SKULLKID (deadman/split8) - Emeritus I

[dead man]

-



Are you living, breathing, and acceptably conscious?
Please blink in your beady, TV scheduled responses.
We've been tied to our bretheren by 3D ventricle vomit,
but to succeed to our fullest, is to peel off the centripetal clauses
of this tealish and globular vehiclular-comet. I feel it more.
The Lostness. As if my dreams have been sequenced
in cloth, strummed across helicore- sponge clean cement floors
with the still-running maw of my dungeon-breathed boss-
'Tune into FUBAR 24.7 from sun-up to closure,
and catch the odd composure of our off-melodic funeral rock,
the slackjaw Top 20 Hit, "Bossanova in Keyboard" by Cubicle Sloths.
They beseech you, crude cross emphatic, that -IMAGINE IS GOD-
as they spooned you proofs mathematic that the truth of all magic,
lies in inadequate bias towards thematics of science, reason & thought...
before the breach of a contract was unsleeved in Briefcases, by Glock.
I'm not pleading for off-brands. Not steeling my skin
for the singe of the sympathist's sin, not sobbing with God-Hand
as we sped along familiar flaws along Akina's twists.
Saccharine bliss met rhetoric raw in midst of Nazareth fogs,
subliminal Vatican slop. Sorry if my bible refs are token and basic.
I'm slipping this centerfold a seminal code, at request of the matrix-
apologies, Tron. You'll never know the ending nodes won't awaken
again in the Kingdom of Hearts. Confess, I can't bury the CDs,
jay pegs, readings, the vids or the lyrics.
But I can set them in boxes, and never go near them.
Lived 1000 lives within life, professor emeritus leaving
to find I haven't experienced much.. the American species
would have me believe this bucket of ashes from Kansas
is just dust in the wounds of a madman.
The dreams never change.
I am lost in somebody's forest.
Facial features darkened, the silhouettes were expected,
Wearing no spark of resemblence- recognition regressive.
So his song will evade you, since nostalgia's forsaken you
in an attic-set labryinth that switches every play-through, and listen,
Happiness happens. Misery's the shit that makes y'all revisit.
Time to keep rhyming these steely, eulogical rivets,
Someday you'll find it's you thats gone missing.



someday



someday you'll find a receipt. and wonder
how much time a person buys in his sleep, for under
twenty six dollars and a sigh of relief
just wait. capitalism says you'll die in a week
the thunder bellows. walls separate, enlightenment leaks
cracking spiderwebs like rainforest, islanded beach
sandy seminars, my scholarship - the science of dreams
dissertations due the night you believe. try it and see
iron microchip sequences cyber viruses, freeze
typewriter whiskey and water, lantern lighting, serene
masks off.
look around. your eyes are likely a leash
another diagram is right underneath. devoid in-between
Saria's Song on saxophone to silence the screams
lighting trees til there's not a drop of blood on the leaves
seems we're all looking older now, as summer recedes
smell the roses. stick your nose inside their fungus & sneeze
wonderland, the wunderkind, please. it's a natural trait
mathematic, abrasive. abacus factory-made
chained myself to the moment. made an elaborate escape
cause i never had anything interesting to say.
satisfaction's like a castle with palladium gates
or a class where every student's either absent or late
Split halves into 8th's, punch timecards, passion can wait
clockwork for bread. spread another crack in his face
Rhode scholars, camouflaged as addicts or saints
cocaine catholicism. pray they'll pass you a plate
valleys and lakes, rivers and tides, you live or you die
shut the fuck up or become the very thing you despise.
we're lost without a clue. but i was simple to find
in the cubicle where Kublai Khan and incubus lie
olympus will rise, like spinal column shifting chemical mind
there's paradise in poppy seeds, wisdom in wine.
if mission is rhyme - sip slow and let our documents shine
envisioning crime to serve justice like optometrist prime
for homogenous tribes in this particular groove,
religion is viewing different shadows on a similar moon
triforce when logic fails to hum a resonant truth
on forest frequencies too ancient to remember their roots..






think again






SKULLKID