Miami (Edited Freewriting)

The animals move along their beaten path, tightly shielded from their womb. The unworthy among them still demand respect, but somehow all seem beautiful. Their hills are not gone but rebuilt, with curious angles and slopes. The color of the world is faded and dying. A smeared pastel horizon of tessellations and shapes, of pinks and oranges and yellows, and Black and white never stop arguing.The sound particles are soothingly infinite, but eventually I hear the world derail, and come to a screeching halt.

Drawing by Michelle Pugliese, inspired by this paragraph

The lamb had crawled up into the pipes and gotten sick, but had made friends with the bats and other strange creatures that lived there. They told the lamb not to be afraid, but the lamb was still terrified. Her wool had uncurled and grown dingy and bright red with fear. To this the other creatures widened their eyes and howled, they mauled the lamb to silence before the creature could cause any further harm.

Take it in stride my dear, you do not become the land of the lord overnight. It will wreck you sometimes, spare yourself the grief. Pick up an axe and start the hemming, it leaves much to be desired when you are in the zone, in that constant overturning apple orchard that rocks you like the otters do, they teeter on the brink of extinction and laugh about it, joke about it like your uncle when he tells his stories, you know, the one about the bowling pin and the hooker, that one.. The way you can’t see the sunbeams when it is sunny out, I love you for that, the way you don’t sleep when you dream, the way your lashes flush like a butterfly, sloshing mini hurricanes in the timid air, I like that.

Don’t waste all of your love in Asia Minor, it is destitute. You are better off timing it right, keeping it, or spending it on the trees next to me, growing around my ankles and lifting me into space. It takes a true hero to limit himself to the base that’s offered, to not run back and forth screaming at such a high speed he tells himself to fuck off, to let go and to let the girl get the best of things, it is a trite offense but it happens to the best, and the rest take it in pieces as well, an awful gain of power and distress, something you or I will never take, never believe in and never understand fully, it is an awful business, but that’s what it takes to be a man, to be an awkward lanky giant in a land of elves and god kings, it is awful, like a towel still dry, soaked in dry blood and warm, hot air, buzzing the dignity out of you with vampire teeth and creeping up on your soul, poised to strike and sink the teeth of rabbits and bats into its bloodstream.

The fire of the world is in Chicago, under the sewers and in the poor people’s hearts. It lights the streetlights and fuels the waves of the rich, heightens the buildings with coal and burning desires for money and greed accents the fornicating devils inside. Why don’t we crush the entire city, smush it like a fireant, try and do what God did to Sodom, that would seem fit. It is an awful thing that we have made, it will spawn more, and we have doomed ourselves, but we can love the future babies and deem our hatred to the past, they deserve it and why not, they fucked over the ample theatres of York and England, that is a whole loaf of nutty trees to go over. Now lets hold hands and sing through our throats, out our eyeballs and with the juice in our feet, it’s a time for rejoicing says the king of our breath.

It is akin to bringing forth the light you birth in your hands, the grief that bellows inside your stomach, grumbling and bumbling like an insane man in a whorehouse ready to squirm and faint. Too much, they would say, an awkward display of talent without the class and portrayal of lust and love. How we must feel the grease on our knees and rejoice when we do so, it is frantic living in days like these. How would someone so fat be able to clap a mountain between his hands, or even touch it for that matter? He cannot move, he can only look puzzled at the flies and pixies dancing on his drunken belly, throwing a kegger inside his bellybutton and poledancing on his pubic hair. Extraordinary depth, tightening the invisible noose swelling around your neck, burning into your raw milky skin. Lice covering your liver and nibbling at your skull, digging manholes to your cerebellum, hoping to find work in a better land. Maybe the economy is better, or maybe the crime won’t be so bad. But they sigh and they know it is, yet still they nibble, toil, and wake up in the morning. How could one not see the neglect in their eyes, they have not given themselves a chance to partake in the seasoning of the dogs, or to chew through the rat meat without the horror of being caught, or captured by the one who owns it. There are better things to do, and so we stay in delusion, constant motion, living in denial and prancing up and down hallways in constant delirium.

It’s a pie to the face or a punch to the stomach, it will bring happiness to those who don’t have it and gleam in the sunshine. Whenever it is near people will celebrate, throw up their arms and hug and kiss and follow eachother to the mountains singing and dancing and raking lawns for hours and hours until the notes in t heir brains are dead and dull, and they can do no more. It is a feeling very void and awkward, like a lanky giant pruning an apple tree or going to the ghetto to raise a calf. It brings little reward other than the actual money and dogs, but when there is nothing left to breathe there is nothing left to care for. It is a free world again, and we will have our wishes. The prayers will stay unanswered, but the hollow shells of horse carcasses and goat liquor will stick to the dingy desert surface for eternity.

Light (Freewriting)

Tie the rays of light in a bow and let it sit, it will be a moment before it regains consciousness. When it does, be careful. You will have angered the beast that steers it’s direction, and it will try to eat you and pick its teeth with your shoulder bone. Thrown in the ring like an ox carrying babies, or a little tube top earring that your mom used to wear to church, it feels sensational, that classy mature look all the young daughters seem to want these days. I haven’t the slightest idea why, it seems that to them beauty is as inconceivable an option as epilepsy or herding cattle to a library. It takes a sharp forked tongue to see through these things and when you do, if you do, it should be faint and shallow, with hardly the air to breathe or move even after. It likes it when its raining, cold hard and dry blood tears staining the sidewalk color schemes of whatever mood they’re in. Somehow in the dark it always seems purple, purple like infinity purple like the parades and your eyes and the movie I saw last night, horrible what a waste of time, it was like driving off a cliff, that’s a movie too but not as bad, it took me a bit to rethink everything I thought while I saw it and when I did I was glad, it seemed more fulfilling to watch someone die than to actually die or kill, schadenfreude has sick limits, if any.

Bring the light to the postal worker, he will watch you cry and tear your tears to shreds, recycle them and watch himself cry his own, feed them to his dog and then light his house on fire. He loves you, he always bringsy ou gifts, you never say a word to him. Why does he do it, when you give him no respect? He must be lonely, living in a castle of gifts handing them out to people and getting no love in return. An awful way to live, but selflessness is not for the meek. Bring me my slippers, I have a day job, live to live, bring home the bread and baste it in chicken fuel, in the mouth of the belly of the beast at hand. It tries to seem scared but it is not, it only tries to comfort your uneasiness by relating to you. There is nothing we can do to understand it, but once we do the options will be incredible, like typing on a windshield, or roped naked to a hanging lasso noosed by the throat seeing stars behind bars, every breath closer to the last, every word a little bit of dignity, shreds, petals to pieces.

Gallop in gallows, in paper fields of essays and ratty photos of old mice, holes chewed in by babies and old stoners, the resin on the bottom of human evolution chain. Frozen in cubes and diced, that’s what grandmother always used to say, marry the Mona Lisa and she will marry you as well. It never made much sense, but her eyes did, following everything so curiously following everyone everywhere all at once, ubiquitous like some sort of Godly effigy. Maybe Mona was a pantheist, maybe there was no need to follow, she was just bored, its hard to say with eyes like that, so berating and critical. It makes you uneasy, makes the sweat stick to your back, sting your eyes and make you sick, stabbing into your stomach poison tipped needles.. Japan would understand, but not Amerika.

Try on the milk, let the air fry, let it stir around the teenagers and the barfing galloping igloos, they cost too much but are okay as slaves, they are quiet and don’t resent anyone too much. They, like the other patches of lawn on the television and trees, have fur in their organs and in their spirit, it clogs their speech and makes it hard for them to shout back, so they whisper and no one gives them any mouth, any lip, or any other body part for that matter. It is devastating but it is what they want, a trial by fire, a living death, and a final frontier to the lesser ideas.

The horror swells up in your eyes, in the pinks of your fingers, whenever that child walks by. He loves you and wants to squeeze the mold out of you, but you don’t seem to let him. It’s just a joke, but really he means no harm. Why would anyone bring a daisy to a funeral, or a cupcake to an ant farm? They like feeding the outer beasts in you, and leaving the inner beasts to swerve and clash with themselves. It is a bit of an anger issue, revenge on the world, something to take like medicine or a sick child to the amphitheatre. Swallow a planet and it will run your system, get with the limelight and the light of the lime, it stings and it should divert from the rest of the other posers.

Live it, lick it, rush it and throw it back to the later realm, where you will go tomorrow and drown it in your roughened tears, the black things in the corner of your eyes that scare you like they do, amorphous shapes twisting and turning, they talk to one another but are released at different hours, it will never be a serious threat.

The lesson in the old shoe, the one by the side of the road, he must know a lot but he gets awfully disturbed, he drives a Cadillac so you know he knows a lot. The nurse told me not to worry about him, but he yelps like a dog when he looks at me or the ceiling, or the hole in the wall to the playground outside, he loves the kids. Maybe he ought not play with the kids, he may be dangerous. A seeker of souls of sorts. It’s possible, but even the brethren of lacking light need their love.

Compare the light to the dark and the skin to the bone, it is all relentless banter when you come down to the necessity of it all. Try a veteran in a canister, he will bark and complain until you tend to what he wants, his desires, things like that. They are really just greedy, not worthy. But the oxen do have lovely singing voices, you should hear. It’s like a bomb that explodes daisy pedals, or an atom with a spinning axis, spinning and spinning until it drills a hole to the core of the earth, blowing it to smithereens.

A bubbling cesspool of swear words, boiling to the top, overflowing and trickling down your lips, through your grated teeth, and landing fire and ice between the pores of your skin. A furious outbreak of disease and outrage,combing the waving typhoons of your ruffled hair, brushing past cleanliness and swimming upstream to the golden trophy of success, a burning smell, it is unpleasant to bear, to look at makes your eyes water and any normal man’s feet itch with powder stains.

Keep Climbing

Try Easter, or delve into a luscious pond of fur and sweat. It takes a minute or two but the reward is infinite, boundless, and you will have a story to tell your children. Don’t be lazy, don’t swim in your tears, it’s too shallow, it will bring you life again, clone your soul, that is for boys and you are a man. Follow humanity and don’t let go of the rope, you will kill everyone behind you and curse everyone in front. The skies are deep and sallow, they will not let you die an easy death, they enjoy the company.

(Freewriting) Horny Seasons

Sometimes when the wind is alone it likes to make cyclones, that way it can't hurt anyone. The cyclones also keep it company but they are very abusive, and manipulate all that they come into contact with. This annoys both the land and the sea, who treat the air as a roaming infant.

John Cooper is an innocent man, he only strives to show the truth in things. The world is a stinking liar, and in a world of liars the humblest man of truth is the king of them all. This king of liars is met with hatred, but with red rocks blazing in the summer sun, and the promise of minty gardens green, to the knees we will drop. For even the simplest of creatures the truth will always lay atop the calm sea.

Thinking hurts, do not think. Scream for the winter instead, the snow has left us. The ringing inside my brains rattles my head and my vision vibrates, I get nauseous. The twelve stomachs I have gained recoil at the thought of what may come. Where has the winter gone, it is off in San Tropez, having sex with spring.

(Freewriting) Reach for the Stars

A fond affection for the world brings about persuasion to the outer limit.

Tributes to the end of the world will make the mind of the aching pencil pusher tear apart his paper and dance upon its ashes, there is no time for such anchoring labor. Live beside me and take the vision from my soul, I reach to your chest and feel your heart but it is only mold, you have left it untouched for too long, The stinking neon has traveled into your empty mind, the scattered roses have brought me nothing but a guaranteed fate, the mindswept fear of practical thinking makes me jump so high I can feel the cold air in my throat, Alpha Centauri tries to grab me but its not enough, I have lost the grip and I can feel the freefall begin to laugh.

Tidbits part 3

Dance in fire and you will be rewarded with pain and a story.

Stab at the nest that bore you and you will find the gears that move your heart will stutter.

Performing atop the sensational golden clocktower is enough to make any woman quake and tremble, be sure to curtsy after you are done, or you may be pushed to the garden below.

My blood has clogged with evolution

The curved teeth of the key clacked when I turned it, it was sloppy but it got the job done. I had found her, hiding in the white light behind the oak wall.

I climbed the radio tower because I wanted to find the voices, but I found only the choir where God lives.

Regular wars are boring but they are cathartic, men must fight and women must weap.

Stabbing out of the ground were bamboo shoots carved into sharp spears, I was afraid to go any further. Keep your distance children, he is around here somewhere, the liar and the cheat that had spooked the townspeople, the traders with the two humped turbans, the blasphemed.

The mist is therapy, the sand is destitute.

The lethargic old man at the corner store had told me where I would live and where I would die, he read my palm and laughed, I pointed to the streetpost down the street and he nodded. I fell to my knees and clung to the asphalt, and a strong gust of wind flung him into it.

(Freewriting) Trust and Poison

Every time I come home you're still there waiting, like a leper waiting for a cure, or an old artist waiting for supplies, neglected. Try to forgive me in this city, I need to stand on this broken glass and do things I know aren't easy, release the time frame or we will never be happy. Walk a path to the end of life, it will crack your skin and send chills down your throat, when the winter splashes over us we will be frozen and die like dogs, keep on moving forward, keep grabbing, rock by rock we will make it. Don't make me turn back or Hades will grab you again, make me trust you, make me believe, Orpheus would be proud.

Choking on pipes is not a life, its a fate. A decision we think we have made, thinking of you as we huff and we puff, as we cry and lie, maybe shake hands with the devil, sign a deed to a new body, withered and broken, hollow and beaten, eyes sunken and skin clawed and pale. Hypnotized.

Champagne tears, flowing like the amazon into a sickly basin. Where the basin lies are the natives, drunk off of sorrow. Above the natives the Gods watch, horrified, but too intrigued to intervene. Why do these creatures love such self harm, lets see what other harm they might enjoy.


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Now playing: Cunninlynguists - KKKY (Remix] (Feat Skinny Deville & Fishscales, Young Chu & Sheisty Khrist)
via FoxyTunes

Tidbits part 2

Airborne lentils glide like diamonds, sorry for the confusion.

We walked for a mile or two and then she stared at the sky above her, waiting for a piano to fall. A feather fell gently to her left.

Out of the box and into the rain, run for the shade, sad sad fox.

The stagnant aroma of old orange peel hung like shame. It clung to the old man's face like a trophy, and controlled him like a tired puppy. His wife was shallow and scorn, her grapes lay in the grass uneaten.

The fist in the sky had finally unclenched and extended its index finger an inch away from my face. It was time for me to make a move.

The lamb had crawled up into the pipes and gotten sick, but had made friends with the bats and other strange creatures that lived there. They told the lamb not to be afraid, but the lamb was still terrified. Her wool had uncurled and grown dingy and bright red with fear. To this the other creatures widened their eyes and howled, they mauled the lamb to silence before the creature could cause any further harm.

Arguably the most passionate existence is that of the sea turtle.

When your lungs are stuffed with money, all you exhale is poison.

There used to be a man who fell asleep inside of a bee's hive. He was taken captive and was found one day to be eating the honey to stay alive.

At the edge of the world another universe begins, one with no wards and no toothbrushes. It takes a while to get there but if you do you will be incredibly glad you did, the animals there are friendly and will give you directions when you get lost. Don't talk to the skunks there though. Tthey will stab and kill you, they rob the graves at night and will put curses on you and your family. Not that anyone would want to talk to a skunk anyway.

I swam through a sea of glitter to get here, why am I not overjoyed with glory and blossoming into a rose?

I am startled to note that the patient has only one working eyeball. The other one sees only the good in people, and will be removed thursday evening.

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Now playing: Guns 'n' Bombs - Riddle of Steel
via FoxyTunes

Tidbits

A Colorful wind, breathe it in and you can fly to her. It tastes like cherry gumdrops and curls around your lungs until it kills life and strangles you with happiness.

The walls are insulated with asbestos and strawberries, protect the children for they are the taste of life.

The whales are the most honest mammal you will ever meet. Sometimes they donate themselves to the hungry, and even the stuffed and full. They dont have much to live for so they have mutually decided to die off after saying their goodbyes to one another.

These days its fashionable to clip your own wings, said the ugly hairdresser.

The tone in her voice was dipped in smooth mercury. She told me one day that I would die, and I smiled and sat down on the white beach next to her.

In the blight of the city there is an old man that screams at the church bells. He defines himself as the only normal one left, and screams whenever someone knocks on his door. No one knows whether he is angry or surprised, but they know he is scared. His name is Abraham Nottinghill and he sings the songs of angels.

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Now playing: Bassnectar & Kyrian - Blow
via FoxyTunes

(Freewriting) Timid Emperors

On the inside my organs are cemented green and crusted with worry and age, And on the outside of my body the world buzzes unpredictably, eroding my skin with time and quarrels. I begin to speak but my mouth stays silent, I shall have to live with the emperors among the daisies and dance quartets. They act snobby but only when strangers are around, it is only a defense mechanism, and it is your fault they are so timid in the first place. Caught like sparrows in a tunnel of cobwebs, they chatter to one another confused and lost, afraid of their titles and the life they have chosen. Stop the silence, lift the gates and let in my family.

An American Hero

...Even though I'm pretty sure he's from England.

(Freewriting) Violent sex and murder-breaths

Her psyche was tinted colorfully with autumn as she slept. She breathed soft rainbows and murder, and winced as the end of the light hit her face. I have taken my sweet time remembering, but I forget often. She is less fortunate, and she inhales the sins and worries of the sky and exhales the ashes of people long dead, carrying the metaphysical weight on her shoulders with a helpless smile. Those iron tears will have stitched themselves to her face soon, and the rainbows will have hung themselves, but unlike me never will she ever forget.

The oxygen has been jerked from my brain, and I remember nothing of the life I once had. Below the sea, settled next to violent sex and pollution the fish riot and murder, unencumbered and ruthless in their hatred. Was this what Gaia had wished for, for at the simple lift of a finger she could stop it, she could kill us all in one blinding swoop.

(Freewriting) Bleeding eyes and dancing souls

When the time comes one day I will race to the top of the skies and freeze my eyes shut in space. It will be cold and I may not survive but it will be worth it to see the planet in such an innocent and defenseless position. I might squish it between my thumb and forefinger like a red ant, I might spare it and fall asleep. I think I would rather travel to Mercury and build a home there out of Ash and soot, maybe burrow into the rock and look for a place to start a family there. I think when I hear the water rush through my brain and let the bells shatter my eyes and smack on my eardrums so loud it makes me nauseous, it proves something about myself. But what?

At the age of twelve I had once strolled through the valley of the underground skeleton and took a job steering a very thin gondola. I watched the demons who rode them be romantic, I watched the fallen angels do what they had suppressed, I watched humans be humans. When I watched they did not care, they enjoyed it, they enjoyed the audience. I ran into rocks and nearly tipped once, but they did not care, they were nice. I wish the light would've been that nice, maybe I would've payed more attention in school, maybe I would have some more passion for things, maybe I would be much more humble. I take things for granted but one day this gondola will tip and take me to a grave so dark I will remember nothing but the bony molasses that I had drowned in.

I was old when a flowery young angel looked at me with eyes that screamed. She asked me to kill her but I refused, she was too beautiful. She asked me instead to put a knife in her hand and push on her forearm in such a manner that would impale herself. To this I refused again, and we sat and smiled and spun and smoked until our eyes bled dark crimson from corner to corner. To this we celebrated in high spirits.

It was a very dull day in the super center, so dull in fact that even the dogs yawned as they shopped for ties and suits. It was oftentimes that the dogs barked orders at the lazy cats behind the counters who counted their coins and looked at jewelery that was too expensive for them to afford. I miss the fat cat that used to do nothing but sit on the bench and wait for her grandchildren to be done with their shopping, I miss that feeble empty stare in her eyes as she watched the dogs and cats pass, and the pelicans flop and the chipmunks dance, whirring around her and unintentionally insulting her lack of esteem and ability. Sometimes if you looked close, past the leathery face and frigid eyes, the gawking, drooling feline had a beautiful soul behind it, that danced so wildly and so passionately you would think that she may be the heiress of God himself. It was a gray Tuesday when she died, hungry and dead on the cold tile while her granddaughters were trying on pump heels.

I regret the dirt I have rolled in to migrate this far out of our true home. One day we will sit in a shrine of green marble, of clay pillars and of brilliant ebony incantations, we will be no longer slaves to ourselves and what we feel to be right and wrong. We will be free, and we will roam the earth as free people, smiling from ear to ear for the world to see. Once we have done that then maybe we will return home and tell the others of what we have done, maybe we will be heroes and change the world forever, out of the gray pit boss who runs it with steel in his eyes and with fire dancing on his forked tongue. Maybe one day we will do that.

(Freewriting) Lament

Theres something about the way she moves, the way she smiles, the way she exists, that fails to relate to any other of her kind. It is a divine concept, this woman before me, shining over me with her essence stolen straight from heaven, and the eyes, marble green, buried so perfectly among her glowing you'd think she might be porcelain. So small and so fragile you are afraid to touch, even though through squirming gasps you die to, you would give your house and home to only give a gift to your sense of tangibility, even for a moment. Child of the lily through her own beaming, she laments, yet softly smiles and anticipates.

INTERNET RAP BATTLES - IT JUST DOESN'T GET ANY MORE HARDCORE.

Thank you Lansing Community College for spawning the boredom in class necessary to actually do this.

For those who aren't accustomed to me being nasty, I apologize. It's all in good fun even though I may sound like a total bastard. I would never be this vulgar in real life. Rap battles, baby. Footnotes are provided for personals.

You're makin a name for yourself, thats for sure
But not the name your momma gave ya
when she born and raised ya, no
And*, that sucker halfwit half pint halfass jackass
Livin homegrown jerkin to porn alone, stoned
Like a defective bomb, you'll never blow up
So just scurry in front of that movin dump truck, you're fucked.
*And is his screen name.


MB* steady up and tune your voice to treble
Take a break and ponder, my man, you ain't no rebel
Just full of hot air with not enough to rise
The only thing rollin hard here is the rest of the worlds eyes
And what's this about me travelin solo?
Even when I'm alone there's still something else in my home
Its the rhyme, the rhythm, the bass, the beat
It's the talent, the tactics, the love, and the magic
I got it all, and I got it twofold
So quit worshiping the moon, and bow to your new Lord.
*MB, an abbreviation of Moonbiscuit, his screen name


Cream?*
Well, I'm drownin in something, but it sure ain't sweet
It's nasty, I'm nauseuous
Has anyone seen my appetite? I lost it!
Someone, anyone, rescue me from this cesspool
I'm too pretty to die
take this fool
My lifelines are beginning to drop
My breathing is slowing, my heart just stopped
Gotta hand it to you my man, your words are killer
Kinda like Jason or those zombies in Thriller
It's a bit different though, in a different way, it doesn't quite fit
You kill slow and boring
You kill with shit
*He said "my words are cream."



There he goes again
A-N-D actin witty, forgettin he's shitty
Must be the ADD or some wicked PCP
Cause man your flow is so vile and polluting it's givin off CFCs
Oh look at that, Sherpa* knows his science
He too knows acronyms and can bullshit up one-liners
But it's no biggie, It ain't hard, in fact it's a cop out
show me some real skills man, let your God damn monster out
Stop and listen, take notes if you're feelin
Rethink your style, Cause bro there's not much you're achievin'
Quit twittlin your asshairs and get shit right
Cause you ain't gonna win this motherfuckin fight.

MB, slow down, hit the ground and rewind
The mid 90's man? You got a problem with Pharcyde?
You better DRRRROP what you're doin and start to recognize
the fire and ice I spit will leave you speechless, with tears in your eyes

So Listen up, brother man, lemme show you what's what
It's like I'm a pro golfer, and this is putt-putt

You're stuck on grammar like it's some big achievement**
Hey, you passed public school, way to go, genius!
I'll rip up your adjectives, lines and adverbs
I'll murder your rhymes, and humiliate your words

It's a joke, you're about as Hardcore as Cyndi Lauper
Time after Time, rhyme after rhyme
Your skills have nothing to offer.
* Sherpa, my screen name
**Calling people out for Misspellings.



It's time to throw a phoenix down to you clowns
Bring back this thread from the dead and show off my crown
I'll bone all ya'll asses whether I'm gay or not*
I'll make you go from aggressive to passive
I'll cum/come out on top (Ohhh...) **

I take no pity on scoundrels vagrants and thieves
Biting styles and callin themselves the big bad OG

And has a passion for little twin sisters****
Don't you dare reproduce
Try running with scissors

MB has an ass whiter than Rabbit in 8 mile
If only he could get something else to shine like that, like his rhymes or his style
But I know he won't, not when he's gettin boned so much by me
Because the only thing shining on this sucker is the HIV.***

*I was accused of *ahem* fornicating with a fellow forum user betwixt the buttocks.
** I absolutely hate the word "cum", but this was too good.
*** I fully realized I was knocking myself when I wrote this, but I am a laugh whore. (I succeeded too, apparently)
****A reference to "tell yo sis had a good time." between two other users

All right, if the phoenix down can't excite your rhymes, here's an elixir
Or maybe here, take this
blurry images of dicks in lomo pictures*
Cause I know that'll excite you, it'll excite you something sweet
Maybe you'll finally start rollin hard
If you know what I mean

Resuscitate your mind, get some air to your brain
Refrain from fronting, you can't end my reign
You're imagining fantasies that you want to have happen**
You're imagining skills that you are just lackin
Come out of the closet, come down from your castle
You're living in a hip hop homosexual wonderland
Hell, even snoop knows you got problems, man**
* I was told to use a lomo camera to take a picture of my gay escapades.
** Following the previous rhyme I did, the (very predicted) onslaught of scenarios of my antics ensued quite freely.
*** The user's avatar was a picture of Snoop shaking his head goin "aw, hell naw."

Alright folks, enough with the gay jokes
I know I started it
but now we're gettin out of it
Christopher Lowell has feelings too
And you don't know if he's browsing around these forums, do you?
So let's cut it and talk about how much better I am than you two goons.
Cause that's really all we're doin, that's really why we're here
I'll make you dopes feel worse than when you step up to a mirror

You say I'm different, and God damn right
I'm different in every way, I'm too glorious to explain in one night
And, Maybe all that pot is fuckin with your perception
Because true hip hop, I don't think you make the connection
You too MB, Hell will freeze before I ever go crunk
that style is fraud, I got it debunked

Quit spittin fuel because I'm about to spit fire
The tremors you feel will reach from here to Mount Zion
Ya'll words are painful to hear, like "Grandma has a cancerous liver"
Well shit, what else is new, I guess go figure

I'll drop these rhymes like dimes from a tower
Hit you in the top of your skull with em
Laughin while you cower

And, it's true No one's ever in here except you me and MB*
But the time is now
For your sorry candy asses to leave

But savor the moment you sheep, because your looking at a king
The most fantastic hip hop head will always be me.
*A reference to a small conversation about how no one is ever in the rhyme thread except me and two others.

Somebody check my nervous system, cause man I ain't feelin it.
These weak ass rhymes couldn't possibly entice, not with this weak shit
Boring, Line for line ya'll fading like printers low on ink
Fill some talent in those cartridges, cause damn ya'll stink

I'm not trying to be a badass here, that just comes natural
Like a man of science, I bring reality, my skill is factual
But like a Hip Hop God, I also bring Hell
So wake up from your smoked up ego spell

It's time you respect your betters
Cause with me in this game you just don't measure



Boy don't even start me on the sins I've committed
I've bitten flesh off puppies and sacrificed kittens
I've painted my house red by chucking babies at the wall
I've sliced open chests and sucked life with a crazy straw
I've slept with God's angels and partied with Demons
Man fuck you, you've crossed the wrong heathen

So take this advice and take it to heart
Watch who you beef with
Hip Hop isn't just a game, it's fuckin black art.
*Editors note: I have not bitten flesh off of puppies, I'm not a monster. (Just kittens.)

(Freewriting) Proximal electricities and a lack of chairs

I think I'm going to go ahead and try and do this as much as I can from now on. For those that missed it, this is all raw and unedited writing, me writing the very first thing that pops into my brain. It hardly makes too much logical sense but it does in other ways. Sorry/Enjoy.

Ellis can't speak a word to the ladies. He gets kicked in the balls a lot so all that comes out of his mouth is stuttering helium. It is like he had voice reduction surgery, what a silly little boy Ellis is. To me, there is nothing more puny and tasteless than those who seek to disprove themselves, take a bite out of crime and expect to be thanked for it. Not everyone wants a celebrity to worship, and not everybody wants a gun to hold or a chain to rock around your threads or your ankle, for that matter. Take me to the place where I was born, I miss it, I wonder what time it is twenty one years ago. Will it be cold when I go back? How many chairs will they have, will there be enough? Sometimes something as simple as that can ruin an entire evening, even for the scumsucking miscreants.

The bump on my knuckle smiled at me today, because I bumped it again earlier. It grew a little, it grew because I had hit it. I abused it and it grew in size and character, and mass and personality. It was my child living on my hand, watching my every move and doing everything that I do. It got annoying so I covered it, hid it away because I was ashamed of it, I wanted nothing to do with it, but I knew it was still smiling under all the mess I had covered it with. To these days that I live I can only wonder what the people behind the mirrors must think, if they regret watching me or if they are even more amused than they were when they first started. How will I ever know? I know nothing of the art, only of the exhibit. Bring me back to where I belong, the crib that brought me here and maybe I can recall a little more, something that you might be able to use at the end of your movie, a real page turner.

There are several small animals that run around my feet in circles, like little whirlwinds of proximal electricity. I don't know how they got there but I have grown accustomed to how they act towards me, like I am one of them, it gives a nice warmth that no one would really understand, I doubt I even do myself. But the animals seem to understand, they seem to understand a lot. They have twisted more than anyone I have ever seen, and still not even thrown a punch. They don't have the guts to, or maybe they are just smarter than that. Who is to say whats left is left, we only know that because we say it is so. For a moment I thought Mona Lisa was right, but now I see that she isn't even that pretty.

(Freewriting) Dying gorillas and beauty

It's times like this that scare me enough to take myself to the doctor, bring me to the brink of satisfaction and then quickly revoke my status, take me back to life and back to the hell that wrought itself upon me in the first place. It's an iron bar that no man can ever pull up or walk across, an anvil that just keeps falling, never breaking through ice or ground, a chimney without smoke or fire, wood without termites or love. It lies deep inside as something organic, something alive, something sucking the life out of you but doing it because it thinks it is right, like a preacher or one of those guys that wear the apocalypse signs over themselves. It loves you because you are beautiful, you are a kin to the lord and savior, you just don't know yet.

Once when I was little I bit fire with an open mouth, it was painful. It tasted delicious but it was too horrible for anyone to intervene, and maybe just too amusing to stop. It was a time where I thought I was transitioning myself into something better, or maybe taking a trip to a new plane of existence, somewhere where I thought I had never been before. A fiery world full of mystery and intrigue, somewhere a child only dreams of in stories and fables. It turns out history was right, caucasions are the devil and only books with blank covers can be the truth. But it takes a while to get used to it, I don't know why but for some it just does. To be or not to be, some people will never see.

Today I was a murderer. It flew about my room buzzing and crawling, screaming for help in garbled little flips of conversation, but it was too high pitched for me to understand. He seemed hostile so I ran at first, i ran to get my gun. I came back and he was running in circles, running towards the light like a man with a death-wish, scaring me even more by the look in his eyes, his many eyes that seemed to reflect the red ways of the Potomac Indians that used to haunt my dreams and my family and the house they were born in. It took me a while but I killed him, I killed it, and now I forget every day to bury him, soon it will be too late and he will be covered by all the clothes and magnificence that my room seems to spawn day by day, like a trade salesmen at an auto show or a God working on creating a new world, a new playground for the other kids that he takes care of every day. He has better things to do than worry about animals killing eachother.

Bring life to the incompetent, bring will to the homeless, bring us a world to live in and maybe we will change for the better. Sometimes it's like that, ill set and full of intrigue, it just takes a moment to reset your mindset, it just takes a few minutes, years, to bring yourself to recognize that there are people worse off than you, with flies and giraffes and battle axes strewn across their streets and with flies and other terrible things nipping at their heels, like dead wives and the ghosts of their mothers. Like any outdated technology, spirituality is a grieving process given only to the strong, those who can handle it. It is a lovely way to live but a horrible way to die. The eighty years in between are not so bad if you just learn to cope with your fellow man.

Take me to the hospital, I am sick and the gorilla next to me has an awful cough, he may be dying. It is cold outside and our feet are falling off, give us shelter and food, we are hungry for something other than the flesh the world keeps giving us, it's old and grey and tastes like boiled socks, an awful dirty thing. It is probably a sin to eat such a thing, it fills my mouth with a stench so horrible and ghastly I feel I might keel over and writhe myself to death or drive myself to a coma, it is just that bad. Please doctor, let me in the hospital, I need to go to sleep, I need to just take a moment to relax and breathe, the world needs to stop while I catch up and tend to a few things, like my gorilla. He is sad and needs a few more friends, his home has burnt down and for a while there I thought he might just go on a rampage. I think he has a crush on you. Please let us in, we really are hungry.

I apologize for a few things, but you know I have only good intentions. Sometimes it takes the world or a rampant lord of God or trilogy of terror and doom to just say it's all whack and cut it off, end it, just drive it to the end of the earth and chuck it into the bush below. It really burns me up sometimes, deep in my gut I can feel it welling up, getting bigger, a psycho somatic tumor just waiting to explode and release it's toxins into the air. For the love of God do not breathe them in, they will make you remember things you just do not want to hear, things too intense and beautiful for any human to comprehend or understand. It is like hearing the voice of God, you will die instantly. You will not only die, you will be mortified and sent somewhere besides heaven or hell, a grown up timeout in the far reaches of space and time. I forget what they call it but they call it something sweet. Sometimes the devil has parties there and drinks green tea and eats fruit off apple trees and throws up afterwards. The fruit is bitter and sweet, it takes about three minutes for the party to go in full swing. Sometimes I wish I was zen.

There was a time thirty years from now when I was petting my dog, he was made of metal and steel and barked very little. Once when we went for a walk he crapped out fire and that made me laugh, I love the future.

To me, nothing is more dear than the sign at the end of the roads in India that say "bring back the house rules". Sometimes it makes people angry but I like it. To a man with no teeth, no job, and no prospects it would be something terrible, something he would take to his home and burn in gasoline and beat with a crowbar, it is like that only more complicated, something much more pristine and vulgar, I can't even begin to explain it but it will always be there, that authentic bitterness of the east, they will always have it, not everybody is a winner, not everybody can open up the key to pandora and live in a box forever, the genies of the south can tell you that, they will always know what it's like to be used, to be opened up and enslaved, it is an awful thing that only a number of true billions will be able to write about and describe in readable context. It takes finesse.

Freewriting (Hairy red rocks, emotional alligators and defying God)

This is some wicked stuff, I love doing it. Anyone can do it. Take a pen and a pad and write the very first words that come into your mind, and follow the path that it takes you. It works better on paper, but typing works as well. Whoever the hell is actually reading this (Thanks, by the way) should do it and show it to me.

An airplane or an unbalanced forfeiture of thought and grievances is what it takes to live in this land and be realized, be a king or an emperor, or anything even remotely close. It is like being a child only without the worries, and with more strength and balance and coordination, it takes a while for you to truly understand the grasp it holds and what it has on you, so much more skill but less class, like an onion peeled revealing the layers below, each one more lucid and more fantastic, more unappreciated and farther away from civilization and the light, the spotlight and the American dream. Why don’t we go for a walk on the stars, hopping from one to the next, treetrop to treetop, solar complexities like that are something we don’t see enough of, too much violence and perverts in the newspaper, even working for the newspaper, it would be better if they were in the sky or shoved away somewhere to stay for a while, a pleasant vacation or a snack for a queen that has a thousand mouths and no belly so they would come right out unharmed but changed, like ants in an insanity ward.

It is for the dogs when you realize your hand is red and your face is droopy, the skin on your left finger has grown old and pale and less spectral than the rest. It looks distinguished like a bearded old man but appearances can be very clever and important to handling peace and other terms of endearment, especially globally. It is a true sigh being the only calf in a whorehouse or a lie in a milk jug spinning around and dancing with the last droplet left, loving it and kissing it until it dries up and leaves and marries the air and the earth and then jealousy comes, your second wife, and the marriage is turbulent but it lasts forever and is committed, not like the succulent droplet of milk or the apple combs in the wavy hills of England or the sweat beads on an exercise machine, they love you too but it would never be the same.

Giving birth to fog and to a ferocious king, waving his scepter at all the clocks and all the slaves, waving it at you and his people, he cares little but he wants to look like he understands, maybe he does but who is to say, it is a trial of mind when you go down that road, the same road that an axe or a purring kitten will take you, golden and worn, trodded down for centuries and beaten with baseball bats and fallen trees and rain, the feeling is like greasy leather when you touch it’s pavement, but it is never warm to the touch, only cold, but it is a warm cold like Christmas or an ice cake, or the penguin sculptures grandma used to make out of coal and the tire fires of Winter.

Strife like the texture of a paper, winding and turning and throwing up pieces of childhood, fenced away for later pondering. If you time it right, maybe you will get pity, and the animals next door will come for a tea party, for a snack or a jazz dance. That seems to be the pattern, people complain about the economy even though they don’t understand what an economy is, like jumping on a train that goes to another universe, another plane of existence, where your skin turns inside out and the bugs inside you are finally freed, and people can see who you really are, an alien.

Your fingernails grow because they try to escape you, like an embarrassed friend at a family outing slowly inching away, until finally you cut them off, and they disappear. It’s like that with the rhinos and the dinosaurs and mammals of the beach, and the very high Gods who attack the low Gods, it merits a certain award but none is given, because we have none and do not have the skills to make such a thing, but we want to oh so very much, we would rend our own limbs and present them to you, steaming on a plate with vegetables and curry sauce, with tomes of garish beautiful pelicans etched into existence by our own identities and our own false bearings on life.

Try it on, pat it dry and then squeal to the kingdom that raised you. They think you are one of them, even look up to you and think you are perfect, but your ears are devious and the floodgates will soon open and bring you to the ice calf of the golden surreal.

You might want to cry when you see the people with baseball bats are swinging it at your favorite sun, using it as a ball and sending it across the ocean to the next series of quiet events. It will take a while for you to get used to it, used to the quietness, used to everything about it, but day by day you will grow another pair of arms and be able to catch it and throw it back, and they will catch it in their teeth, and cry a flood of tears so rancid it will make the universe quake and gag. At least, that’s what the kids at school tell me, they tell me a lot of things but that is one I remember, it reminds me of a fairy tale or a bear on stilts maybe at a Russian circus or a Czech play, it is like running Dime in football or killing a man with a jackhammer, but those are awful things, you might not want to partake. There is one thing though called Table tennis, a rock and roll concert named by Athena, she brought rice to the homeless people once and they gathered up the pieces and threw them at the rich, at the snobs and the mutants in the sewers. They were punished by being tossed into the sky and struck with lightning, it was a horrid day in Rome.

It takes all the ice in Switzerland to remember why we cry and dance and sing, or why the eye on the pyramids in Giza is so long it stretches the nile in two, or why the cupped glass of pocket oil smells so sweet, like apple cake or a new tricycle seat for two, but the reason is we can’t even fathom the possibilities that are otherwise, that fail to bring us to the brink of sanity, that do not touch us as the other things in life do, it is kind of like that, only with better food and more miracles, like a sunrise or a dead man walking, it spins around in our minds and jumps up and down for attention like a child, eventually it gets what it wants but only by yelling, even when we don’t pick it up it still shouts, but one day it will stop and the world will stop breathing, and the roaches will cry instead.

You feel it between your fingers when your toes are feeling grumpy, or when the animals next door are fighting, throwing knives and spells at eachother, one day they will kill eachother and history will remember them as the mongrels they were, it makes me sad to think that but it is the only possibility. I have witnessed the other animals, far away in Brazil and Tokyo, they seem more timid, afraid of eachother and afraid of themselves, but who is to say that they are cowards, I think the only right way of judging a man or an animal is by his cherry soled shoes, or how much he can lift, or how many berries he can crush with his fist and throw back at God, these are the only ways to judge a man.

Lace your bowtie across an alligators chest and he will willfully accept the apology, his arms do not reach and he is embarrassed of his dry skin, the bow gives him a touch of humanity, a touch of light in his dark room that he sleeps in, maybe like an old friend to talk to, a listener or a pretty lady, these are the things the alligators are interested in. They do not like being threatened or being eaten by other humans, this is why they sleep, why they talk to eachother in the water where humans cannot breathe or trudge or dirty themselves in, this is their home and they would have it no other way, so give your bowtie to an alligator and watch the leaves rustle by.

It brings me to the merry old brink that England brought the dogs to, that they raped India to, that South Africa and Germany and all other pedestals of light and butter were burnt down to, it is the void in the hole of God and loving lesser men, or of the better men in cages and in countries that are unnamed, away from Earth and it’s battlefields, where princesses sleep and where belts of faeries and pixies dream of ruling worlds of their own, but they dare not to for they are modest and love too much, they care too much but get too little like an old tire, worn and beaten without the air to breathe.

Living with a life that loves you or even that is apathetic to you makes you think that there is little to be desired in Africa or the Sahara, or anywhere else in the world that is covered in salt and beans and juice and apple butter or kings and love but where else would you go when you want to scream, when you want to try your luck at a palm tree slot machine or a thieves den, where else would you go when you want to lie like the grizzly bears do or cheat on a test or hold tight and tender the mist and the clouds and the sun, even the sun will become less angry when you hug it, it is very unusual for a human to be so committed to things, why else would he do it? It is for the only ones left, the giraffes and the sealions and the antelopes and the sky pillars of crystal marks and marksmen to take the rest of the bounty, the rest of the plots, the ones that don’t twist or surprise you, those are the good ones, you can sell them for more in Hell and the Ganges.

When you paddle downward the current will take you in, below what you want and over what you don’t, it is a horrid path where the pixies and creatures beyond pixies have gone to mate and dance, like a unified club of ecstasy, humans are allowed in but they must bring their own enjoyment, they must bring their own wives and their own children, they must bring their own souls and put them on the table and inside the revolver next to the silver bullet, or inside the silver bullet with the gunpowder, then the taller people will take the revolver and spin the capsule, and then the smaller people will line up and sing, and the best singer will try to gorge the soul and the living bullet inside themselves, but only for a moment, because they don’t want anybody to get hurt, nothing like that, the ants and the other fireflies and living entities recoil at such things.

It is a feline's truth of paw that the end of the world will be swift and relentless, like a horde of naked apes running through a grocery store, tearing apart the symmetry and rending it to pieces with their bloody fangs and old toadstools. This makes the mites shiver and the dead pterodactyls ponder, how can one be so cruel? Perhaps it is revenge, the unassociated bean of mortality, the level of manhood we seem to be stuck on, unevolving like an octopus shard, or a tree with only three leaves. It takes weight, thousands of pounds in blubber and steel and mass, to throw the apes back to the antimatter, back to the mercury and the grass that spawned them. Only then can we have cease fire, and a universal jury to rectify the situation.

Maybe it's something like a bomb to blow up the world, or maybe it cures hunger and disease, either way it's big and needs to be handled well like a gorilla or something wild and crazy, like a bratty kid you don't really like but still love and you treat tender but the future is scary and none of us dare stir it because the future is unsure and we don't know if it loves us maybe it doesn't maybe it's friends with history but the present loves us and we float between the two like a raft upon it, and we try to be good but we are collective and its hard to be sure and sometimes we wonder how much we're worth and maybe we should move like the others but how and we don't want to anyways its like a pie in a windowsill and you want it but you can't touch it and you're in tune and in touch but how do you find the right receiver to send you starbound? It's like something you only hear about like a calamity or a heart attack, but it can be nice too it can happen and have mercy and be still and calm and not be a battleaxe or a murderer, it can love us but everyone has to try.

It's kind of like a test, something you really don't want to do or take, it's like having a kid and not knowing what to do with it or how to feed it or clean it or hold it or shave it or bathe it, it's not really something you have to do a lot or a little but it takes time and money and effort and a little courage but not a lot, something like a forest on Venus and exploring that, or going outside and seeing that the road is cobblestone, and you don't remember why or how it got there, or where the road goes and you try to hunt down the person that made the road so you go to Venus but only cry because you don't know where to go and you can't run only walk and crawl and you feel slow and gritty and like you might explode like on the cartoons so you go far away like a businessman and rent a hotel and bring back something to calm you down like warm food or animal skins or old books or candles or a wife and time to make bread and build a house or a lawn and fly to a mountain and take care of it and wonder where that man is, or if he is on your mountain and get him off your property.

Like chiming bringing it back to the shower to the earth is something like a dog like Charlie and his teeth it hurts but it's okay because he would've wanted it like that but only for a little while is something I can't bear very long or much longer, something like a weird looking animal do something I haven't seen before and it's funny to see that but sometimes it's unnecessary and it hurts to even watch it, it's crazy and I don't like it sometimes it's just sick and I want to scream but thats okay because Charlie was there and he never did that because he was alright he never would've done that so neither will I sometimes it hurts but it's for me and not for them it's kind of private like a trinket or a locket or something you hold near and dear to you like a rocket ship or something else you would send into space like your hand or a shirt or a palm tree and it's husband and wife it's sad and it's crazy but it happens because we have the technology and it just so happens I have already done it and so have you so please don't try.

It's envy and it's a feeling you were born with but like all the other ones you get over it like a log in a river or a waterfall that goes up not down and you have to climb it and you almost jump down but sometimes you stop and think if it's really worth the time sometimes we all do it we wear masks and dance and sing some of us cry and some of us laugh and some older people die and decompose and laugh in the dirt for a thousand years until they go to heaven and dry out, and sing songs and hold hands like in the '60's, only now they do it forever but I think they still hold hands in hell like they do on earth and pluto and mars it's a lot like college only the girls aren't pretty and the rocks are big and red and hairy and too high to climb and they breathe and pulse and instead of singing they scream and claw.

Art Heap: Invent a Disease Challenge

"Fungiosa Infectiosum" AKA Shroomitis

Effects: Agonizing bone and organ loss slowly replaced with fungal anatomy.

Everything on this is made of some kind of mushroom, except for the pupils. Photoshop, Der. This took a while... lots of burning and dodging to get the shadows to blend right, and it still looks quite a bit off.