inspiration number one:
you were the short poem
you were the long snarky beautiful poem of apocalypse i loved
and you were the one who was a poem.
you keep me
you keep me desperate
and you used to do both and neither with this spectacular flair, when i said you would leave me desolate, i was, well, i was pretty wrong in the end or pretty wrong now but the way you, you filter pain like a coffee filter and leave the grounds behind the cabinet and the grounds are darker than lorca's duende, at least sympathize with me as to how i could make that mistake. the way you transmutate pain into joy is no less complex and alluring than the way bass blasts of young jeezy transmutate the original form of hip-hop, only reverse the desirability of the outcome. anyways, that whisky in the faucet, y'all rigged it there, no i am still drunk, only there is this alchemy that keeps turning the whiskey into new wine, still getting mad drunker with less vomiting. i call my new drunk the new wine.
in a post poetry world you and you and you would be the first and last poets
as it is, it is only a world with a dying sense of poesis
so i am the one writing this
a daily apocalypse
spilled out in shoddy haiku form
on a semi-crumpled napkin
on a diner counter.
too classily classic of a scene for the fucking beats to even reckon with
b/c if this sounds like i am going insane
i am in fact not
it is only that i have a lotof close friends, talk to the literature in my closet and the daily underground MCs in my tape deck
and my doc. has also told me he suspects i am becoming schizophrenic,
but this is not a confessional,
this is not a rambling, rave, rant, etc...
this is not a sick and confused mind
we are not sick and confused people
we are experiencing multiple
perpendicular moments of lucidity
in a really fucked up world
that doesn't have a motherfucking clue in hell
as to do what it is doing.
to know who you are
what you are doing
what you love
or to even acknowledge yr ignorance in the matter of all three of those
is really goddamn confusing in a dimension of click-clacking timbers that perpetually burns itself, where the mortar is always alight.