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

Ideas for Code Poems

[to be written as a program in a high-level language, and displayed in descending order with its translation into increasingly lower levels until the poem is represented in binary form]

flame
reduce me to ashes

OR.....something like (pseudocode follows)

Print “entropic heat”

Print “reduce me to ashes”

--
here the descent is implied, and actually ends in the waste heat from the voltage jumps, which are the ultimate low-level translation of any computer code



-------------------------
title: degradation to pidgin

convert to leetspeak poem exactly 140 char for tweet
-
It may be contaminated, jargonized, disrupted language, but it is not a new language, not (yet) evidence for the invasion of an empire of machinic colonizers whose demands of trade and interaction require the creation of a pidgin by economically and linguistically disempowered human users.
-
http://www.electronicbookreview.com/thread/electropoetics/literal
-

draft
--
!7 m4 8 (n7mn7d, j29n1zd, dsrupted lngu4g, but 1t 1s not 4 nu l4ngu4g, not (yet) evdence 4 d4 1nv4sn of 4 mpire of m4chinic colonizrs whos dm4nds of tr8d n intr4ctn rqire d4 cre4tn of 4 p!j1n by ecnm1cly n lngu!stcly d!smpwrd hmn usrs

Oh, Ahab Swearers (draft)

time flies

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

----

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

----

third-rate gibson

• Adam Cahan 7 hours ago

  In an ideal world TEPCO would in fact construct our atomic melting robot overlords, and their name would be cursed and spoken with a tired, practiced disgust in the furtive gatherings of purple-mohawked hackers and muscle-grafted streetrunners.

  1 person liked this.

• Adam Cahan 7 hours ago

  ...and people would have tired, cynical sex when the high wears off and smoke cheap chinese cigarettes that taste like rat poison.

  1 person liked this.

• Adam Cahan 7 hours ago

  Men would subsist off of stolen sugar packets and half-and-half from Starbucks, poured into dixie cups hidden in their trenchcoats, and all women would have to sell themselves - one way or another. TEPCO, of course, would profit off of their misery. But only in - an ideal world.

  1 person liked this.