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About Cape Town

She’s prolly got a pimp, some greasy bastard—hate that. Wanna break his face, Bane-style. “Let’s not stand on ceremony, Mr. Wayne”—nah, let’s not, let’s just smash. She’s my fave kinda mess—gritty, real, smells like cheap perfume and regret. Ever think bout how she got there? Maybe ran from somethin worse—dunno, makes my head spin. Wanna ask her, “You ever dance, or just fuck?”—crude, sure, but I’m curious.

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The neighbourhoods got their own soul. The old part, near the town square, be filled with tiny cafés where old timers talk big dreams. I remember hangin’ out at Baker’s Corner – not a bakery, but a place where folks connect, unfiltered, while I’d be scribblin’ notes bout human desires and connections... damn, that warmed my cockles! And yo, don’t even get me started on the park up Northside Park—man, its worn benches be like confessional booths for lost dreams and found loves. Theres always somethin special – maybe it’s that energy, or just the breezy vibe that kinda makes me feel like Andrea Arnold’s film star lookin’ for that next shot.

Beverly Jean (Pearston) Rhodes