You need not know what my name is
just that I’ve been searching for infinity on high
in a Saturday super house and all I have found are puzzles.
Only revolutions of the same songs from under the cork tree
So far I have only found the back room
and the darker side of nonsense.
The blood of the scribe is surfacing
and right now, I can see a slug and an ant racing
through the atmosphere of my sleeve to see where smart went crazy.
Breaking a commandment; thou shalt not ****.
The magician’s assistant couldn’t see crazy coming
from the thirty six chambers.
Formally the boy in da corner,
I’m travelling through the streets
to find my own summer (shove it).
The way I am, never better, just another P.O.S
trying to be quiet and drive (far away).
Taking the eight mile road in my mind
to bring me straight outta Compton,
finding my California love to tell her
“I don’t need brighter days, I’ll always be coming back home to you.”
I need to liberate change (in the house of flies)
and allow them nine crimes and a rootless tree.
I’m in the mineshaft with no skeleton key
falling helplessly into the spin of 99 problems.
None shall pass me, no kings
no soldier following a hand built by robots.
Nothing smells like teen spirit in here
nor the disassociative stench of *******.
I’m sick 2 def of everyday I spend
without a southern fried intro.
If I could shoot the cool from my machine head
then there would be a way to put you on the game.
I’m trying to find no enemy in this life
that’s always comedy tragedy history but
all I can see are yours and my children
right on the edge of a new psychosis;
too many of them finding the bad touch
of a kiss with a fist
that they saw in a violent *******,
thinking it was the discovery channel.
Not a day goes by that I’m not writing yet another
letter to my countrymen saying let me tell you
nothing’s funny; the new danger is that
one of us is the killer in this champion requiem.
I’m by myself crawling to find a place for my head,
somewhere I can eat you alive, maybe in a boiler room
just like your significant other. I’ve got my revolver
and I’m putting a bullet in the head
of a street fighting man. With a pistol grip pump
I’m killing in the name of Maria
and the ghost of Tom Joad.
That’s my last resort - how I could just **** a man.
Results may vary,
but with every new Eyedea I am testing my abilities.
I’m watching spiders shimmy up aerials
to find themselves lost in Hollywood,
finding a blueprint to my culture.
I’m screaming save yourself renegades
keep your radio inactive and focus on your innervision.
So, let me be the last to say
with seven words;
there are few guarantees, so lovelife.