it's about my persona/ain't nothin' like a man/who can do what he wanna

a magician's lie,
a musician's persona.
ain't no now,
or how could now
not, no nada,
change is upon ya,
like a charismatic persona.

over a hundred years
not nothin new, nada,
a dozen every day,
change is mundane.
ain't no now
or how could now ever change?
ain't no now
or now never changes,
show me something ordinary
and i'll zero on the strange shit.

when was now,
not now when,
was not now when.
put a weapon in my hand,
and i'd do it all again.

a cold nine that folds fine,
carbon fiber, cost a nigga's eye.
put a mic in my hand,
and i'll amplify.
gimme a pen,
and i'll be a future spy.
radar ears, satellite eye,
wifi network cry.

i rock it, i'm the top shit.
regular - like water from a faucet.

no-slip-grip,
can't really detect it -
i won't get suspected.
the reason for it's evident/my weaponry is relevant
assassinate the president
my plan is simple and not elegant:
rush like wild elephants,
every man trained and planed,
straight planks for my house; zero slouch.

a lyric from my mouth
aimed to murder reagan
asleep and drooling
on the couch.
the terminator time-travels,
the admirals orders chinese carryout.

put an organ in my hand:
eye, penis, microphone or kill-a-man
and i'll j-dilla.
in the big truck, with the chinchilla,
a boxer's quick-swingin' fist,
every verse i spit's a chin-chillah.

robot souls, go, and swim.
my eyes on the prize, i rise up;
up from the depths like a g-o-dzilla,
flamin' breath like the pope,
you think it's just a joke
till those japanese niggas hit ya
with the tokyo grope,
wu-tang brought back hope

and i'm just tracing snowy footsteps
down the slope
so i don't break the ice and croak.

the mic's a nice device,
be sure to use it twice,
open up your thighs, daughter
i lick your pussy with my eye.

ate it, love it or hate it,
both ways i can make,
cold beat it up, or straight pussy-worship,
nothin' but good dick.
lay enough
to scratch a seven-year itch;
even a paraplegic does a back-flip.

full stop.
spit a wack lyric?
i'd rather sodomize my pops,
than let a soul listen.

shit, like a baby, i'll smear that shit.
like a faggot,
i'll queer that shit.
like houdini,
i'll disappear that shit;
popular sounds are radio-active
don't go near that shit,
let me rearrange your brain
so you won't hear that shit -
we clear on that slick?

in my center is a fact you can't erase:
thought is the weapon
essential in any space.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HzeZhCt5PVA

property which distinguishes living from non-living matter

I am not going to
change myself today,
change myself tomorrow.
It's in the mundane
anxiety and stress
where I change.
I change in the now,
before the now is
where now lives.
Now is something
which never was alive.
You can't change change.
Change is infinite decimal places.

Living dead

Quote of the Day #1

According to a blog comment - Teilhard de Chardin, from Future of Mankind(1955): 


"The more we ponder these matters of the future the more must we realize that, scientifically speaking, the real difficulty presented by Man is not the problem of whether he is a center of constant progress: it is far more the question of how long this progress can continue, at the speed at which it is going, without Life blowing up upon itself or causing the earth on which it was horn [born?] to explode. Our modern world was created in less than 10,000 years, and in the past 200 years it has changed more than in all the preceding millennia. Have we ever thought of what our planet may be like, psychologically, in a million years’ time? It is finally the Utopians, not the ‘realists’, who make scientific sense. They at least, though their flights of fancy may cause us to smile, have a feeling for the true dimensions of the phenomenon of Man.

void/void/void

infinite universe

remorseless waltz

void/void/void

loose from system’s

sun/sun/sun

dialectic of the day

what can be put in the page

can be put in the years

and days of my decline

from grace, from the power

always shimmering before our eyes

like an oasis - a mirage

there is nothing to put in the page

except for what's suffered in the day

and years are an accumulation

of small defiances

against the quick day

if there is only decline

there is no decline

i am wrong

to fight my decline, my time

this delicious friction

is just another wave of desert heat

appearing in the page

untitled

roots
churning the earth with their stillness

before an eye that sees a sun,

that receives its nourishing

deception.

Irradiating lies,

like the warmth on your skin

perambulating in

the afternoon.