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The blood of dinosaurs
pump through the soil
serving as cold platter
for the lit Norwegian cigarette
The war of music pump paragraphs of hope
through the ear of youths
burning lips in pursuit of happiness.
In search of naked pictures of God in our mirrors,
the internet spent our laws and threw our only hallelujah out the sea—
and Arachne smiled, knowing she’s now the Womb—
and all men come in the belly of eternity in order to be.
it's hard to crack a
sitting under the
in order to understand
the fundamentals of a
you've got to know the
secrets of the soul
99% of human beings
and to lick the moon
you don't always have to
travel to mars.
We quenched our dreams with thirst;
bought the heavens,
Waving a country of radio love
United under one Internet
Two Chocolate paper cocaine announcements
And $6 New York Halal meat.
The mortal man always drinks his sea--
So ask your doctor about Nixon
And lift the verbs off your skirt
who replaced Icarus
And now twerks at synods
With strip club oven oil glued
To his left fin;
The same one God used to bet Satan over the soul of man.
99 cent wars, rooftops, Gibraltar Screaming "god bless the fabulous" Christs;
In the eyes of years
Man is king only over that which breathes,
So let's throw hugs in the air,
sit on flowers and vanish to Cook stones on the hips of Cleopatra
with all of December's left footed children
For through the cried vodka tears of furry German banana caskets,
In the failures of our greatest triumphs,
So let's dance
After all, Psychological Wednesday societies
Are only good for curing Xbox manifestos and Tuesday sanities
And if we died one day,
it sure won't be yesterday.
In the burning right hand of the bald city,
denizens frame calories and count instagram blessings
while beacons of hope refund inspiration in USADA pee cups.
Abyssinian maids wail over yesterday lovers
who wore Ginsberg’s skirt with less pizzazz
and watched bedbugs suck blood off knee caps
wondering, what if Jesus Christ drove a Nissan?
As bullets of paragraphs fall Vietnamese pesticides on my head,
The dusts off my breath sing homilies
With letters of broken leather whiskey,
For even in the most dishonest jest,
clandestine toothbrushes are overrated
and every first false lie is the only truth.
Sag my corpse
in 32 degree weather
through the city of God
where paraplegics dream of running.
“Oh Rhodesian mercenary,”
humble my soul again
like in C(hi)(ca)ongo.
The revolution starts
on my mama’s bed
at half past six.
So excuse me while I smoke my drink like a Brooklyn Leftist from the 40’s tramples
burning cigarettes on cold pavements where codeine and Sprite
make any Tuesday fabulous because we already suffered from (and for) the goods of mankind.
But before you read me the history of Hatchepsut;
I learned the art of man within the confines of FCC regulations after my ‘Pa threw cocaine out the window and made life in the cell not mundane by telephoning philosophical-entendres
that tomorrow never happened.
He too was from the blood of the ancestors whose bodies were charred on as goods—
whose children now char their bodies with the goods of the goddess of Victory—
the official trademark for the lost Exodus—the blood and blue moribund—
sagging pyrrhic victories in 32 degree weather as homage to their charred ghost (fore)fathers
who preyed to the city of God for bread
Night is for the hours
Let a man of God speak or night
Will continue to burn flowers
It's been said napkins are the greatest currency
For it holds the food spittle of man
Like how ambulances sit waiting
To clean up after misfortunes
And make fortunes for the fortun-
Who Ate paragraphs of spider webs
And patted weaves like black men seating at the back of the limited luxurious Q46 bus nodding heads to the noise of Toyota cameras they couldn't afford in the land where they spend $300 million to part the seas for summer entertainment
While they only spent $40 on California cuteness and walked on water with 13 Jesus' and ate at the bottom of the sea with only three tokes from the plastic bag
Let a man of God speak or night
Will continue to burn flowers
For we graduated from 30 hot nights of mathematics
Only to find that the future will always be white and in the scrotum
because we fell in love with the law
and fell out of love with ourselves.
because the semen of great minds
wear pineapple fatigues in their fathers’ scrotum;
from Judas swallowing 9 bullets
to one day being a kid at heart
a symptom of some abnormality.
Ever get the feeling that you’ll die on a Tuesday?
Or one day wake up on their government bed
“you can blame the French Revolution
On silent reading!”
as three teacups of sex plan war on the asphalt.
Poison spoon fed the nodding King and ended ancestors.
Holy cows bought government opium
and ate suicides grown by Negro Kubla Khan gospels.
Shantih, Leviticus, and other proper thoughts
kissed arms of air and made islands from memories of breakfast.
Eternity perished in the illusion of swallowed tongues
in the belly of an infant—
Only one bullet of hallelujah stood swimming.
I feel the pain in my city wherever I go
314 soldiers died in Iraq, 509 died in Chicago"--Kanye West "Murder to Excellence"
burn the light of fire
and wax the ears of injustice.
chide the moon
and bid ado to the reckless sun.
count the blessings of misfortunes
and wave verbs in the air--
breathing the hopeful breaths of married sandals
Label the pains of a billion rain drops and fawn the feathers
of a nightingale over the glory of failed
triumphs known as yesterday.
break the hands of a wristwatch and make a bastard of time--
for through the God in Satan was how Earth was won.
Funny how we woke up in the morning
and pretended that tomorrow never happened—
strutted naked in mirrors celebrating our youth,
laughing, knowing suns and moons couldn’t do the same.
We borrowed our arms from the fridge
and peddled bicycles with bad breath—
trading war stories ‘cause we knew
if we came back alive
life would still be the death of us.
I remember the morning Tuesday was invented—
how gleeful we sang across the streets—
forgetting that the day after tomorrow would be Thor’s day
and that one we didn’t own, too.
I remember the bathroom stalls, the sins of Leviticus
comforting our confusion with the indulgence that God too
love man, kind.
Let the purgatory full of half good men sing about their sins
with pride and laugh at the moons and stars for being without limbs
and tongues to protest their innocence and Idontgiveadamnisms;
For I remember being fed the tenets of heterosexual history in elementary school
yet wondering why queer gods are the ones named after the planets.
*If We Keep On Hiding Away, They Will Say We Are Not Here*
Before guns wore make-up,
We used to put pennies in our socks
So we’d always walk on the root of all evil.
Now Wall Street angels frolic through satellite clouds borrowed
from youths educated by universities of smoke and plastic bags.
(The tears of a child are homage to the waning gods)
For in a day not far away,
Over the painted moon of the Morning Son,
The sun will rise wearing the finest war scars money can buy.
And the screams of humanity will be heard from Venus,
Forgetting that the reciprocal of L-I-V-E itself is E-V-I-L
And perhaps death is the life meant to be lived.
(the city had fought the fortnight before)
fire burned through the little skirts
and plastic lunch boxes
carrying the nourishment of our future
doctors and worldshakers—
tax paying Americans
And beacon of the nation.
Wide awake, in the thoughts of a light bulb,
(Where sidewalk stairs politic with the devil,)
A raindrop fell and whispered to the asphalt,
“Tell me what you know about happiness…”
And somewhere, in the middle of a pineapple parade,
A Pepsi can smiled and danced the night away with Nyquil labels.
Skyscrapers and mango trees wearing boxer briefs.
The tantalizing wind blows caressing paperclips and mortuary signs—
turning them indigo red for we all know that dead bodies are nothing but dead.
Hymns of love and soliloquies of the unconscious ego—
Id of our time but men of the past be our hero.
Leaving to wonder, if king Nebuchadnezzar was a crack-feign
would Coca Cola still educate penguins on the importance of Lesbian Existence?
For in this war of life, cockroaches are the real winners,
and the taste of excellence is only reserved for fire extinguishers —
so if nuclear clouds persist,
let the fire burn with love and you lay on the bed of oblivion
cuddling the moral that capitalism leads to schizophrenia.
So insure your sanity for free 99, this, with warm regards from yours truly,
Rhizome of Golgotha.
We sipped boulder rock from refrigerators doors
and watched the heavens hand out food stamps with IBM logos.
“ode to Mehmet” we sang, and licked the Mossberg—
fixating on the blue collar philosophy that lived in our empty wallets.
Trash cans filled with water bottles stared at us to find our essence—
the one we had lost while being fed quintessential American idioms
in state-of-the-art classrooms sponsored by slaves and Popol Vuh blood.
Six million years of human existence trivialized down to a single sentence—
* Man loved God, man wrote, man conquered God, and now man loves science* —
scribbled on SmartBoards afforded by fire burning from Prometheus’ female liver.
Trees sing with oxygen no more for the sake of making paper,
and eyes soak in the words on paper for the sake of making paper.
Trees make the avenue but the future holds an Avenue of no trees—
… for in the land of the free, anything but freedom ain’t free.
The unorthodox are the true prophets
for their ways are those of the future,
so in the now, most kings get their head cut off.
But as death is the greatest prophet,
for it never fails to come true,
their martyrdom proves their ways truer than the footsteps of their fathers,
so in the face of adversities;
never be afraid to be a lonely Jesus on the Cross.
Naked pictures of God on my nightstand,
Dry bones of Moses painted on my button down shirt screaming,
“to be or not to be” is not an English word.
In the daze of the thoughts of Neurology, I saw a man kick a bucket full of Starbucks giftcards down the avenue street. He screamed in pain as he watched the bucket tumble and roll down the street, blessing every Bohemian with a slight cold.
Naked pictures of God on my nightstand,
I dreamt about a land before man where the Oxygen that sprang from the pores of flowers
sang a sweet death. Where dishwashers are saints, for afterall, man will not be if not for food.
Where books are written not to be read, but for the sake of Orange trees that will grow in the future.
I once wore a poker face to a funeral and laughed at the man in the casket because the souls he had underneath him were two left feet.
We all once had naked pictures of God on our nightstands but lost it after Einstein
Lost the fried chicken war of 1812 to Isaac Newton.
"They asking how he disappear and reappear back on top
Saying Nas must have naked pictures of God or something"---Nas, "Loco-Motive"
Vivid visions of the past lurk me,
I’m walking on the avenues of once a quick man’s vision,
driving in car models a dead man thought
and voting with rights dead men and women fought—
for, we’re all living life through dead men’s visions—
books of laws and morals woven by dead men’s loins—
subconscious slaves to dead ways.
So ask me about “life” and I’ll reply,
I’m still waiting to live like my master
for everyone that lives dies
but everyone that dies lives.
if we must die,
let it be known that
you're only as great as yesterday lets you.
that the leader of men carries the hope of all men.
that the world is never the final destination of life.
that man is only a photograph of heaven.
if we must die.
let it be known that eternity lives in every face.
that the mind is all but a femur of the unspoken soul.
that you are only a footstep ---
and every footstep must wash so to leave room for other footsteps.
since we must all die,
let it be known that you once stood--
let that be known.