Friday, July 8, 2011
I wear mismatched skullcaps and a wristwatch of missed maps,
laugh at think tanks with weak dank back-dreaming
of pap-smearing mother earth
and forcing her to give birth
to the real girth of dead mirth twitching on the black surf.
I dont write hip hop or poetry cuz language is a toy to me
broken by real poverty and resurrected by pure corporate greed
I dine on the scrotums of ancient aztec totems streaming through new modems.
I cry out for death in a fever pitch thats dressed with gold and nasty itch-
life is such a nasty bitch, I'll get over it and live the glitch.
because rappers and pastors gave me my voice, I'm an actor:
a brain dripped out of bladders- a waste not wasted and -yep- a tasted not tasted
waiting for the bruising truth and amusing all the thoughtful youth.