Adapting to the ruins of intellect, I realize there was never much there to begin with. Getting by was only as hard as believing in something to live for. All I found was industry, nicotine’s tar paving the tree-lined streets of my lungs, streets where deer stop and stare at me as if I were some type of endangered species of headlight. They’ve arranged the pieces, split their profits with bread knives, they tread through night—but it’s too bright peering through the collage of Hubble’s cloudy kaleidoscope. So frail, as if protected by hope, claiming everything’s not relative. They’ve erected scaffolding around the skeletons of working stiffs, convincing that faith fosters bliss but so does ignorance. You run the risk of being dead and still awaiting rescue, firing flare guns off in your coffins. Now trees fall in the forest so often and no one but the government’s there to hear it and bear witness—unlike the song which still won’t make a difference but to put an end to it we gotta start: The truth’s a dead star waiting between my lips like actors before curtains part… Pitch-shifter, rising star or descend in the mixture—flickering pictures captured. Quake too large to detect on your Richter. My classic seismographic so drastic, has wack MC’s reacting with nothing left to salvage, these savages try unwrapping my gift but there’s no address on the package and no postage, so you never receive the diagnosis. I hold this crooked industry for ransom, diagonal process of lopsided hostages mocks the locksmith who doesn’t knock first. Lyrics I concoct burst, shattering your spine with no prosthetic reimbursal. These crucified clock hands tick-tock works off mechanically improvised rhyme rehearsal, like hip-hop innovators appearing in commercials—to me that’s just role reversal. I’m idol energy while in place you run D, you’re the prequel, well, I equal MC squared—you’re not prepared for two of me. Fifty legs each on both sides of one centipede. My own contender, borrower verses lender, four red-chip connector. While you borrow verses from pretenders, I’m Poindexter—I’ll walk five hundred miles extra with iron in my blood rusting, trying to pass customs, crunching through metal detectors to fluster inspectors and reach hip-hop Mecca. Fuck this rhyme, I’ll write something better…

I’m serious: With lyrics I’m swift, hurling mics off a cliff. Let my subconscious drift across the Pacific. Rhyme specific, on occasion explicit, these verses wind and squeeze like boa constrictors. Take your pictures and tell the whole world to smile while the monolith ventriloquist is giving puppet-string facelifts… Step into my funhouse, get lost in every section—these mirrors stretched tall and wide distorting your reflection. When my mind convex, you concave, lose the election—lose your erection, step off your soapbox without honorable mention. Behold the sun’s ascension. With centipede legs for eyelashes, I’m the new invention. When I grab the mic I’m like Clark Kent, step in a phone booth—I come out triggers on twin tech 9’s like a saber tooth. My lungs digging holes in the air, occasionally refilling ‘em. Verbally broke MC’s: I’m billing ‘em for every mismanaged syllable. Hospitable to the point I point out where they screwed up and fell out I come back in drilling ‘em. Ask ‘em where’s your heart at? You think that sounds phat? I’m dropping heavy words off a balcony, put on your hardhat. When you lose your balance I’m a flawless acrobat, tightroping your flatline with no net beneath me, my hands tied around my backside, barefoot with a two-headed broom in my mouth sweeping a verbal landslide—making each end coincide. I guess I get high off a good rhyme. Jacob’s ladder I’ve climbed—a steep incline but, when I reach the top, suckers below will measure my height with stage props and the number of albums I drop… I’m serious: With lyrics I’m swift, hurling mics off a cliff. Let my subconscious drift across the Pacific. Rhyme specific, on occasion explicit, these verses wind and squeeze like boa constrictors. Take your pictures and tell the whole world to smile while the monolith ventriloquist is giving puppet-string facelifts… In high school I took the crash course with no collision—other cats got their heads snipped off like botched-up circumcisions. Now I’ve made it my religion to rock shit with precision. I break you down under conditions of rapid cell division. Get your place and index cards ready, and watch the teleprompter—visual sound monitor. My rhymes cruise the freeway with a broken odometer, and as a pessimist it’s effortless to imagine me passing tests with flying colors. (Wait, what?) I equate your apocalypse with my jock itch. My tongue is a light switch flipping through on and off positions like strobes or magnetic poles in global cataclysms—it’s a best-ever series on television. Ya’ll take cold showers while I’m spontaneously combusting. Tin men who need oil, ya’ll sound a little rusty. I’m thrusting with hot fire breath like a dragon, burning ya—try battling me and catch a hernia. Word up to Sterling Silver—him and I go back like timelines that ain’t been drawn yet, you think I’d forget? Man, fuck regrets—I pop this in my tape deck with respect and towel off while you other cats are still wet. It’s not rappers, it’s lyrics you waste and, if you can’t push your real shit out, I’ll squeeze you like a tube of toothpaste. In a catastrophe, I thank [g]od for blasphemy, and everything else that doesn’t matter to me… I’m serious: With lyrics I’m swift, hurling mics off a cliff. Let my subconscious drift across the Pacific. Rhyme specific, on occasion explicit, these verses wind and squeeze like boa constrictors. Take your pictures and tell the whole world to smile while the monolith ventriloquist is giving puppet-string facelifts…

My intoxicating inoculation as a commodity is forsaken—not meant to be taken so lightly, my dependency on intellectual tendencies graciously conducts my fluency, and my terrestrial astronomy is equivalent to perpetual ambivalence to mass lobotomy... You’re insignificant compared to the magnificent styles I bring forth with every fourth interval. You’re a satirical miracle. My lyrical vehicle drive? Observant, never swerving, energy conserving. I rhyme for days without batting these hybrid eyelids, obviously do anything to package images. My heart’s a skipping compact disc, recorded murmurs. You think I’m done but like hidden tracks I go further. I’m sarcastic, stretching elastic cataclysm—the big bang struck on the head of a match stick. The drastic apparatus whose status is practice made perfect—this mic’s my glass slipper, a Shure fit… My terrestrial astronomy is equivalent to perpetual ambivalence to mass lobotomy, my intoxicating inoculation as a commodity is forsaken—not meant to be taken so lightly, my dependency on intellectual tendencies graciously conducts my fluency… Fuck your white supremacy, I’m listening to Malcom, Fred Hampton and Dr. King, I’m‘a be unanimous when we’re at maximum occupancy. Truancy ain’t allowed in a crowd endowed with just one man who surrounds sound. Significantly with intricacy I solve the mysteries of the ages with sages in sweat shops working for low wages. Dry-cleaning your white sheets, I got mad pages of loose leaf scattered across my floor like leaves in fall, pictures of dead trees sapped on my wall—I wanted to climb them all, instead I fell like raindrops on parasols. Still I dissolved. I’m a waste of space and still I managed to climb up DNA’s spiral staircase… My dependency on intellectual tendencies graciously conducts my fluency, and my terrestrial astronomy is equivalent to perpetual ambivalence to mass lobotomy. My intoxicating inoculation as a commodity is forsaken therefore not meant to be taken so lightly… I got a fever my thermometer rises so high that Mercury takes a left at Andromeda... Hoping to fathom karma while drowsy choking on big pharma, alarming martyrs posing with photographers taking cliff’s notes like stenographers. Every line I spit is tantamount (to nothing), my rhymes are paramount. I’m wrapping the clouds in Christmas lights and blacking the city out. I wanted to get caught and they took the bait, now I’m locked down in a maximum security mix tape. It’s too late to take back my mis-takes, so I fake my death like Jesus, rise three days after short recess and resist the temptation to last by crossing my own path… My terrestrial astronomy is equivalent to perpetual ambivalence to mass lobotomy, my dependency on intellectual tendencies graciously conducts my fluency, and my intoxicating inoculation as a commodity is forsaken—not meant to be taken so lightly…

Does anyone here remember what happened to Vladimir? Yeah, verbatim… Does anyone here remember what happened to Vladimir? Yeah, verb ate him… To bleed jealous colors, plucking eyelashes like thorns from wounded rainbows—watch ‘em streak slow through gasoline puddles. The sound is subtly muffled when the entire spectrum crumbles—the eyes are props in tunnels that never resemble vision’s funnel. A solid standing surface or perforated strainer’s the difference between picture painters and painting framers. When their lanterns can’t even see beyond brush-stroke banter, broad intangible phantoms capture candlewax masters for scratching the cuts. After disaster plucks enough for us to grasp one-part tentacle / two-part series spectacle, pouring ropes of glue down my throat to renew the cliché of a broken heart. Earth to plane, moth to flame: If it’s all the same quick claim to flickering fame my interest wanes from Astro-terrain to empty space between a football huddle’s group teddy-bear cuddle. So love is but the exchange of two consenting ventricles tossed into conceptual receptacles. Ignoring perennial protocol, like do professors make sounds if you’re never there to hear roll call? If I spit something you can’t absorb it ricochets and when my words boomerang back of the blackboard into my face I’ll say touché. And if those thorns sink too deep to extract, I’ll exact facts on reflective plaques and watch opinion’s mirror crack—distract its fragments from gathering stagnant, I’m an emotionless catalyst who motions to analyze this animated statuette. My ocular always adamant about watching my wrists slit to heal in minutes—skin rough, scars fixed with sandpaper platelets. Bracelets echo down my fingers only to linger like rings of bacteria—antibodies flex and flash like disposable cameras… Why am I always snapping shots at myself? As artists we’re all narcissists. We try to distinguish ourselves using a language invented to communicate passion through anguish. But these are all just concepts—we need to extinguish acrobatic flips that just cross our names off the list. One by one, we all diminish. Our insipid yet stylish facades are childish, too ignorant to not acknowledge. We don’t pop caps in cats but what we really do is fib with ignominious attempts to spit acido on our bibs. Now who the fuck is Vladimir? Revolutionary leverage—it could mean Mayakovski but it’s just another reference. That’s not my preference, so Webster’s fired me like lepers get paid in severance but my breathless setlist consists of songs I haven’t written yet. Capsized ships get wet, tape-deck pilots eject—my four red chips have yet to connect. By now the room’s probably so hot it’s alarming—I’m sorry, but next time you’ll have to bring your own radiation suit to the party… Does anyone here remember what happened to Vladimir? Yeah, verbatim… Does anyone here remember what happened to Vladimir? Yeah, verb ate him…

I turn the sky inside out like a blue t-shirt, hidden seams blossoming light beams that keep your floor from falling through my ceiling, else Mother Goose guess through golden Humpty Dumpty debris while I push shopping-cart caterpillars through the aisles of my bloodstream. Before and after fiberglass slipper, stick figure skate to illu-straight jacket beside the immaculate medicine cabinet. I know the quarantine ceremony’s about to commence when you snap on a rubber glove before patting me on the head. And I propose precaution as double negative: Be careful before being careful’s the parable we’re embedded in as wooden soldiers carved for motionless warfare, ironically ordered to stack the bricks before applying the martyr’s mortar. Couldn’t hold it in, I pissed my pants laughing at such incompetence and broke my ribs coughing up stress incontinence. Life is the one thing I’ll end I had no part in starting so I guess when I kill myself I’ll just be cleaning up my mother’s mess. Hypnotic subject change of address, here’s an idea for cinema: Slide the welding mask over your face and ignite acetylene enema. Abbreviating an ampersand’s antithesis—the animated antics of an antonym’s ambient amulet… What? Sharp bright minds, but like radio-station tower lights they blink, flicker and pulse but never completely shine… I see bats asleep under rainbows, hung from bridges of wet light. Head clouds soak the air in mist. Sleep is a myth over the harbor where night trawls its own dark oblivion for better words, concise? Precisely… I’ve abandoned my feathers and buried all their shovels. Now, my claws are learning to pedal their swing away from the cage. Welding the links of dawn’s chain reaction, wrapping a new gift means poison in German tactics. And not one snowbank could pack this payload. With a basketball-hoop halo, I dribble past unsuspecting cerebral lobes. This track is my field, now let’s discuss the compact discus I wield and hurl at the unfurled flag of a smiling world, but my frown just won’t keel…over the black and white rainbow of a tornado’s color-blind eye might risk exposure. Initially, I was nervous about swallowing butterflies, but I compromised at the risk of popping a prophylactic necktie. And if raindrops were a race then drought is genocide, implanting cactus acupuncture with voodoo-doll hides—needles which writers fill to eyes with ink like quills on porcupines. If no one else is buried in this cemetery does anyone die? My hope here’s to engineer a sound for sore ears, but we’re too busy jumproping strands of time and playing leap year. Redundancy’s abundant, surplus strung up and stranded—only demand a cover-up if the weather balloons crash land. All the useless wars and bouquets set on the graves of soldiers fallen, but even bees on bicycles couldn’t petal their way to the pollen… I see bats asleep under rainbows, hung from bridges of wet light. Head clouds soak the air in mist. Sleep is a myth over the harbor where night trawls its own dark oblivion for better words, concise? Precisely…

Just listen, cuz I’m only just beginning. I don’t want any tension between ascent and descension. I know this might need correction to eliminate pretension so, like anal cavities, I’m clenching but I got diarrhea of the mouth and I’m squirting it out like super soakers in summer so it’s thirst-quenching but, like dead soldiers or gun holsters in California, I’m not hot enough to mention but just listen… Listen closely to this incantation, a simple demonstration of complex wisdom beyond even my comprehension. The elements exposed to radiation with a level too high to manage a climb, yet still you try. You can’t top my paradigm—the very peak of capability, with lyrical agility, legs like a centipede, untraceable mobility. Calculate an understanding: You’re in but we’re outstanding. Damaging, this is what we’ve been planning. Our flows are known to erode all of your precious stones. Our bombs are known to explode. All the rest of ya’ll clones, acting. We drop you like you’re having spasms. Deep, like a chasm. Our blood cells: Too intricate for your cytoplasm. You: Animalistic, a primitive linguistic. You got your bat but when I tossed the ball you missed it. Don’t be resistant. Just say goodbye, you kissed it. You shouldn’t risk it, you’re too simplistic. Listen to instinct: I don’t have to hunt cuz you’re extinct. The missing link with flows like tap water from kitchen sinks, deep enough to mountains sink… Just listen, cuz I’m only just beginning. I don’t want any tension between ascent and descension. I know this might need correction to eliminate pretension so, like anal cavities, I’m clenching but I got diarrhea of the mouth and I’m squirting it out like super soakers in summer so it’s thirst-quenching but, like dead soldiers or gun holsters in California, I’m not hot enough to mention but just listen… Listen to the symphony I composed, write my rhymes like prose. My team bloody your nose, make you inhale these flows like white powder in three rows. Now you overdose, I kick your casket closed. I rock the mic at shows. The earthquake shattering windows, swallowing bodies ‘fore they decompose. I stand at the gates so wack MC’s can’t pass—many step up, but they get shattered like glass. Don’t bother to ask, there’s no question: I hold the sharpest mic and one word will puncture one of your intestines. I suffer from too much alcoholic ingestion. I’m libel to smile while giving MC’s manic depression. The language is pure expression. My sentence is a bullet fired through the barrel of a chrome weapon, shoot where it’s destined. A bull's eye getting pierced in the pupil by a dart—I toss more to split it like a break your crew apart cuz this is art, and each one of my lines is a part of a wooden beam that Noah used to build his precious ark. Now I’m carrying all your fake MC’s across the seas—there’s shit that even Moses didn’t spilt before me. Cuz I’m on the cutting edge of rhyming, slice a face with my raps. I blow my whistle, have these false MC’s on stage running laps… Just listen, cuz I’m only just beginning. I don’t want any tension between ascent and descension. I know this might need correction to eliminate pretension so, like anal cavities, I’m clenching but I got diarrhea of the mouth and I’m squirting it out like super soakers in summer so it’s thirst-quenching but, like dead soldiers or gun holsters in California, I’m not hot enough to mention but just listen…

This charade is pointless as the cone of a blue lamp shade. Increasing the fan base with the flip of a light switch’s flickering handshake. Commence to outer dimension: Still not hot enough to mention, I shove pins into thorax cushions of my butterfly collection. Satellite-dish contact lenses, mesmerize forensics. Entry or exit, all your stations detect are wedding receptions—no ceremony. For those who use prayer to prey on innocent witness idiocy, off on the distance even railroad tracks desert me. Synapses fire off, I aspire to rewire the entire circuitry. Since my heart’s a compact disc I skip excuses, but can’t manage to master these mixes the rest of my body produces—it’s useless but I aim to claim this unlimited style’s legitimate, I even go so far as to copyright my birth certificate. With Dali’s moustache for handlebars my motorized bicycle dashes through this wasteland desert of ashes. Dehydrating the massive masses, I choke tattoos into breathless skin captions leaving no image or wit to clash with… Maybe the word should be omitted... Maybe the sentence is never finished… The dotted line signified existence that paused at continuance… Ellipsis... Ellipsis... Ellipsis… I dunk my straw into the ocean, slurping suck propulsion through a capped hatch that shouldn’t be opened. In slow motion, these parenthetic walls close in on concave shell with convex cell. Soaking wet, the atmosphere sloping. Through seashell headphones I listen to the storm, the ghosts of oceans we hear and want to believe in. I must be dreaming to punch holes in the paper aircraft carrier decks in attempt to abort the mission of all sinking semen. What’s your blood type, writer? Mine is fused with Jupiter’s rings branded up and down my arms with car lighters. I sit staring at these keys like a piano’s crossword puzzle, unlock the driver’s side door of my psyche leaving passengers befuddled. Every time I hit the space bar, I pass an empty seat in a movie theater designed for one, each letter a popping kernel. This big, dark room’s a shark’s mouth with rows of teeth I impale myself on. I’m seeing leopard spots that polka dot the usher’s laughter but I’ve spilled my guts for them to examine with flashlights and clean up after… The signal’s getting fuzzy. Maybe the dial’s a little rusty, maybe the DJ hasn’t slept and he’s getting clumsy. He’s got the wrong songs pumping. It’s something about which I’ve been wondering. I know it’s not his choice—he doesn’t decide what styles to covet, or to make you love it by rotating it 360 every hour on the hour during every car ride to work and from it. And when the hours stack like pre-applied bathroom tiles, I only ask you give me a minute to finish writing this freestyle. With rhymes thick like aerial views of forest canopies, lungs trunk and branch out from the invisible floor’s atrophy while unraveling the fabrics of disassembled dissected mannequins whose severed arms and hands I grasp clapping in unison but being aggressive isn’t so impressive, so the shadows of these power lines cross out your collective message. I died in a past life sentence, my future’s already been rented. Fortune tellers read my palm prints pressed into the sediment and, if you were able to read these words, if would at least surpass my speech impediment… Maybe the word should be omitted... Maybe the sentence is never finished… The dotted line signified existence that paused at continuance… Ellipsis... Ellipsis... Ellipsis…

The moment I touch the mic, I won’t be needing a second strike. My rhymes are spiral, swirling like a whirlpool in the dead of night. Liquid tornados, a tidal wave of flows comes close to drown the coast. Then I rose, composed a hundred-foot waterfall and stood in a pose dumping all my heavy prose onto all of you pros. With a fluctuating alphabet, lines of language, the interchanging letters to exhibit my habit. I make it a point of poetry: From my hat I pull the rabbit and let it run but it’s too quick for you to grab it. I’m introducing new forms of phobia. Dart my pen through your aorta, write my rhymes across your cornea so you can see what I’m trying to say. The way I make eyes tear, I got clearance for my disappearance from the nightlights of the runway. Let ‘em all stay behind me where they’ll never find me fucking up the timing of the song. I’m chiming like bells, plus I’m rhyming along. I’m just too strong when everything goes wrong...I’m lying. To live like this I guess I might as well be dying. I’m too far, almost impossible to measure. Demonstrated: It didn’t work the first time, so we republicated our rhyme style to the masses cuz we’re in higher classes. Don’t need glasses, cuz we contact with graphics’ modern mechanics. The antics of my poems’ll leave you hapless as I conduct electricity into verbal hazards. In a world where modern genetics are born synthetic most energy is kinetic. I draw the movement of motions drawn to me—a positive attraction to my negative magnetics. When the pull is too strong and you’re drawn in all directions, the most common misconception is you adhering to my aural and optic deception…

Eric: When I think straight the earth quakes, the tectonic plates of my skull’s shifting continental drift. I run on tracks like a fox with a rolled-up message around my neck. Maybe I’m the bottle, bobbing up and down searching for shore in a sea of my own sweat, and if I uncork to let the scroll out it might get wet. But I’ll take that chance even if you can’t read the last and most important ink-blotted stanza which hands you the meaning of life on a series of tarnished platters, exhibiting the lazy chaos of hazy patterns. Clutching the séance, but dropping that inner sanctum. It seems a bit too perfect, much too easy to work, but to us it only occurs when we find we’re still searching. I leave the room without time to return predicting memories with no patience. The doctor’s stethoscopic headphones cracking the code of my heart’s safe combination—as it opens, notice it’s empty, so there’s plenty of space to either waste of fit this, but a diary is only a place to get writing done, not finished… Fall down childhood staircases through anamnesis. This origami master unfolds, ironing creases, coping with acid flashbacks—too sentimental. I hope this food for thought is edible, increase positive space so the air between us is legible—and, though the handwriting on the walls we erect might be neat, we keep it discreet that we’re illiterate by copying the sloppy penmanship of the next generation’s yesterkids who don’t know what we’re dying of so factor in another F, another failed exam cuz we’re just dying off… Nate: As I fall asleep whispering threats to the heavens, I’m an intrepid intercepting irreverent severance of reverends. A common side effect of genocidal sets that lie-detect your lack of intellect and split up embarrassment profits. About to pop it, a balloon is the atmosphere with fear, the absent-minded child’s wish’ll never stop it. Idiot savant’s indifferent wants connect the dots of sunspots in hope of a catastrophic response. But the conclusions and infusion of destiny and losing every resource a human being has ever dreamt of using, disapproving of parody’s paradox—take off my shoes and my socks so I can moonwalk on lava rocks. Reconnaissance of common sense and common threads, the almond sheds a shade of blue from eyes on novel trends. Dividends divide in the end—Alice in Blunderland wondered who discovered out of sights on three-day weekends. Through fabric seeping while sleeping your wound’s a pager beeping, secrets are keeping hostages despite logistic reason. Thoughts so hectic, almost apoplectic, infect by defect, intellects intercepted. Inspections of distance between each resistance, proves wrong to life circus, what exists once you blink twice? Think of me as a penchant for tension, mix and match, relax—allows the facts’ intentions. Impact disasters faster with grandeur which bastards will think of lies faster than last word. What’s the password, pastor? I’m the flash flood brain-smash telecaster. Misinterpret equations mastered, I’m the one so-called lighter of brightest lanterns…

Eric: I’m constructing a precocious skeleton, an alphabet slithering through short sentences. I hold words hostage as the pink horizon spreads too think, rubbed by night into the sky like lotion. My compulsion is impulsive, finely sculpted but in motion like a volcano erupting. You’re going the wrong way down a road which like your story is one-sided, so these carnival clowns get served with Ferris-wheel alignments. Category? You’ll find me under consignment—or better yet in confinement, cuz since this shit was published I ain’t even had time to rhyme yet. These MC’s get upset and rewind my refinement without any acknowledgement of my lyrical content—it’s nonsense. You think Moses split any pro(fi)(phe)ts? Nate: There’s not a penalty severe enough to strike my heart with fear because I know I’m in the clear when I attack with what you hear: A vocal spear. It’s absurd, reducing you with words. Please stop the verbal turds from these fake-ass MC herds. So tuck your lyrics under arm and disperse because you can’t finish a verse without unnecessary curse. Come up with something. See, what you got’s redundant—I’ll have to interrupt it with a line that’s more disruptive, corruptive. Corrosive, the formula function’s explosive—only words on the battle field, so what’s the commotion? The potion in my breath’s humidity draws your perfect picture on the face of stupidity. Calamity brought you into what I call sanity, with my words as my weapon this is “I” versus humanity. When I rise up like burial fees, watch the count rise like serial sprees. Once you get up, wash the dirt off your knees cuz, bitch, I spread quick like a venereal disease. Me goes the mic like the toast goes the butter, like the victim goes the street and the blood goes the gutter. When I face a mirror with my dick in my hand, I tend to stop and think of how it’d be grand if a button or a switch could delete everything—then I’d blink and I’d see there’s no use in pretending. I’m blending a mixture of lyrics, offending. They come as disappointing as a book with no ending. Tend to vanish like Zap It, uncontrollably elusive, stressed up and down, self-inflicted, abusive. A walking weapon—yo, you can’t change me. I tend to spend my money but my money spends me, sends me into a spiral of confusion and greed. Tears bleed—evaporate, or water the seed? I need to end this thriller, extinguish suspense. Fuck science fiction, I contain the sixth sense. Condense your weakness down to a concentrate, gaze upon you paralyzed as I stop to contemplate the murder rate—should it rise or remain? I’ll leave it lying dormant in the back of my brain. Rise came in the flaws of your DNA—snatch an “N” drop an “O” and you’re DOA… Eric: Most rappers are useless, don’t even write their own music. Stop making excuses. Sounds like they’re beating their kids while I’m verbally abusive. Allusive, conducive, I’m a late-night exclusive. Ya’ll primetime. It’s bad luck: Your propaganda stanzas, it’s like you spend your days walking back and forth under a ladder. Jot a Malcolm X up on your calendars or daily planners, but these days, at this age, life is too mundane. I’m homeless, asking revolutions for spare change. I got my man Nativity from the B.Y.O.R.S. Party—like planets or spines we align, supporting lives. The domino Doppler effects on wind chimes. Intact this track, in fact these rhymes? Perpetual—so go ahead, remain skeptical. Put on your spectacles and spread your country’s eagle. Our egos changing left lanes without rear views. Looking back you’ll find internal rhymes, elliptical like external satellites in orbit. Not even in your game, we step on field and make you forfeit. Get awarded. I’m hurling mics like projectile missiles at asteroids. Shit-breathed MC’s better pop another Altoid. On the mic, I’m forever dropping the heaviest shit, cuz not even the physical body’s strong enough to hold it…

Nate, Shroomy, Eric: It’s hard to believe, Beeny, Shrooms and Nativity, the unholy trinity, revert you back to primitivity. Naturally, we burn the phattest calories to earn the highest salaries. Too wild for domestic life, that’s why we unleash on these beats and watch the hip-hop community decrease. Our lyrics in prison cells, waiting on the date of release. Unfold on every crease. With iron mics over the stove, we’re putting marks on the beast… Nate (Nativity/Autopsy): It’s straight amusing, the number of MC’s I’ve been abusing cuz I’m winning, they’re losing to the lyrics that I’m infusing. Have you coughing out hairballs like a feline, cous, bleach-blonde and afro with some goatee fuzz. What’s the buzz? Autopsy’s hot like tropical climates, send you back in history like the days when we were primates and my timing is coming at the worst it could ever be, cleverly changing what you thought was good to embarrassing—perishing. Every last thought that ever doubted me, then I’ll spit back some new shit, you can’t believe it came out of me—empowering. The first and last hip-hop coup where it doesn’t matter who you blew to be a part of the crew, thought you knew. It’s the Autopsy, so listen close: Don’t bother trying to smell cuz I’ll be breaking your nose, and you’re too blind to see cuz I’ve dotted your eyes. The battle you just started only ends with demise. And as for touch and taste I’ll have to show you a trick: See, you’ll have to touch my balls when you’re tasting my dick… Shroomy: Stomping on your rhymes I’m an ogre, taking over your mic, fool, I told ya. You don’t possess the skill that’s required. Nah, honestly, you’re lacking, with much to be desired. Your lyrics always come out mumbled. Put the ball in your hands and you fumble. Lost yardage, torn cartilage, you let the team down. Kick gravel and travel, get the fuck out of town. You’re shitty, you’re stinky, like a porto-let, I wipe my ass with your lyrics every time I shit. You’re the water from the faucet that constantly drips, digging into my ears, yeah, and giving me fits. I won’t be able to rest till I fix that leak, put the nails in your coffin, yes, and bury you deep. I leave you in the past when I lay you to rest—you was praying for the leg but caught two in the chest. Come back, rehabilitated your injuries. Your ego’s too inflated by these bitch MC’s. Wooden puppet on the stairs with knocking knees whose strings are controlled by the Dre’s behind the curtain. For certain, there’s a lesson to be learned, you’re not real boy: Play with fire you get burned. I got no strings to hold me up… Eric: Hip-hop is not a democracy, you must be crazy—I dictate to lazy MC’s who think they’re amazing. They’re frozen while I’m blazing, catch ‘em off guard like cattle grazing. Pass ‘em on the track and they’re the ones racing. So slow they’re stationary, wasting energy, they’re climbing mountains with ledges—they’re taking drastic measures. Only the sharpest mind severs, the cut reacts with severe hemorrhage—I leave minds with no leverage. Each time I come back, it’s not to attack: I spit verbal asteroids to make an impact. Then I retract to observe the effect of my contact. While my lungs contract, you go into relapse. My rhymes travel across the synapse to close the gap like acetylcholine to get my message flowing. Subliminal molding: Angel wings like a Boeing holding top speed to keep my mind from slowing. The shit I’m known for dropping? You need a seismograph, but the quake is so large you detect less than half. You do the math, motherfucker… Nate, Shroomy, Eric: It’s hard to believe, Beeny, Shrooms and Nativity, the unholy trinity, revert you back to primitivity. Naturally, we burn the phattest calories to earn the highest salaries. Too wild for domestic life, that’s why we unleash on these beats and watch the hip-hop community decrease. Our lyrics in prison cells, waiting on the date of release. Unfold on every crease. With iron mics over the stove, we’re putting marks on the beast…

The first line is a main entrance, the last thought before breaking in. The only thing I’ve ever been good at is practicing. Dreams were a talent I developed out of an early hobby of sleeping. Since then, I’ve learned insomniacs count missiles rather than sheep. Most times, I’m not sure there is a target until I reach it. It’s much easier to lift wind since I am a desert like the joke I only get because it’s not that funny. Unlike me, pharmacies are bright—really clear until I walk out of them. Sheep follow each other down my throat, and I always lose count. I try feeling like I was born seven minutes ago, like wrapping clouds in Christmas lights and blacking the city out. I know now when one arrives the journey may never have existed. The approach matters only to that which appears, but there’s a traffic jam on the road to recovery and I take baby steps toward maturity’s nowhere…