Examine the spit puddles
you made on the floor
you walk on
because they'll be gone
by morning.

Why is your face
on the ground
if your head
is heaven?

Funk is just a mixture of jazz and hip-hop.
Jazz is just a mixture of ballet and modern and funk.
Modern has a little ballet in parallel with release.
It's all the same to me.
It's movement.

That bobbin' buzz
kills me.

But I'm still buzzin'.

I look back.

I know what I did.

I know that I'll do it again.

I know that I'm no good.

My heart left
without me.

Existing in a stratosphere full of a familiar twilit breeze,
I reign down on my enemies.
I'll plant them in my sanatorium
and tuck them nicely into bed,
leaving them to gaze mindlessly at a cerebral ceiling.

Because they all say I'm crazy--
but they don't know of all the things
that have died from my hospice embrace.

So they'll gaze mindlessly at a cerebral ceiling
missing everybody they know,
and seeing beauty in the
placid birds floating past their mental window.

I'll still give them the birds.