I guess it's not so much poetry as it is flowing, see
but the motions breeze by like newly oiled old machines,
I guess, the caterpillar ate the butterfly up again
because with another guy trying to hear you (come again?) I'm much less likely to run again as the sounds of the drums come down again
so how's it then? When the spikes of the old order reprise the sounds again when the boom bap bible remains unquestioned.
Is it really all right to impede natural selection
when the clear choice can hear noise?
The old dear boys breaking out they old Royce and driving again?
I call it silence again,
but if a river has no fish than what is its purpose?
If a flow has no life does its owner deserve it?
If a law is not natural can it even be perverted?
Is there a murder?
And if there is, who's the victim?
Other than the thousands of syllables that never escaped the kids' lips,
so impose if you must, but when you are flushed?
Down the drain? Be a man and take the plunge.
The last thing this game needs is walking corpses,
and this is not Red Dead Redemption so hold your horses.
See, the only language the boy speaks is Gun,
but you'll find he's quite eloquent in his native tongue,
so if you choose to provoke him, you must run.
And if you trip and fall your days are done.
And we are that gun-toting toddler, but we can walk now, and we can talk now.
So if you choose to rise against your new insect overlords you will be knocked down.
This is for the summer's war survivors, the comets and the atoms in the Hadron Collider.
This is for the water striders
and the fish that eat them, this is for admitting you need a long weekend.
Is this madness and is this evil?
Is this the preacher's son or is this a demon?
Is this Aesop Rock or A$AP Rocky?
Either way, don't lay back cocky.
Because the Blue Oni can only wait so long
before he seeks out and devours all but the strong.
So we need a new song. A song of genesis,
a thesis so strong it can serve as a nemesis.
Because artificial chains have been placed on the natural order
and this is not a restaurant, this is Sparta.
But what if the hierophant returned even stronger?
What if the darkness was cast longer?
What if we could no longer hear?
What if those aren't contacts, and his eyes are just dilated in fear?
Can we the people enter the church steeple and murder the church's evil?
Can we really build steam from a grain of salt after all?
Can this really be the last casting call?
Will the world end? Will we be impaled on the hands of Big Ben?
Is this odd future our own, or just a reflection?
Should we embrace it or should we reject it?
If the punks and the artisans courted, what then?
Is an esoteric blueprint a bad thing or a good one?
Can we fire salvos into the sun?
Are we done here? Or will we just run here? Will we die here or fly here?
I need some damn answers and I ain't gettin' any,
so like I think you should I think it's time for me to get ready.
Beginnings beget beginnings and this one is mine,
a galaxy made of iron and a steel bar sign.
There are no crackheads, just stacked ends,
back again for the end of the milennium.
Two-triple-zero has long since past us,
but I feel like we haven't catched up.
Still mad? Fuck, we're the maddest of the mad ones.
The sad ones.
The flack guns.
The ones they fire in our direction.
Cannons of lightning and mad introspection.
I am the man who lives inside the snare drum and makes the sound when you bang one.
I am the Doctor.
Time traveler. Rhyme raveler.
Unwinder with the sundial.
One chance, one left, one hand.
What man? You don't understand?
Lynchian interlockings with mad patterns and stitches like stockings
but when the man on the door comes knocking I'll be reclining on the couch with a shotgun to pop one.
Right in his dome
to send him back home.
Fuck a throwback, the sole skullboy is so picture perfect he's fucking Kodak.
this is the return of the snake men who shake playpens.
Cuz kiddies, this is not the kind of day that you want to stay in.
I get it snappin' like crayfish.
But you and yourself?
You are Kanye West. Gay Fish.
Insane shit. Stained Glass Painting.
But it's not really raining.
At least not yet.
It's more of a drizzle
and I'm here to drop acid raindrops to make your skin sizzle
when I get you wet.
I mean to burn off, cuz I'm turned off by your derp drops.
You burn soft.
I'm hotter than Helios. God of the Sun.
I'm a ghostwriter with no real writer to ghost for,
you're a writer in desperate need of a ghost to make your normal paranorm.
But when you hear the thunderstorm you'll wish for a parasol,
cuz my liquid ichor spittin will leave you with a scattered soul.
The sole skullboy turns on, boy are you fucked.
I will run you down with eight separate forces like two trucks.
The insect overlord, the skull god. So odd that I'm Illmatic like Nas.
You're just a bad fad and a lost cause. So get gone.
So when you decide to bite the food that you're hallucinating
I suggest getting down to the line and stop procrastinating.
If you're going to paraphrase a letter that was never written
you should really stop spittin' and keep it together like a rivet.
Simply? It's this shit.
there once was a racist old bigot
who was cursed to the form of a spigot
he was then gifted to hippies
who found the whole matter quite trippy
who said "it's not ironic, but okay, I can dig it"
What's that you say, Tiger? You wanna be WARPED INTO THE MINUS WORLD???
Beauty is Her breasts HerHer breasts, of course,
this is long but it is worth it to read
gregory corso - "marriage"
Should I get married? Should I be good? Astound the girl next door with my velvet suit and faustus hood? Don't take her to movies but to cemeteries tell all about werewolf bathtubs and forked clarinets then desire her and kiss her and all the preliminaries and she going just so far and I understanding why not getting angry saying You must feel! It's beautiful to feel! Instead take her in my arms lean against an old crooked tombstone and woo her the entire night the constellations in the sky- When she introduces me to her parents back straightened, hair finally combed, strangled by a tie, should I sit with my knees together on their 3rd degree sofa and not ask Where's the bathroom? How else to feel other than I am, often thinking Flash Gordon soap- O how terrible it must be for a young man seated before a family and the family thinking We never saw him before! He wants our Mary Lou! After tea and homemade cookies they ask What do you do for a living? Should I tell them? Would they like me then? Say All right get married, we're losing a daughter but we're gaining a son- And should I then ask Where's the bathroom? O God, and the wedding! All her family and her friends and only a handful of mine all scroungy and bearded just wait to get at the drinks and food- And the priest! he looking at me as if I masturbated asking me Do you take this woman for your lawful wedded wife? And I trembling what to say say Pie Glue! I kiss the bride all those corny men slapping me on the back She's all yours, boy! Ha-ha-ha! And in their eyes you could see some obscene honeymoon going on- Then all that absurd rice and clanky cans and shoes Niagara Falls! Hordes of us! Husbands! Wives! Flowers! Chocolates! All streaming into cozy hotels All going to do the same thing tonight The indifferent clerk he knowing what was going to happen The lobby zombies they knowing what The whistling elevator man he knowing Everybody knowing! I'd almost be inclined not to do anything! Stay up all night! Stare that hotel clerk in the eye! Screaming: I deny honeymoon! I deny honeymoon! running rampant into those almost climactic suites yelling Radio belly! Cat shovel! O I'd live in Niagara forever! in a dark cave beneath the Falls I'd sit there the Mad Honeymooner devising ways to break marriages, a scourge of bigamy a saint of divorce- But I should get married I should be good How nice it'd be to come home to her and sit by the fireplace and she in the kitchen aproned young and lovely wanting my baby and so happy about me she burns the roast beef and comes crying to me and I get up from my big papa chair saying Christmas teeth! Radiant brains! Apple deaf! God what a husband I'd make! Yes, I should get married! So much to do! Like sneaking into Mr Jones' house late at night and cover his golf clubs with 1920 Norwegian books Like hanging a picture of Rimbaud on the lawnmower like pasting Tannu Tuva postage stamps all over the picket fence like when Mrs Kindhead comes to collect for the Community Chest grab her and tell her There are unfavorable omens in the sky! And when the mayor comes to get my vote tell him When are you going to stop people killing whales! And when the milkman comes leave him a note in the bottle Penguin dust, bring me penguin dust, I want penguin dust- Yes if I should get married and it's Connecticut and snow and she gives birth to a child and I am sleepless, worn, up for nights, head bowed against a quiet window, the past behind me, finding myself in the most common of situations a trembling man knowledged with responsibility not twig-smear nor Roman coin soup- O what would that be like! Surely I'd give it for a nipple a rubber Tacitus For a rattle a bag of broken Bach records Tack Della Francesca all over its crib Sew the Greek alphabet on its bib And build for its playpen a roofless Parthenon No, I doubt I'd be that kind of father Not rural not snow no quiet window but hot smelly tight New York City seven flights up, roaches and rats in the walls a fat Reichian wife screeching over potatoes Get a job! And five nose running brats in love with Batman And the neighbors all toothless and dry haired like those hag masses of the 18th century all wanting to come in and watch TV The landlord wants his rent Grocery store Blue Cross Gas & Electric Knights of Columbus impossible to lie back and dream Telephone snow, ghost parking- No! I should not get married! I should never get married! But-imagine if I were married to a beautiful sophisticated woman tall and pale wearing an elegant black dress and long black gloves holding a cigarette holder in one hand and a highball in the other and we lived high up in a penthouse with a huge window from which we could see all of New York and even farther on clearer days No, can't imagine myself married to that pleasant prison dream- O but what about love? I forget love not that I am incapable of love It's just that I see love as odd as wearing shoes- I never wanted to marry a girl who was like my mother And Ingrid Bergman was always impossible And there's maybe a girl now but she's already married And I don't like men and- But there's got to be somebody! Because what if I'm 60 years old and not married, all alone in a furnished room with pee stains on my underwear and everybody else is married! All the universe married but me! Ah, yet well I know that were a woman possible as I am possible then marriage would be possible- Like SHE in her lonely alien gaud waiting her Egyptian lover so i wait-bereft of 2,000 years and the bath of life.
I didn't even bother spacing this one out, most of the rhymes are so slant they're impossible to see.
this one is for Minnie, simply cuz she's the quickest to ever get me, let it be--The Beatles--cuz she's a cheater and a schemer, more importantly psychopathic with a ratchet or more like a knife so you'd better watch it,
look, they would've welcomed you to the NHK anyway but conspiracies are for freaks and pussies so for one last time lock your looks, please. Stop talking and start walking take a stick around the outline and start chalking. Turned out to be the girl of my dreams about dying, felt like I was flying, but she was just lying. Conniving, trying to stab the butterfly's wing, so if you see a two foot tall stick sickly bitch with thick black hair I'd suggest running rather than stopping to stare, the girl's not what she looks like especially not when she pulls out a big knife. So think twice. I recommend booking a long flight before you end up sleeping a long night.
so when you're lookin to turn the conniver crooked while she's trying to write a book on what she's doing with her hooks in your lips, well....that's your prerogative.
I woke up with this in my head today, don't really know what it means:
we spoke one last timesniveled last goodbyesbefore the blinding flashthat infernal lightset us all afirewe lived longwe lived wellwe had no regretsexcept maybe onethat we never founda way to survivebeing razed by the morning sun
"Myth Over Miami"
This one's for the children who tell secret stories every dayof a God who fled screaming and exiled angels in the Evergladesof a Devil who resembles a silver-gold snakebut turns demonic burgundy when touched to a lakethis is for the children who really believe in demonsswear by their very souls that they've actually seen 'emthis is for the kids who tremble in fear of Mary Bloodywhose eyes drip the black ichor of the underworld or somethingand these kids will tell you that the Mary from which they runis the very same Mary who once bore God's sonthen violently murdered him and was cursed to becomea demonic horror story that doesn't wither in the Florida Sun
through it all these children have exactly one allyone single soul who is always on their sidea woman in a blue cloak with blue skinwho physically cannot even help themand yet the children love her like a motherspurning the advances of any would-be corruptors
and right there is where I stopped writing
I don't really know what this means, but I wrote it so...I don't know. I get weird when I'm sad.
to the lady we have lost tonightwho I have seen by the riverI hope by day your soul has thawedand come from shivering winteron to heart, on to heartnever be my loveon to heart, on to hearta kiss, from above
we the sung ones now do seethe way the ones forgotten 'neeto soul, to stab, to live, too longfor one more day, thine angel's song
for yet another than the light in the citymy lady has come and gone for yet another come too long
by day, by night, by one moon's lightby night, by day, thy passed awayleft alone one night....please come home....
Yeats - The Collar-Bone of a Hare
Would I could cast a sail on the water Where many a king has gone And many a king’s daughter, And alight at the comely trees and the lawn, The playing upon pipes and the dancing, And learn that the best thing is To change my loves while dancing And pay but a kiss for a kiss. I would find by the edge of that water The collar-bone of a hare Worn thin by the lapping of water, And pierce it through with a gimlet and stare At the old bitter world where they marry in churches, And laugh over the untroubled water At all who marry in churches, Through the white thin bone of a hare.
Eleanor Wilner - High Noon at Los Alamos
To turn a stone with its white squirming underneath, to pry the disc from the sun’s eclipse—white heat coiling in the blinded eye: to these malign necessities we come from the dim time of dinosaurs who crawled like breathing lava from the earth’s cracked crust, and swung their tiny heads above the lumbering tons of flesh, brains no bigger than a fist clenched to resist the white flash in the sky the day the sun-flares pared them down to relics for museums, turned glaciers back, seared Sinai’s meadows black—the ferns withered, the swamps were melted down to molten mud, the cells uncoupled, recombined, and madly multiplied, huge trees toppled to the ground, the slow life there abandoned hope, a caterpillar stiffened in the grass. Two apes, caught in the act of coupling, made a mutant child who woke to sunlight wondering, his mother torn by the huge new head that forced the narrow birth canal. As if compelled to repetition and to unearth again white fire at the heart of matter—fire we sought and fire we spoke, our thoughts, however elegant, were fire from first to last—like sentries set to watch at Argos for the signal fire passed peak to peak from Troy to Nagasaki, triumphant echo of the burning city walls and prologue to the murders yet to come—we scan the sky for that bright flash, our eyes stared white from watching for the signal fire that ends the epic—a cursed line with its caesura, a pause to signal peace, or a rehearsal for the silence.
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