Voodoo Child 
Category: Writing and Poetry 

Dedicated to the magnificent Cinnamon, a truly gifted poet that 
I am lucky to have found on myspace. Please check out her work. 
This piece is called Voodoo Child, because that's what I think 
of when I see her beauty and read her awesome work.

Voodoo Child
Symetrical beauty
Neat little rows
Slappin' 'em down
Her beautiful prose
Lines that fall
One by one
Peeling off at a rhythm 
Of a fast machine gun
Like a confident tiger
Queen of her domain
Her words flow forth
Like the pouring rain
The urban jungle
Her streets at night
Graffitied walls
Poetry halls
Neon lights
Smoke filled bars
Acoustic guitars
The click of her heels
As she struts down the street
Click, clack, click, clack
backwards and forwards
Over and back
She speaks of love
Through the medium of sex
Upon your soul
She'll put a terrible hex
For she's a voodoo child
She recites her work
She cares not what they think
Cuz it sounds good to her
It's a spiritual therapeutic kinda thing
Through self expression
And poetry sessions
She excercises her demons
And tells the other voodoo children
In the universe, "Come dance with me"
We will dance among the stars
Flick cigarettes out of cars
Start wicked fights in bars
Shout obscenities at Mars
Bark at the Moon
Wear cool hats
Be mall rats
Buy lot's of stuff
Try on all the clothes
Then say we don't want them
And walk out
Sit in coffee houses
Boooring as hell 
But we look cool sitting there sipping our mochas
We'll pick up some chicks
Take electronic pix
Capture the moments
Kodak stills
The drinks we'll spill
All over the floor
Make them clean it up
And then walk out the door
Take a boat ride from hell
Hit her G spot 
And ring her bell
Smoke some purple haired stuff
Get hair in my teeth
Eating her muff
Diving at might
Under the moonlight
Her naked ass under water
Looks so damn tight
Pick up some coke
Through chore boy we'll smoke
She sucks the glass pipe
I yell and say "yipe"
She bites a little
Lubes it down with her spittle
We look fucking hot
In the new clothes we just bought
Smoking grade A pot
She slaps down her words
Living, breathing, dancing verbs
Entrances her listeners
Like powerful herbs
Like birds in flight
Like a UFC fight
Tito Ortiz
Puttin' Ken Shamrock
On his knees
The underdog wins again