As nicotine and in-dough-nee infiltrate well-traveled and convoluted paths through out my bloodstream, I see silhouettes of, plastic hearted minions, manic perpetrators in well-intended destruction. It is altogether use-less for you to con-test the pleasurable in-gest, of this sticky green blow town induced lyrical maa-lest-station specifically delivered into your inner listen. Birthed from the, unchecked passions of an ancient harlot makes me the sum of witnessed brutality to soul and spirit, “all in the name, of the blood stained banner of Jesus”
Young broads with bodies built to lust for C cup titties, honey dripped thick, brown, and round, graffiti covered vaginal tragedies long before the age of 21
As I live and breathe … We’ve gone from ez rock and base to, pumping ez rocks from base giving birth to a new type of nigga, splitting banana clips like a jungle hungry gorilla, the lust for paper will lead to, no hesitation in the disrespectful and, brutal pursuit of respectability
Please put down the pen and, slowly back away because without warning or delay you’ll be blown to spastic from the kick back attached to the ass whipping of my verbal spit tactics
Perpetually with my board in the shop,chopped from the, frequent-high-flying-hover-craft type mileage like a decept I can transform from, cere-bral to, bru-tal producing 2 twin jet packs from my back, sumari inspired helicopter choppaz and a rubber griped 9, just in case revolution sparks before we finish this splif
Supreme writer I'm a bitter of myself none other, when I twist a hot verse I'm biggin’ up my culture, biggin’ up my music, birthed flow con-do-it, you ass salty, hatin' that the swag is foolish, so them rings and things you sing about bring em out, its hard to yell when tha bar-rels in your mouth
Jul 23, 2008
Jul 18, 2008
And now, a word from our sponsor ...
Have you had the wonderful misfortune of ever meeting my nine? Whether chrome or black, plastic or rubber gripped she pines for the time when she can stand @ attention, waiting in eager anticipation, selecting standing ovations with pre assigned projectile evictions.
Now this next paragraph might makes ya laugh, when a brotha rolls a blunt and his breath smells like pure ass - ok class, 10 hip hop pts if u idee the lst paragraph
But back to the clap talk for a second, it was always my favorite helped an angry nigga feel the hate inside his ears - wondered if he had it in em when ordered to park hollows in between the ears of his peers, but that's when them other cats flashed that chrome, licked them shots, and missed my dome.
Was like 20 back then, that's when I developed the phantom, ghost like qualities back then, listened when NaS told me sleep was the cousin - so never was I sleeping again nah cousin.
Decided to grab the mic for real, back then. Burnaz captured my minds eye metaphor back then, 4 fifths, 380's, 12 Gage, & dessert ezy spitting loogies wit intention of twistin icons & leakin em wit they chest breathin' wheezy, stayed eazy nigga ... wasn't fashioned to be blastin, matriculated up the field to avoid my under achieving ass from being sent to Iraq - fuck it black - tried to forget while I smoked where I was rollin it at … That’s about the time when I met a man whose neck, ear, wrist, and pinky ring gleams with a unique gift for touching the nerve of young ghetto dreams ...
This is dedicated to bad bitches who moonlight as day time chiropractors, sexuality discreetly bubbling like espresso foam in a warm Amsterdam coffee shop. If I could figure out your name with my psychic pheromone capabilities, I'd stop my preoccupation concerning the hue of your Vicky inspired thong and bra ensemble, I respect your gangsta though, bx authentic hip hop on that first night splashed beyond recognition I peeped you zoning to Rakim's "The Punisher", instantly celebrating the location of my kismet ...
Took the ladder to success escalator style, the personal blueprint of spago blowing muthafuckaz twisted in 7 jeans, D&G eye covers, and newborn baby clean footwear, crystal clear ice skating rinks with rainbows fruitfully multiplied throughout the land
My style is sick like high school mono, when I spit that heavy shit transformational conversions opens doors to unlimited choices as vehicles for cultural revolution … While still clockin fat ass' on project chickens sportin’ 5411's blasted from the scent recoiling from the body of my buddy.
It was either the pistol, the pulpit, the mic, or the pen
Now this next paragraph might makes ya laugh, when a brotha rolls a blunt and his breath smells like pure ass - ok class, 10 hip hop pts if u idee the lst paragraph
But back to the clap talk for a second, it was always my favorite helped an angry nigga feel the hate inside his ears - wondered if he had it in em when ordered to park hollows in between the ears of his peers, but that's when them other cats flashed that chrome, licked them shots, and missed my dome.
Was like 20 back then, that's when I developed the phantom, ghost like qualities back then, listened when NaS told me sleep was the cousin - so never was I sleeping again nah cousin.
Decided to grab the mic for real, back then. Burnaz captured my minds eye metaphor back then, 4 fifths, 380's, 12 Gage, & dessert ezy spitting loogies wit intention of twistin icons & leakin em wit they chest breathin' wheezy, stayed eazy nigga ... wasn't fashioned to be blastin, matriculated up the field to avoid my under achieving ass from being sent to Iraq - fuck it black - tried to forget while I smoked where I was rollin it at … That’s about the time when I met a man whose neck, ear, wrist, and pinky ring gleams with a unique gift for touching the nerve of young ghetto dreams ...
This is dedicated to bad bitches who moonlight as day time chiropractors, sexuality discreetly bubbling like espresso foam in a warm Amsterdam coffee shop. If I could figure out your name with my psychic pheromone capabilities, I'd stop my preoccupation concerning the hue of your Vicky inspired thong and bra ensemble, I respect your gangsta though, bx authentic hip hop on that first night splashed beyond recognition I peeped you zoning to Rakim's "The Punisher", instantly celebrating the location of my kismet ...
Took the ladder to success escalator style, the personal blueprint of spago blowing muthafuckaz twisted in 7 jeans, D&G eye covers, and newborn baby clean footwear, crystal clear ice skating rinks with rainbows fruitfully multiplied throughout the land
My style is sick like high school mono, when I spit that heavy shit transformational conversions opens doors to unlimited choices as vehicles for cultural revolution … While still clockin fat ass' on project chickens sportin’ 5411's blasted from the scent recoiling from the body of my buddy.
It was either the pistol, the pulpit, the mic, or the pen
Jul 17, 2008
The gospel according to m
Live the sounds of the block, sprinkled with city grid inspired pay phone stalls attached to the ears of …
“Yo! What’s up mamita? Yeah you, looking nice wit that thick ass-ass … Yo son, for real I’d fuck the shit outta her!”
17 years old, 34C almost close to a D, pretty brown round and trying to run with these thoroughbreds – lil niggaz breathing every breath and living with their appointments for death and in this game offsides, personal fouls, and missing a sign could lead to murals for life after death and shorties screaming, crying –
“He was such a good kid”, “That was my nigga yo”, “Fuck the police and fuck them crackers too!” “He was my baby”
Welcome to the block where summers are hot, hood stars catch fire, and the stories live – because each voice has a face and every face has a scar. Young souls grow colder faster while innocence develops a resistance to the infinite possibilities of hope. Stop. Take a breath. Look around. Soak it in. So deep are her impressions you can smell, hear, and taste her affects. She gave me my swag and taught the importance of watching while listening, her points were made crystal clear every time she laid a nigga down. Hollow points tear the fabric of my pride every time my oldest is forced to eat his 4th favorite dinner with juicy juice punch though at best I can only muster ambivalence towards his mother. They long ago received their nostalgic triggers – 3 days ago my nicotine retirement and the ever-present aroma of indo scent. Their souls will remember my frequent misremembering, trips out of the room for “What the fuck did I come out her for anyway?” Kisses while they slept and conversations concerning their grandchildren’s well being.
I love my sons!
The divine creator’s gift to my existence, two treasures, and newer visions of myself in this predestined voyage of free will. Now to be fair, maybe he was too damaged to love his approval came with chutes + ladders type consequences self loathing, self pity, and self destruction, ya headin’ for self destruction – but ya only get one pops right?
Provoked by transformational re-creation we can now see past, each building erected in efforts to shorten the boundless nature of our horizon, each high-rent luxury condo complete with swimming pool world class fitness facility movie theater and other exclusatory amenities. We can now see past every hood hustlin’ high performance vehicle driving voice box for the Lord. Can I get a witness ...
I think slow & far now, the future is my reality. Gone is the trigger from his verbal cannon replaced by love + praise, for those truly are the seeds of any impassioned childhood. The older I get, the more I like him. The older he gets, the more I know I’ll miss him when he’s gone. The more I look in the mirror, the more I see him …
“Yo! What’s up mamita? Yeah you, looking nice wit that thick ass-ass … Yo son, for real I’d fuck the shit outta her!”
17 years old, 34C almost close to a D, pretty brown round and trying to run with these thoroughbreds – lil niggaz breathing every breath and living with their appointments for death and in this game offsides, personal fouls, and missing a sign could lead to murals for life after death and shorties screaming, crying –
“He was such a good kid”, “That was my nigga yo”, “Fuck the police and fuck them crackers too!” “He was my baby”
Welcome to the block where summers are hot, hood stars catch fire, and the stories live – because each voice has a face and every face has a scar. Young souls grow colder faster while innocence develops a resistance to the infinite possibilities of hope. Stop. Take a breath. Look around. Soak it in. So deep are her impressions you can smell, hear, and taste her affects. She gave me my swag and taught the importance of watching while listening, her points were made crystal clear every time she laid a nigga down. Hollow points tear the fabric of my pride every time my oldest is forced to eat his 4th favorite dinner with juicy juice punch though at best I can only muster ambivalence towards his mother. They long ago received their nostalgic triggers – 3 days ago my nicotine retirement and the ever-present aroma of indo scent. Their souls will remember my frequent misremembering, trips out of the room for “What the fuck did I come out her for anyway?” Kisses while they slept and conversations concerning their grandchildren’s well being.
I love my sons!
The divine creator’s gift to my existence, two treasures, and newer visions of myself in this predestined voyage of free will. Now to be fair, maybe he was too damaged to love his approval came with chutes + ladders type consequences self loathing, self pity, and self destruction, ya headin’ for self destruction – but ya only get one pops right?
Provoked by transformational re-creation we can now see past, each building erected in efforts to shorten the boundless nature of our horizon, each high-rent luxury condo complete with swimming pool world class fitness facility movie theater and other exclusatory amenities. We can now see past every hood hustlin’ high performance vehicle driving voice box for the Lord. Can I get a witness ...
I think slow & far now, the future is my reality. Gone is the trigger from his verbal cannon replaced by love + praise, for those truly are the seeds of any impassioned childhood. The older I get, the more I like him. The older he gets, the more I know I’ll miss him when he’s gone. The more I look in the mirror, the more I see him …
Jul 7, 2008
The Genesis
1972 was the year, January 22nd triple-double’s for the first born on the third day of Aquarius. Grew up in a green van with ex-fiends, rolling by currently future relapsing ex-fiends, leaning without touching the ground in mix matched, knee high, tube socks. The van was always filled with songs of redemption, vocalized by those on the receiving end of newly found divine forgiveness and a well worn family distrust. You can’t sell the kid’s Atari, your wife’s jewels, and your momma’s TV and think a few popcorn testimonies will bring that ass back home …
But at my home, “you a stupid ass nigga” and “well, your fat ass is a bitch!” Yelling, pushing, scratching and … “you betta get the fuck outta my house!”
A dizzying transportation of internally diminishing child cargo Norwalk, Harlem, Camden, Harlem, Queens, Norwalk
It’s early A.M. and the same lips that cursed the fat, stupid nigga is now praying down heaven all over my face in attempts to purge my dark and sinful nature.
Was not too long before the two kids were packed with all the gospel records she owned and the combo 8-track, stereo, record player … she figured at least as much for time served with his funky ass. Even though it seemed like she didn’t really take much else. But who wants stretch marks and some other niggaz ankle biters? My sister and I were simply snot-nosed cock blockers “give that nigga back his kids and we might got something baby-girl”, in his plushed-out green and ivory seats, laundry mat stopping big daddy caddy. And every time my mind would make note when he came outside, looked around, and went to the trunk.
They say patience is a virtue – I say, patience is a virtue matured through layers of pain. Fighting to make sense of failure … and disappointments, realities altered, and innocence compromised. The years have polished over thick remnants of ash, the last testament to my volcanic rage, though I witness its simmer in the eyes of my childhood reflection. A child’s eye was never meant to recall in such sharp and vivid detail the liberties taken in under supervised and anointed environments – though we beg to forget.
But that was about the time my soul had a rhythm for the pocket. 1978 was the year and I secretly realized at the tender age of 6, my prepubescent gift to memorize all the shit them roach clip rockin’ niggaz kicked. Intrigued and captivated by the stories told, places the imagination of a lonely, frightened, and traumatized boy could escape.
She was so fucking selfish and he was soooo fucking bootleg – but for he, she popped out three all while praying for the day the other would “just drop dead!” It’s what their hearts say while faining misery’s bliss.
But at my home, “you a stupid ass nigga” and “well, your fat ass is a bitch!” Yelling, pushing, scratching and … “you betta get the fuck outta my house!”
A dizzying transportation of internally diminishing child cargo Norwalk, Harlem, Camden, Harlem, Queens, Norwalk
It’s early A.M. and the same lips that cursed the fat, stupid nigga is now praying down heaven all over my face in attempts to purge my dark and sinful nature.
Was not too long before the two kids were packed with all the gospel records she owned and the combo 8-track, stereo, record player … she figured at least as much for time served with his funky ass. Even though it seemed like she didn’t really take much else. But who wants stretch marks and some other niggaz ankle biters? My sister and I were simply snot-nosed cock blockers “give that nigga back his kids and we might got something baby-girl”, in his plushed-out green and ivory seats, laundry mat stopping big daddy caddy. And every time my mind would make note when he came outside, looked around, and went to the trunk.
They say patience is a virtue – I say, patience is a virtue matured through layers of pain. Fighting to make sense of failure … and disappointments, realities altered, and innocence compromised. The years have polished over thick remnants of ash, the last testament to my volcanic rage, though I witness its simmer in the eyes of my childhood reflection. A child’s eye was never meant to recall in such sharp and vivid detail the liberties taken in under supervised and anointed environments – though we beg to forget.
But that was about the time my soul had a rhythm for the pocket. 1978 was the year and I secretly realized at the tender age of 6, my prepubescent gift to memorize all the shit them roach clip rockin’ niggaz kicked. Intrigued and captivated by the stories told, places the imagination of a lonely, frightened, and traumatized boy could escape.
She was so fucking selfish and he was soooo fucking bootleg – but for he, she popped out three all while praying for the day the other would “just drop dead!” It’s what their hearts say while faining misery’s bliss.
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