Kofí AINT HERE…[a painting in words]

…no no no I don’t know this Kofí at all, Kofí who?no don’t know that man at all, i say with a French twang to the words before the five-0 stepped back sizing up the situation on the street to then say: well if you hear from this Kofí as i mentioned it’d be great if you could let me know…it was all logistics from there on in, even to get back into the flat, as i had to watch him carefully walk away down near Broke Walk & then act as if i was picking up a fallen paintbrush, as he looked back one last time…double checking with a chubby stare…when the coast is clear i walked back in whilst thinking about finishing a painting & then sending a txt to Lupita, a short Mexican cohort i met at the top of Homerton…who kept going on about big things being deadly & really really dangerous, you know, she said whilst laughing at me asking her to come see this huge wooden thing at mine…reckon you might enjoy it, it’s a bit hard though…she giggles & the thought of her laughter simmers back to here now…but where am i? where the hell is Kofi actually anyway, he should be down the station now grassing on himself perhaps with footnotes of iphone images of the stuff in all smiles, or selfies with the getaway car’s regs in the back perhaps & with a lady with larger mammeries & a shirt on that reads: juicy couture…though it gets more & more murky in regards to these mean set situations (Alessandra calls it later on)...as we walk down towards Dalston chit chatting & lo & behold it’s the same five-0 (on the beat but mostly off~beat) looking as if he wants a chat…nothing of the sort gov’nor…can’t do that…a little chat could cost me an arm & leg…would need an alibi, as only those really buys a bargain…resulting in a definite inability to gain purchase of that whiskey at three am or worse a portion of chicken & chips…freedom…though he tries sticking to the quote unquote rules & just nods as the lady officer beside him asks what’s up…i faintly hear the five-0 whisper;..we can’t find this Kofi, but something tells me there’s something fishy going on & look at that lass’ huge tits…the lady officer then abruptly hits him on the shoulder now & says: that’s not protocol at all is it? up until that point he had a little credit in the bank, this particular five-0 geezer i soon nickname Skoopta D the PoPo…who’s he think he is commenting about the bird i’m just casually walking with down towards Dalston…freedom…should file a complaint under: THESE TITTIES AINT FREE…~ so i make Alessandra shout: PAULIE, THE PEPERAMI IS NEXT TO THE OVEN CHIPS ! & loud enough so that Skoopta D can hear, which i can tell he then does, as he arches his neck, as if opening a tough page in Das Kapital…the pages when it’s tricky & you start to realise that you’re gonna have to actually put some work in & all that..the harsh reality always hits after you’re woke… like those silly children’s stories that start & end in waking up or sleeping…pesky kids & their delusions…life is hard ! all the imbrogolio of Kofí not being here makes me wonder who the fuck Kofí actually is?!? Though you wonder…all that time on the beat…bobbies on the beat, it seems…& you can’t remotely have a little fun with your fellow officer Skoopta D? A little role play of who’s the big un’, no? A little light arrest before she heads off her night shift…that’s the problem really…observing the law not but not being before the law…Kafka would’ve had a field day in these current times ! riffing about you out there & that there’s really only one of me…instead you’re probably in the Topman queue ~i doubt Sartre had it as good as these young ones now…who ultimately don’t say not nearly a millionth of what Jean~Paul could put in a single paragraph ~ though pretty sure he never had a loada big booty women riding in an escalade through the Champs Elysees ~ “the “thought”, as it’s properly called, is pretty much worthless in the wrong hands…photos rung in an empty four walls where Nietzsche has gone a bit barmy now & Bukowski, who is as just as good as them, scribbling on the walls…(his drawings are some of the best things he ever did, but people rarely mention this or notice much…because they’re busy…or you’re busy…or Kofi, is it? yea he’s busy…

...the Thursday Portrait arrives Oscar Wildian like…just pops out the ether like Jean Cocteau would say…caught on the radio transmission wafting under the stars…we form a kinship but it seems to alter on the Friday night…all the handsome features seem to distort into a new thing…the high cheek bones, & chocolate brown skin now sifting into this rather ugly thing…it’s like Burroughs’ Ugly Spirit is now haunting me here in Hackney as the door goes & Skoopta D calls out: just checking if this Kofi is or aint here, as we just wanna talk to him…perhaps over a McDonalds or the chicken shop round the corner up near Mare Street, perhaps with my sliders on? I would have answered & opened the door to end this farcical palava but i wasn’t sure if i even was this Kofí they’re now mentioning…not according to the self portrait now…it’s all whiskey brown & edgy looking…not nearly as gorgeous as it seemed at first paint…just wet changes leaking into the room, as i sip a stell & casually listen to the kerfuffle at the front door…i hear the same woman officer off the street ask why they don’t try Richard…yeah try Dick, i’d say, maybe it’s that Richard that did it…oops, but did what? Those money printers had nothing to do with this particular Kofí your honor ~ nope that’s the King’s loot & the rest is all legal tender, i reckon…through the peep hole are Francis Bacon mouths & teeth all probing about until they head off…it seems the episodes are mounting now as Al comes down in a fur Jacket that he leaves in the flat…& it becomes all a bit murky when i give into temptation & decide to wear it down to a Haggerston Bar…perhaps try & catch a slice…but it’s the lady officer that is walking about this time…& like all women, she doesn’t allow her curiosity to go unworded…before we know it we’re in a frantically quiet conversation about what i actually do??? Like vocation, i say before remembering the Dalí in the cupboard…she wouldn’t remotely know what it is would she? (or who i now call ‘Roxy’) as she’s mentioning just being off from her shift…i steer the conversation full casual & by the time we're sharing a portion of chips, she’s forgotten her ‘duties’ & instead it seems i’m rogering her on Al’s sofa, up near de Beauvoir…& we’ve then had a chat about this said Dalí as i showed her the painting as if it weren’t real & we were about to shift it to Brandett for, at least a few cool millies ~ love the colour, she comments with big eyes…the detective Gallow’s keeps asking about this Kofí geezer we can’t seem to find & this particular painting…funny that, she says as she puts on her burgundy knickers…she can barely stop laughing when i explain that the clock is supposed to represent ideas on breasts one day taking over the world, to some…what all these double d’s just throwing down the law…she adds in a fit of giggles whilst picking up her badge…you artists are a bloody riot!...though i get back ON THE ROAD…