Some/times when I’m feelin' hopeless I just pull out the pad,
and / scribble with the heart of the homeless and the soul of the mad. /
I spell smoke rings and absinthe, / expel folk rhythms and abstinence,
and excel at outlining the absence of what i used to call passion. /
An expert at self-manumission, I got my vision on a mission /
and I’ll leave you wishin’ for that intermission intercission / transmission /
to put a stop-and-frisk on this / verbal perdition. /
Y’all, I can’t take much more of this /plugged up /
in every orifice / I debase my flow /
with the whorishness, / USB ports filled /
y’all need more ordinance. /
But who hasn't ever seen HD porn / in the retina
4K glow glorious? /
I be of the screen / with the double vision. /
to leave you wishin’ for an intermittent intermission intercission transmission. /
Binocular optics go and capture the image, /
it's both obscene and serene,
is it salvation or a scheme?
A dollar or a dream. Does it matter
if I take what I / need with cream /
or use the infrared beam? /
Sometimes I don't know, so I go rococo with the flow /
and like a Ghost in the Shell, dart in / for the fatal blow
like Motoko / Kusanagi,
with a small squad / we vanquish your whole army. /
But transhumanists are movie shit, quite extremely dubious /
your Rubicon is looming / yet i bet you’ll still want grooming. /
The brain is gay for pelvic movement
the flesh is set for gross confusion
the soul is braced for its illusion
the skin's got blues from a contusion. /
Putting it all aside
life ain’t a smooth ride, so muster up some pride /
and drop your faith by the road-side,
no one’ll take it / - you afraid to go naked?
Afraid to hug hatred? Afraid to flow aimless /
like a water droplet down to the basest /
ocean of serenity and commotion, /
the Dollar Tree and sons of Odin?
who’ll catch you holdin', Holden?
No stress, it’s just immutable, golden, / boasting
on the mic, it’s irrelevant right?
Well, / my slang stays elegant
and rugged as an elephant
shot for my tusks and now there’s hell to pay. /
So i think its time to wrap it up / and say
so long, farewell, aveetesay good day.
Showing posts with label rap. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rap. Show all posts
Thursday, January 10, 2019
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Friday, October 21, 2011
to the tune of 'verbal intercourse' off cuban linx
same damned ritual
Rise sun, nah, I slumber
'Phaeton,’' says Zeus, 'what
the fuck is wrong with you?'
no sub-text
On this subject
Me, the shit-flinging monkey
Galore I adore words
and letters Units of measure for
unbounded pleasures
Turn the page, enter
Whatever fantasy O.G.
technology delivers
To escape from reality
I'm Properly unbounded in the
pages of a knowledge tree
where i'm found
kid this flow, my stroke - solid gold
like the medal i oughta hold
for these mic skills cold
Rise sun, nah, I slumber
'Phaeton,’' says Zeus, 'what
the fuck is wrong with you?'
no sub-text
On this subject
Me, the shit-flinging monkey
Galore I adore words
and letters Units of measure for
unbounded pleasures
Turn the page, enter
Whatever fantasy O.G.
technology delivers
To escape from reality
I'm Properly unbounded in the
pages of a knowledge tree
where i'm found
kid this flow, my stroke - solid gold
like the medal i oughta hold
for these mic skills cold
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Oh, Ahab Swearers (draft)
time flies
and old soldiers never die
if babies still cry
politicians still lie
ruined cities lie still
and old soldiers never die
if babies still cry
politicians still lie
ruined cities lie still
with the ghosts
dragged out of their flesh
on accounts of merchants
diamond rings flashing
plucking the heartstrings
wet eyes like sailors, chasing spectacular bling
dragged out of their flesh
on accounts of merchants
diamond rings flashing
plucking the heartstrings
wet eyes like sailors, chasing spectacular bling
----
oh, Ahab swearers, my Kurtzian forebears
briefcase bearers and web--meme declarers
you Atlases of the super--structure
had to scratch an itch, so
you had to shrug your shoulders
----
passing trinkets to the dinks, snatching material aspects
surveying the planet
stealing magic. man is thought--less
centered in the profit web
silk threads hang out his ass
don’t ask
----
the mind’s turning
an eternal task
yet no one hoped for this
Sisyphus, I’ll take my pistol
and put it to
your temple
depress my firing stud, destroy
you bitch
execution style, as
my index twitch hear the
button click see
the beam squeal bright
and hot across the sky
through your drying eye
see your boulder rumbling down
squishing caterpillars
flowers and bugs
oh, Ahab swearers, my Kurtzian forebears
briefcase bearers and web--meme declarers
you Atlases of the super--structure
had to scratch an itch, so
you had to shrug your shoulders
----
passing trinkets to the dinks, snatching material aspects
surveying the planet
stealing magic. man is thought--less
centered in the profit web
silk threads hang out his ass
don’t ask
----
the mind’s turning
an eternal task
yet no one hoped for this
Sisyphus, I’ll take my pistol
and put it to
your temple
depress my firing stud, destroy
you bitch
execution style, as
my index twitch hear the
button click see
the beam squeal bright
and hot across the sky
through your drying eye
see your boulder rumbling down
squishing caterpillars
flowers and bugs
----
oh, Ahab swearers, my Kurtzian forebears
briefcase bearers and web--meme declarers
you Atlases of the super--structure
had to scratch an itch, so
you had to shrug your shoulders
----
oh, Ahab swearers, my Kurtzian forebears
briefcase bearers and web--meme declarers
you Atlases of the super--structure
had to scratch an itch, so
you had to shrug your shoulders
----
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
tunnel vision rap (read from bottom 2 top)
zeroreference zero reference
lyfcmprsd lykwrdz n danetz/notym 2stretchnorst/n3dlotsdata2kyp shipaflot/caryer w/pl8ns drpinfr8dombmbz/onppld0inwrngz/bmbzkypinocntsfrumhrm
zeroreference zero reference
ent no gilbert n sulivan/lyf'o a s8ilrman/unifrm shrp lyk it tailrd man/r8dy 2 ly down ded 4 unclsam/we jus flw ordrs/big bras w/da mstr pln
zeroreference zero reference
then is back 2 c/2 da life muther/d3ep watrs/sheltr orphans and yung fathrs/da big guns cl0bbr/navy flow, nuclear enginz pull/hottr dan lava
zeroreference zero reference
microphonez r gripped n rippd/like pantyhos when sailors disembark/from their ships/n blow their pay on their women/for 1 n8, in $$$ swimmin
Saturday, July 30, 2011
rap wordz
curse wordz
terse wordz
hurt wordz
sharp wordz
cross wordz
harsh wordz
strong wordz
foul wordz
small wordz
strange wordz
dream wordz
damn wordz
key wordz
terse wordz
hurt wordz
sharp wordz
cross wordz
harsh wordz
strong wordz
foul wordz
small wordz
strange wordz
dream wordz
damn wordz
key wordz
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Pitchfork Playlist, Malkovich 'Palms'
new song: "Palms". a song about my neighborhood. X
Inbox X
Inbox
show details Jul 23 (1 day ago) |
http://malkovichmusic.
video next week.
This message was sent to adam.cahan@gmail.com from: The Unfamiliar | 3757 Westwood Blvd., #6 | Los Angeles, CA 90034 | Email Marketing by |
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show details Jul 23 (1 day ago) |
nice. i'm digging this, especially the soft kick drum and bass on the instrumental. solid flow, cool storytelling. nothing feels or sounds forced, and you run that gauntlet between the soulless street-cred brags and the woe-is-me and/or life's so hard stereotypical anecdotes of some indie rappers. that third verse section is raw - 'he pulled gat, fade to black.' !!!!! subtle shit, especially about your girl, and bailing out your neighbor.
downloaded the mixtape but haven't had the opportunity to listen to it yet.
peace -a
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show details 7:17 PM (4 hours ago) |
You got a bright future at Pitchfork, kid.
Thanks for listening, and the words.
See ya soon..
From: Adam Cahan [mailto:adam.cahan@gmail.com]
Sent: Saturday, July 23, 2011 1:05 PM
To: Malkovich Music
Subject: Re: new song: "Palms". a song about my neighborhood.
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