[dull boy]

It's sort of organic; the manner with which I sort through these tantric
auras I manage. It's manic. An orbit of dancing portraits in panic.
Enormous. Titanic. Yet; stored in a canvas; formless; unhanded.
Each onlookers camera scans from an authentic vantage.
The authors push transits to alter their ramblings.
Call to your damage. Exhausted my family handling all of your answers.
Lost in the sanity of a novelists vanity. Drawn to the hammering.
Dawn's in a hammock swing over lawns. Heavy dampening.
Frost in the Andes or aloft on a sandy beach... I'm off in a standard sheet
of stanzas. Each cog in my anarchy feeds off of my channeling
thoughts.

at a jamboree getting hammered. Pee on any dancing teens.
Jeez, these new school school rules got me sampling Screech.
Like I'm sort of rambling geek. Can't even speak without getting asked to leave.
Faggots, please... HEY HEY HEY. You can't say faggot anymore.
Really faggot? Wanda Sykes can suck me flaccid in a tub of acid.
Dax Riggs putting chapstick on a rap clique while I snap pics
for a snap chat with a pack rat who has grass in her nap sack
zipped up. I'm gonna fix lunch. We don't kiss much. I like when our lips touch.
When our ribs rub and our skin hugs. Who has Illmatic on CD? Him does.
No, not Him, like God, or him like that gay tattoo. Him like him. That way rad, dude.
You said you'd never leave. No take backs. Cool?
SAY THAT'S COOL.
Whoa, stay back. Woo. Getting a little crazed. Act cool.
Sorry, sorry. I just know what loss means. It only means I've lost things.
LIKE MY MIND.
Like my rhymes.
Write my lines in silence. Mimes acting out what I'm typing. LIES.
All lies.
Small fries lead to paper in the floor on your whip, which is a car, if you're hip.