[Certain]

Open Mic (collaborations)

Big Apple fanatics. with Mike Wrecka
Posted Oct. 15, 2014

yo
im the awesomest , no one could rhyme better,
im the boss at this, call me Mr. Steinbrenner,
the interlocking letters, atop my New Era,
were forged in a melting pot with true pressure
bow in the presence of greatness,
this dynasty keeps giving gifts, its been so damn gracious,
if you come round here , repping other places,
Ill break your legs like Lawrence Taylor did while wasted,
face it, you lames are just so damn basic,
94 proved, winning is contagious,
refuse to lose, that's how your supposed to live,
go hard on the block, like Charles Oakley did,
when its time to battle, I got unlimited ammo,
as I go to the pen, its Girardi, Mariano,
game over, never sober, love to catch a buzz
taking more shots than Alex Rodriguez does,
am I coming off hyper?, need to mellow out?,
naaa Melo aint out, he just re-signed and bought a bigger house,
and to my rivals , just know that your hate is wack,
cause in the end, I come through, like jeter in his last at bat,
no matter where im at, this passion will never die,
cause till the casket drops im representin NY

I have 27 rings on my middle finger. Feeling specious,
killing speakers with my "luckiest man" chilling speeches.
So clear your bleachers. Certain's known from Flatbush to Bronx.
The islands are mine: I've got Long, Manhattan and Staten ensconced.
Flatten your brims like a quarterback sacked by Yumeniora.
When the madness begins, I retract and come back as a human horror.
You're out of your league. Go back to the minors,
Me? My cash supply is something like Paul O'Neil's bat supplier.
The Cap's retired, but I'm Brett Gardner, getting on first with ease.
Stealing a base, your girl and Curtis Granderson's job security.
The fuck are you thinking? Train's moving. Ride or get off it
or I'll have you passing out faster than Calderon in the triangle offense.
My swagger rivals obnoxious, strut in and boast a grimey gaze.
One look, cowards'll stutter like John Sterling for most of '98.
Sublimely great: The Sultan of Swat, Colossus of Clout.
Smalls'll be taught in all I'm about: calling my shot and watching it out.
Stopping to pose. No autographs please. All the kids want to be me.
Broadway's best: They let me drunkenly kiss married women on TV.
And you? You're nothing to see, please. You're a bastard, a sad urchin.
With delusions of grandeur, you're a bad person — practically Chad Curtis.



Witnessing serpents. with Witty
Posted Aug. 26, 2014

There's only darkness.
Periorbital coils terraforming my face.
The stereo's on. Cliff Burton, tearing chords on the bass.
Death metal brings life to this gloaming.
Striking a tone in my serotonin. Pulsating break beats
that we convulse to. Rain bleeds down the glass,
a mirror into your undulating nape's crease.
Eyes shut.
Aluminum taste creeps onto the tip of my tongue.
Dripping with rum, we're better off skipping the rungs
and falling flat on our faces, swollen from restlessness.
Absolved through our penitence, sorrow and reverence,
but we'll never sleep tight with tomorrow's experiment.

I've read all the text of Jesus, does God possess the thesis?
Or does one hypocritical verse mean all the rest is specious?
Insomnia releases me from the matrix
But makes me wonder out loud if the code's real
I know I can dodge the bullet
But still sweat drips from my brow to the cold steel
He has a grip on my shoulders and a knife in my back
There's no light on the path when you're fighting the past
As I'm searching through my playlist in the hope of finding a track
That will cause my mind to relax, I'm feeling frightened, abashed
Lighting this weed, no point in fighting this grief
When I'll never overcome it, I'm a slave to the lies and deceit
Strangely finding intrigue in how my mind has betrayed my soul
I don't pray for gold, I pray for just one day to escape the cold
That decays my bones, feeling much older than my age
In real life I'm quiet, I'm much bolder on the page
Crippled by the weight on my shoulders from the rage
As I beg my mind to readjust....now here goes another phase
I change addictions like underwear, addicted to nothing but addiction itself
In my youth writing was my life, I felt like diction was wealth
But how can I make people like my writing when I'm sick of myself?
So I write a few lines upon the page and then it sits on the shelf
Because I can't decide who I want to be, it's ridiculous...help!
I feel like a prisoner but the prison's in stealth
Only I know it exists, it's only me who sits in these cells
All because a bitch told me she'd be with me in sickness and health
And then taught me that people really only think of themselves
Insomnia speaks to me, he tells me she cheated me, he is my only friend
I have to stay awake, because together we will never be alone again.

Embers bleed. Coals repent. The fire speaks to lonely men.
Retired, weakened. Lies and preaching.
Wires weaken, fold and bend,
but this marionette remains high-strung and tightly wound.
I'm lost. I might be found. But it won't be by a righteous crowd.
It won't be by a burning bush. First we took the light from town,
then we walked along the path, jotting every sight and sound.
But nothing ever mattered.
Nothing but your broken promises.
You dust me off with top-button scoffs and cold-shoulder politics.
Kisses soaked in collagen. Dismissive, but I fled before it.
The sun rose. The chain bridge crossed the river to a better morning.



Champagne. with Malachi
Posted Aug. 23, 2014

Plat plaques in my grasp, what more of could I ask?
Rap on my back and shit aint even spraining my spine
Shits reallly been straining on my mind
How now Dimes just aimin for my dimes
Used to be I couldnt find a quarter of they time
to spend but now Prophet got signed like a check
and this brown skinned Penny's scent round my pent startin to make sense
but fuck it tho...
Shit still aint changed
Still tryna stay sane or maybe play sane n maintain
Still tryna lessen the stressin, countin my blessings
but its hard steppin in the Right direction when you Left in depression.
Depressing how the press and the media just gettin greedier
to catch a nigga slippin, envision me trippin
On a mission to see me go missin, but shit it was written
so know I dont stiffen nor listen
i keep distance from these vultures, fake as sculptures
That only speak to wet they beak but was countin sheep
when I was beneath my peak but deceit is whats expected for certain
Serpents lurk and slither, watching my figures like anorexics
urging for me to get withered out the picture
They get scissored out it quicker
but fuck it tho I aint had shit handed to me but malice
MY palms been calloused
I practiced my practice and went from Styrofoam to chalice
Now departed from apartments I go home to lavish
but still cant find room for balance in this palace...

...15 minutes later...

Squandered a heap, the hardest defeat is looking back.
Smart on the streets. Booked with rap, carved up the beats
but never quite built a presence. Time filled the crevice.
Now marking my dreams as past lives. Flashlights
only make it harder to see as the darkness sparks my deceits.
Lying to friends, trying to find time to make ends.
Studio called me last week. Asked for my card and my key.
Locked out of the game, discarded. The final pretend,
threw my chain off a bridge. Watched it sway in the wind,
but the weight on my neck stayed heavy. Patience is thin.
Career emergency brake. Unnervingly pace
around my studio apartment, imagining the way that it ends.
Paying the rent when your coffers are empty,
after paying for friends to order lobster and Henny.
Burnt up. Burnt out. The latest greatest emcee to disappear.
They say, "It's criminal what the game did to you,"
but who's the victim here?



Meth is everything wrong with this world. with Figurative
Posted Aug. 16, 2014

FIGURATIVE
@Meths been a bitch since his parents split
in a terrible car crash. they were ripped in half.
the carnage..
@Meth cried till his eyes were red as his bleeding puss
though the red seeped in his features, leaving him with this... evilish look.
like a devil or a demon clown. can you see it now?
a sobbing, heavy breathing, stout teen getting the reach around.
degrees emanating from his fire crotch fry entire blocks.
his pubes aint even red. its just the chaffing from his nightly walks
in trash bag suits. what an ass hat. proof
that he's pussy to the bone's what the cat scan proves
such a class act douche. he's got a library card
that he keeps in his ass because his dumb ass cant read

CERTAIN
Redheaded stepchild. Literally. @Meth is the worst bitch.
Adjectives can't capture this nerd, but let's settle for "worthless."
It all started where it always does, trapped in the closet,
@Meth tries to match his carrot-colored pubic hair with fashions from Target.
He went to school in an traffic cone, bespeckled in orange,
and blamed the wardrobe for why he was heckled in art class
rather than taking a look at his sketches of penis envy.
"I just like drawing dicks, Dad!" The sex was demeaning, empty.
He took tips at the truck stop. Glory hole circuit, becoming the best,
Two at a time. One in the mouth, one in the left, all while thumbing his text.
Yeah, he won Time to Kill IV midgag with a thumb in his rectum.
First he got the money from all the sex. The power? Knucklehead blessed.
But with that fat fucking freckle-face, even crackwhores want none of that @Meth.



Torture papers. with trap and Lars
Posted on Aug. 3, 2014

an unstoppable force captured the essence of my being
so i chartered a course & masked the questions that were reeling
in my thought process, released my heart in jest
expressed the need to exceed past the dark arch-es
on a torn parchment, my own blood on the quill
i wrote immense rage on the pages still my love ran still
named them the torture papers for its obvious reason
deranged in the brain for the remaining season
battled tremendous odds, yet maintained the same even
shows the length i would go to withstand demands of treason

I'm not an obvious sort. Cobbled together half-heartedly
some thoughts from assorted sordid cartographies
of this map through your arteries. I'm trying in vain.
Lying, deranged but finally, unsightly we gain
something more worthwhile than fighting again.
And it isn't worth waiting nine months for life to begin.
I want feel everything. I've never healed. My wounds
are just the first part of my black hole of a soul that'll keep you consumed.
I'm done. There's nothing left in this shell of a person.
The sun won't rise until my pride has settled for certain.

My ever-so-perfect imperfections make up who I am
as well as confirming my ascendance to becoming a man.
When one can look at their past and not gloss over mistakes
as something that saddens them,
but of the progress they've made.
No-one's to blame. Life's morbidly short.
The road that you've taken was yours to explore.
So cause a furore every once in a while,
ignoring conformity. Wake up with a smile.
Do something your wildest dreams couldn’t imagine,
- interrupting the silence and disrupting the balance.



Neighborhood. with Split Eight
Posted on Feb. 5, 2014

The leaves are brown now.
The smoke twists from chimneys and lips.
Our feet crunch across sidewalks, embracing how dimly they're lit.
We know these streets, spinning and flipped.
The broken seams of parochial dreams driven to shit.
Jessica Hardy's home. Crimson, her kiss. We envision its bliss.
We move in silence, our jaws tight with simpering grins.
We know these streets, the left turn onto Braddock Lane,
and how if you pass the Rays' fence, their Doberman Tazz will play.
Mr. Ray — he asked for "Wayne" — would laugh and wave,
but we know these streets, and he's sad most days since Gloria passed away.
There's no one here now. Newspapers on the lawns.
There's no one on these streets except us pacing through our yawns.

We ruled these alleys, and dead ends, from bicycle pegs.
Manhunt. GameBoy Advancing from curbs, with a tally
of lifes left, wailing excuses like life vests to hurl in the wind.
When it rained, we commuted through droplets,
and for the world we bought that if you stopped then you got wet.
Contacts have split, been lost or decayed. I'm playing my numbers.
It's raining page to the cover. How many half-lives still tune into listen?
Neighbors refinish for funeral sit-ins. We're all due to revisit.
Whose funeral is it? We've grown into strangers playing lawyer,
or doctor, and then resume after Christmas. Is it a boy or a daughter?
Dated her once. Boy met a girl, left his moves in his pocket.
Cold comes and uncurls like the showers, or potholes on Cottage.
You don't have to stay for much longer.
Mr. Kinnon's washing Chris's toys in the carport. We must be shitty adults,
Playing pretend is an indoors affair, clinking empty glasses
and again when we let them fill up.
Who are we, on these empty aves, to admit we indulge?
No one mastered the pattern of sympathy,
just counted along from flash of the bulb.
Pity's a fashionable fault. I'd rather get lost
in the attic, unpacking the vault of pennies and cars,
Oxfords, spiderwebbed silky black scarves,
to spin stories that shop through the shelves
in old bedrooms of friends.

Every street sign on Elm has been taken by horror fanatics,
or was it the collarless vandals?
Incorrigible bastards broken by the same streets we know so well.
Bringing in pictures of My Dog Skip for show and tell.
Pedal-pushers. Peddle-pushers. We spoke in Braille,
feeling out the situation. Eloping failed. You can't leave.
We don't know the highways like the back alleys.
Time waits for no last rally. Buzzer-beaters uncompleted
leave us hunting Jesus through these byways, pitch-black valleys.
There's something in the air.
It's Jeremy Martin smoking in his parent's garage.
Another careless facade.
Another street we've walked barefoot to god.



Confidence in ooze. with Vividlyvague
Posted on Dec. 14, 2013

VIVIDLYVAGUE
A departure from the the larva's ascent...
For one to grow so, I've shrunken by large and harvest resent-
ment for counterparts in arts I've, over time, decided neglect-
ing. Bent. But equally as starved of affection,
That I seek it from the peanut gallery in charge of inspection.
Introspection is the writer's reflection...
But what of pretention? The spite of inception?
A father famed and drifting. childless, respected.
The unfortunate offspring in the shadow of legends.
Posturing in mirrors, gesturing sessions...
Overcompensation in company, but separate
One is rarely expected of, or selected
as dad would,
Because on November 1st, the second skin is a shedded fit.
Fuck a lame's incepid conception. I'm not irrelevant.

CERTAIN
I've been more trigger-happy than usual lately,
with luminous hatred consuming my faceless identity
until I'm fruitlessly pacing.
I want to be better, too.
It's prudent to straighten your tie before a job interview.
Cheeks betray impossible youth. Eyes betray nothing.
Pining for trust. Sighs became dust in the wind.
Lies became push-pins,
tacking up accomplishments.
Shacked up, reading back issues of The Economist.
I'm harmless. Yes, I advocate disarmament
but spew homing missiles latching on to targets and
passively regard death as a passing fad, a martyr's rest.
But you're all I've ever wanted.



Paragraph Precedence with CopyPat, Lars, Split Eight and Darth Yoda
Posted on Oct. 30, 2013

Originally Posted by PancakeBrah

i want to do something lighthearted. with lots of rhymes and stuff.

Copy:
Did somebody say…
Lighthearted with lots of rhymes and stuff? My mics started, its cocky time, whatsup? I write varnish with glossy lines and brush you mild artists with monotonous styles that suck. I’m like farmers, my chop is prime when I cut, my mic harvests in bulk supply what you love. I’m multi rhymin this up, I’m Dull combined with some Bwah, and Vulgar lines for you Brahs, emulsified when I bust. I ultraviolet you fucks like hotel exposés. This son is blinding you chumps.. oh well, get some rays. Coattail texters stay riding my thick cape. My flow stay Texas, way I fry you in this state. The brightest to spit waves, the title is sick. Spray tidals amidst lame writers who drip H..Two Oh, you know that my style is a big lake. Submerging so deep like I’m diving with fish eggs. I’m kindof a dick eh? My flow is the soggiest. I rhyme in a big way, the whole enchilada shit. Your flowin is on the fritz.. leaky faucet style. I’m blowin the nozzle tips, leave you sopping style. Reading Copy’s files like swimming in flood plains. Leave ya body dyed from the drizzling blood stains.

Lars:
Freedom costs a price, I'll give you my months pay, to leave me off the right of the wilderness. Drunkscape. I'll even offer twice what you were wishing for, cuntface. Fishing for someplace instead of compliments in this digital upgrade we're heading nonetheless. I convalesce with Cherry's Darlings in rotten bedroom-esque apartments. I've lost my head and Penny Farthing but what the heck? Lets get it started. I’m Boba Fett, the deadly marksman atop the deck ya fledgling starship offing heads and pressing targets. I’ve got the stench of every carcass and rotten eggs filling my nose. I’m plotting deaths, thinking of home & what I left. Glimmer of hope dithering slowly. Living alone isn’t as rosy as my palms are. I’m nosy as an aardvark. Blow me, I’m a lard arse who stays loaded up with Mars bars, blowing dust with rass clarts and known for hustling card sharks.

Certain:
I'm too compulsive to miss an apostrophe. Get off of me. I've got a dismissive discography, giving bitches shit for their witless phrenology: medulla oblongata weak. Preach, brother. I see Yoda in the street hovering with speech bubbles like Batman. Adam West. Bang zoom. I've got unique tumbleweed deep puzzles to keep smothering weak-muscled emcees under me. Shatter chests. Bang zoom. King-sized master bed swag, too. Let me plaster that crag-tooth bitch with a right hook. After, I'll cuddle up with a nice book. Black president. Whites shook. Track residents with spy crooks. Wax endless yet my ears are clean. Weird with schemes, medium rare but completely raw. I'm decent y'all. Speeding off with prosthesis clogs. I'm nothing less than a ouija God trapped in a genie jar.

Split Eight:
I don't know what I'm facing, but I'll still go super-saiyan. Do a mean Vegeta, lethal and brainless when I steep in deep focus and apex. Trade up my homies, steam cook their faces, lemon-law with citrus arrangement, capers and codeine. That shimmery shine is simply the greed in my iris. I'm an aikido goliath, chain locks, spit keys and arm-bars. I don't bow at the knee for encore pleas, I crowdsource, pressure-point deep in thugs who freely bound forth, like stretching knees for olympic parkour. Fifteen thou logarithmic foot-pounds of torque. Slipstream, carve curves, in tidal-locked waves of jugular blood spurts. Final fantasy, I fucks with the sunburst.

Darth Yoda:
Want to know the reason I'm speaking so oddly and write? I'll let you in ona secret. (he's) Uniquely ungodly at times. You're a leaflet. Precariously perched on this tree. To me you're a branch or a vine. Styles golden. Money doesn't grow in the wrong tree you're barking up, riep. Most critics critiquing call me a genius, compared to Einstein cause' Neitzsche is harder to type. Technique is an embodiment thesis, get sparks to ignite. Cryogenic telekinesis. Embodying Jesus, reading Psalms 2-through-5. Your highly facetious style in speak, is beneath in kilometers, I'm. A philosopher. A novelist poet, wound in conduit, unbeknownst. No theologian known to man could understand why I ordered sculptors to sculpt by hand my monolith with me hunched over as if I were blowing gas. I'm just morbid. I like to call myself an existenchalist. With just extra credentials and better rhythm and a blatant disrekierkegaard to existentialism. You probably looked that up cause that's not how you spell regard. Hellish. Afar from most wouldve fell and departed their souls from the body them held them and helped them support, during birth, from the womb I ordered a c-section of course, so the doctors and nurses would presume they could start the remorse, and use every curse word rehearsed, cause they delivered this embellishing serpent to Earth. You don't spank me, I spank you, using my umbilical cord. I'm a ungod. Use a scrub nurse as hostage. Mom passes out from the blood-loss. Fuck a mental, this is a metaphysical ward. Burn about 1/3rd of the hospice. Cynical warlord. Using bibs to cover the corpse. Murder the Gerber baby. & when they stitched her up everyone in the room would remember the scars.



Sometime. with PancakeBrah
Posted on Sept. 8, 2013

Certan then Pancake, Alternating

Sometimes I sleep in my queen-sized like the Vitruvian Man,
sheets coming off the corners from this toss-and-turner moving again.
I'm untucked. Loosely pretend like I'm unspooling a thread.
I'm undone. But my sweaters don't sing,
they itch and require dry cleaning.
And I always preferred Pinkerton for its broken-wing butterfly screaming.
And I always rehearsed dry-heaving at my suit-and-tie meetings.
I plan to die dreaming. I prefer no one be there to wake me up.
My security blanket fort has tank support and paintball guns.

Sometimes I feel the weight of she in a mattress.
I explain to a shadow the root causes of a hedonist practice,
with phantom cigarettes perched in the curves of my ears,
with all these nervous arrears trying to apologize for the seeds of her malice.
This whiskey drag is for you. And the next one, too.
Reflect on a reflection, the mind creates a passion sex won't do,
another misstep towards perfection, that I dance for you
in lockstep practice, the motion of forlorn enchants a fool.
Wake up and hope for a new refresher course in each sunset,
already nostalgic for the regrets I haven't done yet.

Sometimes I awaken in the foggy morning sun amid a choral hum,
leaving whispers on my pillow from last night's absorbent rum.
My eyes are boarded shut. My windows open to the allergens
carried in by the same prairie wind that led the carol sing.
And you're never here. You've avoided me and my pollenation,
as though it's my choice to be empty, hollow, vacant.
I leave your mug out, with stains on the rim circling like vultures.
As I percolate, my nerves escape:
Two creams, one stir from brain convulsion.
But the coffee's never hot enough to burn my morning hopelessness,
and the bed beckons, calling for a return to snores and loneliness.

A smattering of blacked out jots and missives,
non-specific, aimless, scribbles about 'haunted visions'
Sometimes emasculated, nonsense awkward glances
Midnight coffee dances, Marlboro read and over-saturated
In this half-awake session with a glass on my tongue as a weight
Every spoonful weighs a ton, forgetting the sun is at stake
Empty tundra, procrastinating, hoping the thunder abates
Spent all this time adrift only to find there's nothing special under the wake
Searching for depth with my restlessness as a barrier
It's a weakness, masquerading as character

The bottom drawer of my bedroom dresser is empty.
So am I. Oppressive, resenting my coalescing stressors and envy.
Every day I pull the shade down on my mirror,
and I can't see myself anymore.
Answer myself at the door. Fancy myself for a whore.
These tantrums won't help, but the single-malt Scotch might.
The main goal this evening is to tickle my balls right.
The main goal most evenings is to fall asleep eventually
and dream and see the world for a better place than it's meant to be.
Retracing what's left of me, finding nothing to hunger for,
and I'll awaken again tomorrow cold, clutching my comforter.

Depression hits compressionless. I could sniff those grams,
but instead I drink those ounces. I'm no 20th century schizoid man.
I'm not special, I'm just writing in lithographs and pictograms
I'm not unique, I just enjoy slipping past the mission plan.
Sometimes I get drunk. No, all the time I get drunk,
I spelunk into funks, enjoy the heartburn
of sipping flasks, a tipsy man,
and not giving a fuck when the next card turns.
sleeping until noon, asking if something is up.
I'll wear an ill-fitting cardigan today, why not
You can wake. I'll just try to champ the championship of dry wrought.

Sometimes I wake up cradling a seven-fifty milliliter,
with the cap on just enough not to spill on my already-filthy T-shirt.
Sometimes I don't wake up at all until the a.m.'s turned to evening,
and my nervous feelings curdle into fervent, worthless seething.
But I'll never break these habits. The fox can chase the rabbit,
but talk is just a language for the lost who pray on Sabbath.
And I've already found God, but she left me like all the rest.
I fall depressed in Autumn's nest. My whole life is awfulness.
It's fucking whiny. Catcher in the Rye. Holden steady.
I'm playing Jack. Two of a kind. And it's time to fold already.

I'll sleep to acoustic versions.
And wake up to a dead laptop.
My bemused diversion.
The sun it rises, it can't stop.
I'm not as deep as I get.
I'll write words about dreams I can't make up.
I sleep, then wake up. With regret.



Where are we? with Split Eight
Posted on Sept. 4, 2013

SPLIT EIGHT
Symmetry abounds in the city street surroundings,
for now I live for me. Found between infinities, puddle-deep drowning ashore.
Loud for me is sound asleep, subtlety is a crowning mountain gorge.
I hear you crumbling as you called. My rearview is all fogged,
Crawled towards the backseat- before the crashing of orchestrated
aural cavity reports, catch these sharply aborted faces..
before their spirits will live on.
Mortally, fractally, distorted.
"I'm sure we'll make it." Actually or not.
It's more here, less it's gone.
its basic anatomy- inadequately recorded.
There's no meaning to court from de facto importance.
There's no fleeing the glimpse, manic photo rewardance.
Homo Too Sapiens, beating the spineless chimps
as glowing new radium displays (chromed cesium Timexes)
read a quarter toll, pay it forth, since each little change
is too late to delay. What time is it? Late. Sleep it away.
As a whole, the notion is violence-less,
but in its environement nature is as nature decides it is-
-I'm a man of many a modicum of non-inclinations.
Bad erotica finder comma odd fascinations, buyer-product of conglomeration,
Gattaca, monocoque carbon, fiber-optic exoneration.
Nice to be sad as-salamu alaykum. We all fall prey to our east.
And the night is silent enough. ZzzQuil, my voicemail has finally peaked.
So. Peaceful. These finer points... point to nil.
Still. To each.
Enlightenment has lightened up, gotten more hospitable
for all of u (sic) patience. Multi-omnivore autonomization.
Decay and degrade. The sign of things to come, riding the waves in,
Dry off your paws as you sink em in for any drops spilled in the basin.

CERTAIN
Apostle of complacence whose appositives are baseless.
After swallowing my patience, I'm Doctor Octagon stomping on blue flowers.
Give me OxyContin vapors for my nostrils as they bleed
into my obviously absorbent polycotton T-shirt.
I'm a Watchman with superpowers,
and my Target is the big box.
Harnessing the madness of touchscreen apolocalyptic Kid Rock
leaking through the asbestos into hardly guarded wigwams.
I'll take an orange soda-gin, mom. Mix it in my favorite cup
and add the tar and cocaine in while I sliver off to play with guns.
This emaciated vagrant knows breakfast ends at 10:30,
and lunch usually doesn't happen at all.
Slow drip. Sodium Pentothal. "I had the loneliest pedagogue.
She'd expose me to metacogs and hold me while getting off,
but I wasn't fucked until now."
The valium's in the fridge. The Magnum's in the cabinet.
The Trojan's stealing information from data on your tablet.
Saturn's rings are masking the lack of happiness in space
because we all know those fucking aliens are catalysts of rape.
She's a destroyer, like in Battleship the game,
with three holes to stick your peg in, and no passable escape.
But we're all aftermarket slaves, asking for a wage with no passion for the day.
And we can't exploit the rapture if we're captive to our pain.
So let's act as though we're brave instead of cuddling our sorrows.
Because the sun might not rise on one of these tomorrows.



Going in Circles with CopyPat
Posted on Aug. 30, 2013

I've been uninspired, forcing smiles through my grinding teeth.
There's a set of empty pill bottles trying to find some sleep.
But I'll keep shaking, prying tops off with a drooling hydrant lockjaw,
and the only cure: to get my rocks off and into my grimy sock drawer.
It's fucking pathetic, no point crowning a pretense.
Life got flipped, turned upside down and drowned in the deep end.

I be in town every weekend, I’m way too lazy for hot springs
And just lounge in the evenings, ’cause chasing ladies’ exhausting
I aim to fake I’m belonging but it’s surely mere jokes
And ain’t the same with the parties cause I’m thirty years old
And now that I’m the boss I don’t want no changes so..
How can I be lost when I got no place to go?

And I haven't gone anywhere; my life's in stasis.
My time is wasted. Spineless. Basic. Blind to faces.
These blurred lines can shapeshift.
Every stride is aimless. Horizon-chasing but confined in matrix.
I'll ride the waiver wire, though I'm hopeful to pass through the first cut.
These wounds don't spurt blood, but they also don't scab.

Aimless wonderer… career non-career haver
Makes me ponder with a beer on the pier after
A long day of shit, what a wrong way to live
Jobs make me sick but i just wanna make it rich
It’s just a yearly little chore cause i don’t all the way commit
And the fear of being bored is what always makes me quit.