NOTICE
Kadaffi’s AK’s, Grenades and Baklava will be out of business starting Monday, June the 23rd through July 7th, 2008. You won’t be able to find Yamir in his native town of Tripoli, since he’s headed on a special mission for some special training with some special comrades in the struggle. It is all very nondescript and ordinary so don’t worry about a thing, oh eyes and talons of the bald eagle… The Wordieword publishing house, the literary arm (the tongue or mouthpiece if you will)of Kadaffi Enterprises, currently located in a lonely server somewhere in Oklahoma (though spiritually it is firmly lodged in the prophet’s hind-parts), will not be publishing anything for the time being, and so for those prized few used to this special brand of funk, your man will will continue to fight for freedom at a later date when internet access is once again regained. See, we get medieval with our shit. Killing you softly, my outro.
Gone
June 22, 2008 at 7:24 am (Uncategorized)
Simply Senseless
June 16, 2008 at 11:01 am (Uncategorized)
Tags: simply senseless
- Simply Senseless
203 A new page for the new times,
204 sometimes even I tire of rhymes
205 but I guess the habits may persist,
206 inconstant in my ways,
207 I tumble down and stray
208 to the tune of the ocean’s sway,
209 foaming at the mouth with that spray,
210 coarse sand rubbing away
211 at my patience every day,
212 will it all be OK?
213 Maybe, but so much is without sense,
214 what sense is there in preparing a defense against the charging zealots,
215 guess we’ll spend the rest of our lives living as helots,
216 raging guerilla war, rubbing them out till’ they raw and irritated,
217 nerves stretched like elastic,
218 reaching for they glasses
219 filled with that poisonous venom,
220 just to take away the pain,
221 numbing up they brain,
222 with that strait grain
223 extract out the factory floor,
224 syphoned away–precious resource of war,
225 never ending struggle, ever expanding bubble,
226 cyclical like runners on the track,
227 never looking back,
228 you’ll be there soon enough,
229 senseless is where its at.
230 I myself am guilty, locked in this cycle,
231 I intend to sustain the drive of the biker
232 or the track runner, headed no place in particular,
233 nowhere but the beginning,
234 the time is important,
235 and so is to be winning
236 but only when the goal’s been reached can one retire,
237 living forever via that funeral pyre,
238 soulful matter transmigrated,
239 the infinite universe, constantly shakin’,
240 element cycle forever at war,
241 simply senseless this universe I draw.
midnight affair
June 11, 2008 at 8:18 am (Uncategorized)
Even on this stormy night,
sky too lit up to be dark,
I stay calm but in a frenzied state,
my third eye- the center of the storm
irate but bright–it swallows up the light
like so many flies thirsty for the fire-
found their end- sizzling in the fryer.
What has me going isn’t the anticipation of the fiery union
or the infinitesimal of the satisfaction with which it brings the eternal end.
What has me going is the temptation of the action, the temptation to burst out
laughing, gasping, hoping to catch my breath, the temptation to run out and
grab you, the temptation to enter into the center of the circle, sidestepping the
perimeter.
The knife cuts vegetables skillfully down the tabletop, they fall into place like
they knew where they were meant to be as I admire, witnessing the prowess
which laid inside me wake to the sound of the choir singing above the clouded
mind.
The temptation is the signal of desire. See fire unites the elements, and water
therefore prevents this union. My alchemy may be weak, but who is so
unskilled as to be unable to boil water? Boil it until the falling drops of
condensation signal the phase change of evaporation, that precious moment
for which we are all waiting.
You know what I’m cooking, even if I don’t. It’s made with care, this midnight affair.
Some verses
June 9, 2008 at 8:07 pm (Uncategorized)
I. The Cotton Dogs
123 something in here is rotten
124 something about the cotton
125 sometimes I see them pick it
126 some times the pickin’s little
127 little did I know that I would lose control
128 what did I say? little did I care anyway
129 those little hands so course -
130 they’ve seen so many
131 and if they had eyes
132 they’d be red and teary
133 now the work is simply tearing
134 through their surface
135 layer epidermis
136 why is life such a
137 humorless circus
138 running round like a
139 dog and pony show
140 chasing carrots,
141 running laps in
142 circuits
143 While the addicted gambler
144 drinks and prays to his numbers
145 leading himself excited
146 into eternal slumber!
II. The not so regular man
147 Have a heart and listen.
148 I arrive in the wagon of contrition.
149 The same that picked me up
150 from the canyon of perdition
151 What was my fault?
152 How did I earn this admonition?
153 Is it the case that what i wanted
154 was simply an impossible mission?
155 As said the old scholar
156 there are meaningless questions.
157 Have a seat and listen to the lesson.
158 I was wondering what caused rain droplets to store up light
159 the light it captures like enslaved Israelites
160 forming pictures for the observant to catch
161 it makes me listless to think about a crash
162 that is to be upon us even as nature is here to calm us
163 with her sights sounds and similarly smells
164 the misty dew and twilight bells
165 that eagerly await us in uninhabitable places
166 the type that challenge the assumptions of the nations
167 gathered round here today to discuss this total disarray
168 my heavenly body is shining to guide us to the gallows
169 for he who acts freely is freely acted upon
170 let him not become another actor
171 and dwindle like pebbles under tractors
172 lest he discover the lack of his master
173 the dog without the leash, barking at your moon,
174 hoping for the time for choices to come soon
175 so he can raise up on two feet and eat with a spoon
176 just like it was meant to happen, an evolutionary chapter
177 written by an anonymous ghost writer, his
178 horny hand of labor, reaching into your pockets
179 making sure that there ain’t no sprockets
180 hidden there, or similarly widgets
181 stealing supplies to finance the future
182 cannibalism in a city setting
183 the writer is a realist and he knows what he’s gettin’
184 and it ain’t a workaround, nothing like it altogether
185 its good to make sense, but it’s better to make cheddar
186 justice is upon us, delivered by the crooked hand
187 beating down with enough force to level japan
188 on any fool who even attempts to demand
189 the rights of the not so regular man
I piss in the shower.
June 6, 2008 at 9:37 pm (Uncategorized)
And the time was such that even if the helpless were given all that they were in dire need of, they could not accept it. I accept that. Though it’s a truism of sorts, the poorest are the most charitable because they are the ones who understand need the best, and I accept that. The irony rings like the bells in university towers. Children coming up, some coming down (from the latest drug,) making their path towards their approximated fortunes. So much thought is put into the unknown that it makes the thoughtless laugh and perspire at the same time. God, let there be enough fire for us all to burn in.
The times were such that even the best of friends were apt to lock into a struggle for position on that great social ladder. The times have stayed such since the times of old before consciousness was foretold in chronicles quite bold. Times change, but the chronicles merely vary, people are basically the same. I love them. I even love me, though it takes some assistance.
044 slippin out the house, unnoticed
045 watchin my back just in case
046 things go awry, looking for that spy
047 around the way, the type of fool that plans
048 the type of fool that hands you your papers
049 focused on your reaction, looking for hesitation
050 and now you’re locked into this game with all the frustration
051 that’s involved, while I’m looking for my reasons
052 to survive, a life exciting and uncertain
053 sort of pointless and without direction
054 a silly youth’s perfect predilection
055 so tell me now if you’re ready..
056 I ask the peoples to accept me
057 but they act like they special
058 but they can’t prove it even if
059 their lives depended upon it
060 and they do when I start running through
061 fuck, you know what imma do
062 imma go insane on you and your whole crew
063 I do it to often, but these walks they calm me down
064 so out my house I jet, looking for some distraction
065 to get me out this situation
066 see the thing that gets me down isn’t the lack of patience
067 its the utter lack of conscience on behalf of my nation,
068 my mother country, my patron
069 I love her dearly but she corrupts me
070 and I’m no pretty flower
071 hell, I piss in the shower
Heh, I do do that occasionally.
-
072 on a collision path like racers on the slippery track
073 rubber is burning, my people’s are turning their heads
074 in our direction thinking that this shit should end quicker
075 before it gets so dangerous that we all crave liquor
076 to pour on the floor quicker for the homies gone in the
077 struggle with the godless universe’s conditions of attrition
078 the energies predicted the trajectories of your collision
079 assuming you understood the physics behind this sort of thing
080 that is, which you did if you did and didn’t if you didn’t
081 I can’t tell, so why bother to try to trigger
082 a reaction from your end, what is planned will happen,
083 or it won’t. Let it happen as you act and react,
084 and accept that as a fact.
-
085 had to make the moves quickly
086 time running out, the mind fuming out
087 the ears of the child stuck in years
088 of his own lack of self respect
089 stuck in his self made trap of the reject
090 from society’s soft spots, the type
091 of cat that claws away at your pussy
092 passions, making moves on the most entrenched
093 of passages, dodging gunfire from multiple corners
094 making a joke out of sandbags and covers
095 straight taking bullets
096 if I don’t last long, its because my aim is attuned
097 to the fast life, I measure it in seconds
098 this shit is meant for comrades lost in the becons
099 of the devil on the block or the corner
100 taking advice from the people least deserving
101 making their thanks heard on records absurd.
-
The Pigman’s Journey
June 6, 2008 at 8:28 pm (Uncategorized)
Tags: funky, gods of old, lyricism
-note: originally posted for ennuiLA, an up and coming publication by a close comrade in the struggle, later removed because it was unfit for the struggle, now to be posted here because it’s funky like your mother–
EnnuiLA,
if I wasn’t the Hyde to your Jekyll, I’d be
The Jekyll to your Hyde,
let it not be raw, phonetically my puns I draw, like the arrows out my case–meant your blood to draw, I’m drowning in this stinkin’ flood, and may I mention it’s my own damn fault, my bank account overdrawn and finally I’m neck deep in the mud, the type that makes you nauseous from fifty feet away, the type that is putting out my breath with fifteen cubic inches of clay, the type that leaves you in mad disarray, what exactly did I say? I said that madness is upon us and little can be done except to pray to that old god the sun, and the fucker you know he lies, and for unfair advantage constantly he vies. Those fees like forest fires you will never get to extinguish, the sun is drawing ever nearer, sun setting on your puny forest, who’ll win the battle? It’s like Adam trying to remove his own Adam’s apple–god damn unrealistic, and dangerous at the same time. Who will see the end of this god damn rhyme? (Maybe old man Time)
So much for lyrical introductions, let me begin with a piece of silence interrupted, the type that makes distinguished ladies in concert halls turn to look at you with that shockéd gaze, the same type that you know is associated with much alcohol consumption, the type I call the asshole dysfunction. So, since the rhyme and reason of things has been disrupted I can get to the main issue on my palette-tax evasion and jetting for freedom.
Bank accounts– can’t count on em’, though you can surely count what’s not in ‘em. I know the natural numbers, and this shit ain’t supernatural. It goes 0, -1, … n, where n means you are headed straight for credit hell. God bless multiple credit cards and shuffling credit, it’s sort of like gambling for safety every twenty two seconds. Can’t sleep at night because the teardrops, sweat and urine are wetting your sheets, sheets so wet you could bend prison bars, and keep that in mind as it might come in handy when the time comes around to slip out the fudge house in a dandy, possibly the same house that brought clout to strange old birdman. A game for the criminal with the white collar, how to get the hell out before you get turned out? I don’t know but give me a holler, it probably involves graft and lots of swimming but I have another idea altogether.
See, my mind state in this affair is that I simply do not care, call it what you wanna. Some refer to it as ennui, and it sort of sounds like in your eye, but I prefer to stay out of it, because I stay in hiding.
See, I need to be patient, I’m sitting in the basement, watching TV the–arguments are baseless. I’m sitting here facing this virtual reality that makes us so selfish, having emotions opens us up to the painful, so instead of intensity we cash that in for ennui. Sitting in the basement listening to tapes, and reminiscing on the days when I had my own fate in own my hands, got on the street and stuck out own my hand, and had fortune not shone my way, I’d probably have made my own way.
I used to let petty things like this here possible incarceration drive us away and draws us apart, but now I let it not tear out the sinews of my heart. I let it take just a piece, piece by piece, till its beat shall cease, till my last rhyme echoes off the ceiling of the bottom of this building, till my shrill screams hit you like a laser– performing surgery on you to lower your capacity to see, so that it’s all a blur– just like me.
Tired of sitting in the basement, I get out–impatient. Failed at my assignment-needed to stay put, needed to stay quiet, needed to lay low, needed to take my time, wait it all out and then I’d preserve my freedom in the basement, but feeling that clock- tick-tick-tock my life away, and feeling how the sweat beads form rivulents down my spine, I can only say that this claustrophobia must be a sign of the times. If I wish to not disclose my location, it would be wise to conceal my occupation but seeing as my occupation is like the housefly–common and more prevalent during the summer, I guess you can limit me down to the states where it’s hot enough to dip yourself in a chlorine-laced bowl of water. I’m headed elsewhere.
Whether it be the great white north or towards the center of the earth (and these need not be conflicting categories), I’ll leave for you to ponder, but lets rest assured we will both be in the dark as far as this issue is concerned. Me–due to my proclivities, you–due to your reader’s ignorance, both blissful like that first hit off the H– throwing up in mama’s place.
The womb was warm, but the streets are cold and dark and seedy, they remind me of the dim light emanating out my tv, just sitting there–a pigman in anonymity–it was so easy. No longer can it be that way, my true nature will lead the way as the gremlins haunt the usual haunts, looking kind of wet, trying to roll the latest cigarette, smoke em since they got em, I collect my coins for the bus stop since I gotta get to going, the bus arrives, I wish it were a Boeing but I’ll settle for a mule. I got something in between–megabits per second. It should handle the hurl.
This was the tale of this little pigman’s trip to cyberspace. Peace! ‘Till our next embrace.
