while paying for you’re child’s debt you notice that your club feet have actually fallen off so now you are up to you’re knees walking around like an Oompa Loompa.(Please feel free to Google a pair “Club Feet” if you are a parent and you’re child has financially left you feeling limbless I feel for you.)

So there you have it a little in sight to a story that is in motion from the Blaq-Art diaries.

My note to the B-Children of today, appreciate you’re parents and their hard work for you! love them unconditionally and show a little respect and if possible try to live life in their shoes just for a little while.

Now back to my delicious Birch er.

Good Day to you all!

Blaire Blaqua.

BEURRE NOIR!

Beurre noir

Frappez-les avec moi baisers

Liez-moi avec du vin

Une douzaine de roses rouges

Avez-séché au fil du temps

Seasons honorer les terres

Océans diviser nos mains

Des prières sont dites en vain

Lorsque facebook révèle notre honte

La douleur est le nouvel amour

Mais je me battrai pour toi, mon âme

Même si je tourne en Bubamara un troll

Nous avons un peu de temps

Ignorer mon désespoir

Pour vous ma chérie

Je souhaite que vous étiez ici

Solitaire sont mes nuits

Il me tarde de vous entendre ronfler

Oui, je suis souriante

Pour toi mon corvée quotidienne

Un jour, nous allons aller à la pêche

Et vous verrez

Comment beurre noir complimente mieux un oeuf

Sous un arbre.

Image

Blaire Blaqua.

Bow to the Benign!

Oh how distasteful your remarks are dear great one!

You are the disease that is non progressive

benign is your status as you sit in your office

stagnant and dry like straw

allow me to elaborate about the respect you seek from me

Zero.

Is there a reason?

Why of course dear great one!

The granule of splendor in your earl grey

Has over spiked the insulin within you

Hurry now.

Prick your finger and test for the diabetes

That will never leave you!

Mmmmm diabetes!

Captivated in your cocoon of lard

You’re face pale and smooth like the

Croat who rejected you’re marriage proposal

Calm those dilating pupils

Dear great one

You’re comprehension levels

Are not a prerequisite in this era

That you do not belong

Continue to line the fat mans pocket

mmmmm fat mans pocket!

A quick message from the tumor that hangs off you’re face

RESPECT IS EARNED! NOT GIVEN!

BENIGN IS YOU’RE STATE

I BOW TO CONGRATULATE YOU!

Blaire Blaqua.

Bitch Booster

Irritated

Constipated

And Masturbated for you.

Insidious marks the spot X like a pirates Treasure

on the periphery of my cranial

exhaling existence

there it sits “damaged”

precision and perfection.

Menthol inhalation of intoxication

is what my last fourteen dollars

brought me.

Skinny is the model

but there is no apple in these jeans

to be seen.

Turkish coffee you are evil!

like you’re inherited nose

irregular on the face of that

Italian mother

who feeds her husband those

flavoursome meatballs

swallow and savour

textured minced meat “Dear Sir”

“I concur”

the cow appreciates

the speed of you’re mastication

indicating the level of your experience

in the bedroom.

Blaire Blaqua.