Perfect timing. Bell rings, I kick out the salesman, without even busting a sweat. In between jerking it and playing the new gta, I ruin this man’s carefully arranged face. Fuck a salesman, and his family, and his sister, and his baby cousin. Fuck em all. I have needs to attend to. Selfishness to the maximum.
Interlude aside… People dying, burning up in trains, national heroes being revived through song and praise. Google it, if you need to. Enough references here to make out what I’m saying. The national thinking, somewhere between depressed and pious. My state- drunk, as per usual.
So, mirror, mirror on the wall, tell me when shall I fall. Mind you, done it before. What has made me into a boorish whore? Tell me. Speak, you shiny glass, you bounty of hermetic mysteries. Speak.
You cannot, as I suspected. Inanimate things, so limited. Pathetic functions, so bounded, while my people, all (my) people, so unbounded.
Since you cannot speak, I’ll speak through you, for you–my reflector, call you blog, call you spectrum of choice, colorful and full of voice, microphone and speaker for the internal feeling, the internal vision, the magical eye, the sixth sense, intuition in the Descartian field, geometrical ideal of the most manic sort, that is you, my irritable chore.
My mind is still calculating under heavy fire, will I panic, will I flee, will I just sit here and wetten, be it from urine, blood or sweating? I guess it’s the timeless choice of animal and man alike… fight or flight, fuck or shy, lead or cry, do it under the divine eye. No pressure, just choices to be made, and they are free, as we are so often to be reminded. Call me cynical, call me suicidal.
So the boat ships out and I wave to the public, the mist rolls in and they vanish. Before I knew, and before you suspected–the thunder rolls down and the skies are setting. My thoughts turn towards my mother– dying. So I stroll down in the rain, the floors ‘a quakin’, to my cabin, crying and plans ‘a making. So I sit upon my bench of wood, as my shipmates light the cannabis and I think to myself in this foamy water, will I slip, will I bother… So many things to be arranged, so many things to be done before a man is made. How many roads, right. How many rows, I say, in the galley slave alley, I say. Speak, and bear witness, while I walk through the valley of the deserted with the quickness. Explain to me the reason behind this madness, the whole world speaks of violence and nobody even flinches, tough motherfuckers and ignorant bastards alike, they pretend and they’re bright. Either you die under your own word, or you profit and still burn. So in this cabin, and in this smoke, I choose to not take that toke, and instead waft throughout the mist taking no breaths, while the police starts ringing their alarms about the sess.
Why? Why? Why?… my thoughts till I die.
–
Something of a spontaneous freestyle I guess. No minutes clocked on that one. I got no time to rhyme. I speak the truth.
Remember those movies where the aliens learned english from watching Schwarzenegger flicks, well, I’m doing the same, except with hip hop. Go figure…go figure [echo, echo, echo]
Childhood memories, still running through my head. Little sir echo, raising his head out the swamp, singing a little british tune in the voice of my mother, singing a school-age rhyme. Strange life of change, be it in kilometers or miles, I still count in hours and particularly in seconds. Tick. Tock. They used to call me Dr. Spock. Can I blame em? No time to tame ‘em. Management skills, spell it with a z. Skillz needed to be real, in this field of transactions, needed to get some action, needed for all that is valued, in this society of ours, making change, and racking up the percentages, the points, the shit I abhor, my valued labour. I’m here to sell my self, even though my cv be puny. And what about yours? That size of your dick I adore…
Like romans, raised for battle, equipped with actuaries and lawyers not gladiuses or lyres, our bodies look like pussies, to our much respected predecessors and companions, the ones who steer these Roman galleys, the ones who bleed and don’t even move a lip. Their faces set on stone, their eyes don’t roam, just focus and unfocus, on a point, and on its locus, ready for war, simply divine, praying to the one on the chariot of fire, red is his favorite color, and if you were greek, you’d play the lyre. Raised like ‘em, but learned nothing. Books stacked and ready, yet the eyegaze stays tuned to the tube on steady. Explain to me the fixation, I know you suspect something as the problem, starts with b and ends with read, and some c and ircuses.
Primary orality, what a banality, switch to that which is expected, remind youself of the things respected by your peers, or the ones in your demographic, same thing really, ingore the mental dissonance, or traffic of the train of thought, that type of thing leaves you quite distrought, as it should and as I suspect it would once you discovered the TRUTH, rining from the mountaintops with a voice of shaking thunder, quite the wonder. Explain to me why its not a distraction, why its nothing more than a careful predilection towards a certain breed of heavenly inflection in the tone of voice of the warrior, the type of thing for the clairvoyant on the sneak tip, what a slave ship…
Our bodies stacked by the dozens, racked by chains, our shit smeared on walls, the water yes it falls in controlled quantities from metal spoons and our minds are reduced to the level of mental stools. Fuck and forget about it, yet we cry about it, our souls were meant for more and we did nothing about it, just signed the waiver and waved our goodbye’s as the ship set out to the land so so far. Ah yes. Oh no.
