Thursday, June 28, 2012

ambergrist squeeze a la melville rap (draft)

hopeless, i roll with some dope shit spoke swift

the way water flows post-diluvial

and folks look, sitting on the banks

while uprooted oaks drift,

and  teens feel a touch of  the ageless

hocus-pocus, while they smoke dirt spliffs.

that is to say, i’m trailing

the oldest flow scriptural, burning up my body

to transcend the individual.

salt-runs on my cheeks as if

the sailor’s ritual

lifted me off-decks into the whale’s bowels,

ain’t jonah, i’m no job, i just howl

whirling in my wind, breath stagnant

and foul, like my slave ancestors

under egyptian whips, i slather shit,

pyramid-builder, i eat bitter,

fill my belly up with my parent’s money

every night before dinner

and remove my own liver,

cold-hearted like kissinger,

check upon my eyes where pity doesn't glimmer;

hope i contain

my ways like the lion

in winter, hungry,

chewin’ on my money,

whole life a dung heap --

ain’t no way the reaper’d outrun me:

i gun my soul like a harley--

i’d hardly falter if i had to

put my grip upon the shottie

and use the moss-berg; all those shells

layin’ out your body.

you’re lookin’ at a half-dead man,

ain’t it obvi? ous ?

squeeze my ambergrist the naughti-est,

meaning there’s flecks, and nuggets

of gold in my piss

and shit,

gut a cunt with my thalamus, calamunous,

my game locked down like

a photo in an amulet,

vocabulary ravenous,

peasants make they sacrifice

to volcano-god rhymes,

i receive virgin minds:

kindling to light
the pipe:

an orange fire bubbling;

calmly burning up you troubling

emcees who deceive yourselves

that you don’t know nothing.

all i know holmes, is socrates, birds and bees,

overwhelmed by suffering,

it’s another things:

fools-pick-fools-for underlings;

that’s why

you under him.

my hypothesized boasts a whole ‘nother thing,

y’all pesticide, i’m Rachel Carson writin’ Silent Spring,

my pen, the mic, my voice hoarse

tellin’ stories like Horace

to make your brain porous

as end-of-the-day Hector,

drag both your lobes with the horses,

i fool all your hordes,

they transform to rotting corpses

and i donate your children

to orphanages.

your mothers become whores, diehard fans demand more

the hard-core ones know how the lyric goes.

g i swear only ever with the clan would i hold heat

‘cause they swing swords shinobi

thus my destiny

clear as a glass sea, homie--

permanently solo ‘cause there ain’t no luke

or wookie, just rookies.

cookie monster, all i see is cookies.

my wordsmith hammers out

watery damascus

on the stage i handle it.

no one ever said

to me, “control dis”

so unlike horsemouth in rockers

i grow my own, roll my own and smoke it

and i hope you choke on it.

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