Thousands die in the Middle East yearly. Ten years after 9/11 Americans still get teary. I still loathe green bottle beer. Ring the alarm more personal freedom dying. Tiring, trying to wrap my head around the ideology of how could we allow the powers that be access to the DMT that our pineal gland secretes or treating intellectual property as a mere commodity. I could play the blame game. Instead I choose to maintain. Check out a nursery rhyme to see what knowledge it might contain. Betty bought some butter but she said the butters bitter and a bit of better butter would make a better batter. So she bought a bit of better butter better than the bitter butter and it made here batter better. Butcher, baker and candlestick makers back in the day when Slick Willy fucked Monica Lewenski’s twat with a cigar, nine months later she gave birth to a Marlboro Lights pack. Ken Starr the Smithsonian wants the blue dress back. That’s the type of man I can respect. One that liked Presidential head behind the Oval Office desk and spent tax dollars on domestic programs like educating the young, sustaining the middle class and playing a mean sax. I ain’t no Democrat but I can still say stay out of Iraq and bring Manifest Destiny back. Not Linda Tripping, but if the senses don’t lie then why do I have two eyes, two ears, two hands and two feet. Shut your pie hole and evoke the 4th power of the Sphinx. What you going to do when commercial truths been reduced to the footprints of towers one and two. Lady liberty’s promise to the huddled masses turned into a migratory mess. I’d give my left arm to ease one minute of harm that Mother nature has had to endure from the legend of the fall to Pink Floyd’s The Wall and beyond. I have lied, cheated and stolen to feel like the paintings of Joe Coleman. No evolution. No escape from this rat race. No matter the idyllic picture the Martian Chronicles might have painted on your brain when you had to read Ray Bradbury back in 7th grade. Let the people consume cake! Let the teens wake and bake! Let the parsley get eaten off the plate! Less waste, more 21 hour work weeks. More corn flakes in the bowl. Would like to buy the world a Coke. but I switched brands to keep the ad men on their P’s and Q’s. Only you can choose what personal info collected by Facebook says about the true you. Become pure mind then you can rhyme lines like: refulgent and coruscate metaphrastic logorrhea called a hoarse voice morphing into Hobson’s choice. Look my song hooks have turned into one hundred page books. Lignified and puerile I’m that type of guy. Not a noveau douche just a dude lost in a fugue composed of X’s and O’s, pimps and the hoes, the secret alien technology knows. Sex magic has taken control, populations continue to grow as the nuclear family’s corpse drops cold and slow as an outmoded social code. I know I smoke too much, use alcohol as a crutch. Since my addictions won’t budge, I’ll sip from caffeine cups expanding my empire with black lungs. Fire in the hills run boy run Devil’s in the house, the sun behind the sun Politicians in control of your genomes Pecking at your soul Run for your life it’s the fall of Rome.

Decoding panties with Dakota Fanning. Granted, I'm no Peyton Manning, when it comes to urban planning. Yet my enchanted cultural jamming can be demanding to those with bad grammar. You hard gee? Not hardly more like Jeff Hardy and Charles Barkley playing hockey on Atari produced by Hank Shocklee. Ungodly malarkey the smooth hollow molly. Drink our fill. Built to spill neutral milk glib. Sitting in with Freddie Gibbs and Mad Lib got dibs on your nibs; flip scripts, sink ships, eat squid, skipped kids and worked mids. Heaven forbid that I slid in like El Cid on a takeover bid for the city of Madrid. Self-esteem teems when you possess big dreams and a scheme team writing reams of seamed themes. Toppling regimes sliced beats and genes like Ed Gein so clean, that Dilla’s ghost gave up on donuts lost hope in blue notes. The corpses bloat then float; missed the boat. Gloat with the throat tropes. Cope with the dope. They write so rote now the only hope to emote is a noose to Norman Bates fashioned from his drapes. Girls gape! Nay they gravitate towards this earthquake, enticing them with Chillwave IPA's brewed by Great Lakes. Escapades escaped in Escalades only to find them feeding me grapes and milkshakes. Balked then squawked so I chalked it up to trench coats and gun scopes. Snug ropes fashioned from pope’s clothes shopworn and outgrown. Heard you piss and moan when I was found home alone enrobed, honing the philosopher stone prone. Her safety zone got blown by my calzone. Went rogue on the bone till the birds had flown. Just Vogue! Disc jockey that folly. You rhyming in cockney that's sloppy. I'm rhyming Nagasaki. Haughty cough coffee posse snobby about carbon copy literati whose prose's potty, foggy, groggy with a volley soggy as kolrabi. In Hobby Lobby sipping sake with femi-nazis listening to Liberachi. Cocky poppy with the paparazzi. The Fonzie of my Old Milwaukee. While the Joanie and Chachis chasing Mazaratis, I'm chasing the illuminati in a broke down jalopy called my body. Embody everybody with the motley origami darkly. Quasi kamikaze mommies like the mariachi. Use to playing zombie now they play proxy to this orthodoxy. I promptly epoxied dodgy matriarchy to a stodgy patriarchy, melting into my melancholy so nonchalant. What do you want? An adjuvant for the gaunt font that you flaunt. What do you see? Absentee emcees driving SUVs so bourgeois. What do you believe? Find a reprieve from poetry conceived from naive seed. What do you need? Reconvene mainstream greed; feed it weed and mead till it bleeds the heresy of disbelief.

Arctic pools sampled from dusty grooves. Now that Run the Jewels is cool to play in schools merchant ghouls behooving dudes to act a fool show and prove smooth moves amuse then moo new clues through the blues I hold true. No lube, just Captain Kangaroo, a boob tube, Elizabeth Shue and Tom Cruise drool booze in matching shoes tattooed new. Gruesome gruel, fueled the flames, chewed stew, sniffed glue with Jason Mewes. Blew blunts and fucked stunts that smelled like drunk skunks. Morphed months as this monk of punk gestated Forrest Gump'slove.  Boo Radley’s pain slain never to write again in the name of games defamed. I'm not a lame; ran a train on acclaim, washed the cum stains off in the rain.  Arctic pools have your daughter home by 2. On the B side got her from behind slid into a 69 in a 6 by 5 have her home by 9, barely alive. Dropped the dime in her spine now the thought crimes evolved in your mind involve her and I reclined listening to Dead Cats tape; as she prays for some mantis DNA. Art school, ratchet too on the tool. Coke nose blown holes and booty bumps slam dunked lady humps. HR Puffin Stuff if he was rough. Jeffry Dahmer bought our coke then went broke killed for sport with choke holds bloody stumps of meat chunks masticating in plastic vats. Organ farms in Wisconsin probably sanctioned by the state. I'm the curse. If the body don't fit the body can fold, now that it's told I understand that troll.

Our shits as greasy as Hispanic stereotypes on American TV. At home eating Twinkies when we should be eating Wheaties. Queasy, sleazy big hearted cabrons giving you the scoop; Frito-Lay chips with the guacamole dip, pierced clits, full clips of fresh shit. You’re moving with Anita and her guapo Juan Perez. You’re moving with Anita and her guapo Juan Perez. Graduate to anal sex in a cantina, over tequila, with Maria. She squealed like a pig: her 5 kids ran and hid. Smoked a cig, you know we done jizzed. Poppy no mas. You got to stop. More cholo than Pedro, your chica’s snorting yea-yo. She yells hey-ho, for the pesos, then stole your wallet in El Segundo. Gringo you got hoed and left with no green card. We see how you act at the bars when you’re drunk on PBRs. Hop in our car. We’ll take you to Mars and spit hot bars real hard in your ear lobes. Vote Los Gatos, Chino’s on Paco, not nacho filled potholes. Cuba Libres to wash it all down; find us shaping sound with cotton mouth 6 blocks from down town, 399 Sherman bound. 40’s while we poop, a dirty Sanchez too. Triple loop de loops 2 litter scoops of metapuke. A rough fast world got our pubes curled, so we rip Cheech and Chong bong hits while jail bates yell rape. We say wait! Got the kitty porn tapes on the sneak tip at Freaknik in the back of Dre’s the beatniks jeep quick; that’s how slick and fit we is. Saying there’s a snuke in our snizz. Chico and the man grew dreads, then walked through the mall. Like Jay and silent Bob, but we both like to talk a lot. Hang out with sluts and Snapchat our skid marked hearts. Either too soft or we care too much. On Christian Mingle.com catch us swapping cock shots with your mom. Damn right we were raised on MTV. Slim Shady’s babies, with rabies, covered in biscuits and gravy. You’re doing the Macarena that you sold to Juan Valdez? You’re doing the Macarena that you sold to Juan Valdez. Uno, dos, tres to the four, Mahorny, Teenwolf coked up Doc Martin’s at your door. 40’s uncouth Ruffies on the roof, chopped and screwed for you. Long on the tooth listening to Ice Cube. We’re not saying cops ain’t cool, but neither was school. Who are we to tell you what to do? 40’s on the stoop let us dumb it down for you. One in each hand so that equals out to 2. Shorties on the stoop, 120 proof, we’re Bon Fire Nation and we’re coming for you.

Paying for sex is the basest of endeavors. When the trick is done I jerk off and get my money together. The sodomy, the oral and the anonymous pleasure are the only emotions that I've felt in forever. Cock hard as a rock with a heart as cold as the weather, within me is apathy and a feeble attempt at being clever. Voyeuristic detached camera lens close ups sever the genital regions of a disposable teenage runway named Sara. Escaped from a small town, another hopeless lost cause. Escaped from the unwanted touch of her father in darkened halls. Escaped to the city, selling her body in exchange for food to eat. Escaped to a concrete jungle that's nearly impossible to breach. I clipped her wings. She crashed and burned. Now she can’t fly away. Her innocence the world will slay, pick a part in my faithless passion play. A nondescript hotel room is where I ply my trade of hate. Forced fellatio muffles Sara's screams of terror and distaste. A pound of flesh is the price she’ll pay to join me in pursuit of my dark sadistic arts, much darker than cell bars or rapist in prison yards. Don't mind me; just want to see what color you bleed. This vampire needs to feed off the lust of your tainted seed. My final wish fulfillment, a lack of human sentiment, has our paths crossing in this hostile tenement. The last act is my iron rod crammed into her small package. Hacking and slashing, death is her body's reaction. Involuntary muscle contractions and uncontrollable spasms as I relinquish my serum, so caught up in my ecstasy, her cries I fail to hear them. We’re both helpless victims of the same cultural sickness. A surreal ghastly laugh track is the only way to end this. This isn’t music it’s a vital part of my survival. Poisonous paths I take make me just like my rivals. Therefore I just don’t write bars, I shatter and bend them as I fight the good fight between valor and venom.