Flashing...Lights...sights...nights...

Fore-head full of sight,
Gaze brown graze in a days of light,
fade to night -
shivers of silver sliver skin, like
fingers feelin' flimsy in the moon-shine, right
where the pillow meets my face
sleep saved by grace, flanked by lace,
trace it to that r&b-type place,
that Badu Bad-do native fro
with that vine-choked river-type flo
correction: projection -
nickel-load-me-on this-side of eye-lids,
dreaming of diamond-studded child-soldier Iraq-nids,
8-legged spindly spider-web night sky
somewhere in between "blackness" and "fly" -
kind of like the last poets with fresh-kicks,
swag like revolution wrapped around nimbus-flying-fists -
I fantasize in techincally-color,
nightmares in black and white,
ESP in Sepia -
sleep like the evolution of Polaroids.
Smile.
Forgot about the cracks in the consciousness,
slipped between pitch and totalitarian dark-less,
congregation of dido-heads bobbing -
imagine a prison-yard or broken boulevard full of plastic nay-sayers swaying,
nodding snickers at the school-children pledge-of-allegiance praying
while preyed on by Limbaugh, left in limbo, limbless, crying,
backpacks empty as a Somalian's stomach, distended, dying -
left vulnerable to What-the-Flocka's and Souja-toys, Lil' Wheezy asthma attacks and Nikki mi-naaaaahhhh's with a hint of 'roids,
Lashes laced shut to types of stereo terror-isms,
click-flash-spin, snap:
caught a Polaroid in my dream-catch-trap,
lifted leather Venus to the sun, watched the feathers flap
and gave fore-sight back to sun-set and backwards twilight -
un-stitched my iris to blurred-line blindness -
life like anti-ojos, HD in 2010 got me near-sighted.
I'm awake.
No more pictures.
Still-life, more-like.
Smile.
Pose.
Strike.

Random Freestyle-ness.

Like the fight to reach heaven
were a celestial arms race,
and tear-stains were the only bloody
battle-scars to mar the face -
degeneration
is not the backwards advance
of a body.
De-generation
is the backwards advance
of my society.
Hip-hop isn't dead
if Jay-Z can lay auto-tune to rest.
In peace is the will of those
who still have gears grinding in their chest -
pieces break
and clang
and chip
to brick-back broken growls of thunder -
if our eyes can produce lightening,
where do you think we rip the electricity from?
The dusty corners of a place where bird song is found in cages,
swept clean of the bent bars,
strain yourself to listen past those solfeges;
Do, Re,
Me,
I,
Eye,
Ay'm the lyric you forgot to write
but will still be heard -
I can twist sentences across the length of your teeth
just to find one word;
I can smell the defecation stained like sarcasm between your lines -
and you think you're the shit?
I'll show you what "hot fiyah" this meta-physical dragoness
can searingly spit -
Fa, So,
La,
Ti,
Do...
Do...
Dough is not the last color of the spectrum,
so why do you chase after rainbows?
Chase after the dreams
my salivatic rain-blows -
I pour my demons into seeds
and watch Hell grow;
I lace the soil with fallen feathers
and make sure martyrs find their halo -
I bite my tongue
and strain thought through the veins of my tastebuds,
just to water my poetry with un-rea-lyricist-ic
truths;
and I hold these to be self-evident -
Hip-Hop is a culture that changes yet remains the same -
the beat is an energry that can never be destroyed or created -
rhymes are forces that bind writers to reality -
so,
like the fight to reach heaven
were a celestial arms race,
push your pens to the limit
and get to scribblin' your universe back into outer space.

Drowning in the Stars.

Gravity
won't let me sleep;
but I found him
today.

I can feel
the light he rains;
and it all
comes falling
down,
down,
down...

Like the sound
of a gentle voice,
while it's laying the world to waste -
and we fall
'cause we have no choice,
but to accept that cold embrace -
and if she sings the blues,
then we feel it too...
if he screams for love,
then we're hopeless to do...
and we can't let go,
to the light of the world -

we're seeing stars,
and we can't
help
but
to
drown.
(Yeah...)

There's a rhythm
in the air,
restless night to take me on;
but she weaves
a dark nightmare,
in the deepest well of songs -
And yes, she paints those walls,
she laces them with care;
I'm fighting to forget
that there's a savior still there -
I can hear it in his bass,
the smile on his face;

we're seeing stars...
and we can't
help
but
to
drown.
(Yeah..)

There's a dance
sweeping up our hearts;
and no wound can salt that fast.
like a floor
filled with empty scars,
we move our feet till we can feel,
at last,
open up the door
and let the rythm in -
she plays your heart-strings,
and he's the mandolin;
break into your mind,
and let the music swim;

we're seeing stars,
and we can't
help
but
to drown...

drown..

we're seeing stars,
and we can't help
but
to
drown...

drown...

We're seeing stars,
and we can't
help
but
to...

Ink.

When you break
another
day;
There's nothing
left to
say -
But when you take
another
page,
We'll all be inkin' down...

Like the sun,
the one
great spindle in the sky,
morning's rest of a black sleeping beauty
close her eyes -
cold one,
with that bright-filled-night
alabaster smile,
skipping gently through the clouds
like tears of a child,
salty, bitter, and black-and-mild
in a wave -
a pen stays afloat,
bobs in excess of the bribe,
restless flot-sem
of black blood,
seeping wild thoughts,
it's life is live,
like the vein left carelessly razored wide;
they channel fear,
holes poked open
by giggling diamonds
dissapear,
and we're left to contemplate the message
they left
up there.

When you break
another
day;
There's nothing
left to
say -
But when you take
another
page,
We'll all be inkin' down...

In a way,
we coincide
like a new day,
drunken dawn in a simile,
bend, wave, and lay
like stone-broken blues,
singing too loud to reminisce
of the pain,
we can only shout the words
don't mean we're heard,
and the meaning gets lost
somewhere underneath the pillow-talk,
just let me rest
and sleep sweetly in your ears instead.
Put your hands inside my head
and grasp the blanket of stars
inside their cells -
you'll find the dream-machine
which moves my pen to tears.
Irrelevance;
we're dust in the wind -
but we're made of the stuff
where the its lips are from -
and she exhales us across the moon,
like an endless rage,
we engage
in those primal sacrifices
like religious animals
ripping from age to wage the wave -
let's monsoon,
and make shore we crash between the lines
on the next page.

When you break
another
day;
There's nothing
left to
say -
But when you take
another
page,
We'll all be inkin' down...

We write
to encite
the mind...
we break
the boundary
of line...
we scribe
to transcend rhyme...
we're inkin' fast,
too much love
to let the blood last...

Applicant's Cypher

Rules:
- No cursing (yet)
- Just one verse
- No calling other out
- Your entry must be in the form of a comment of this blogspot post.
- Give it your all.

M-P's Starter Verse

There's a wishlist of dreams
waiting to be bought;
there's a kiss waiting to be caressed
into the sand
with every sunset -
but what hand do you play at painting a horizon?
Here,
canvas runs boldly
and naked,
and your fingers
are that brush of anticipation,
prayer beads of sweat illuminated
dripping rosaries around your neck -
and you wonder why the music won't stop for you -
wonder of a music's mix-tape spin-deck,
squashing sleepless nights
and gravity
between two swirling identities
to palms
to lavish with your tongue
and swallow that bitter juice with vigor;
break open that crayon box
and swim in the rapids of diversity -
matter of fact, walk on the waters
like turbulance where a solid glass dancefloor
and your feet merely glided.
Go find it,
the inspiration that allows you to grasp those feelings
and finally,
paint your horizon.

Woven Politics.

M-P

There was a pull of weary tears
and a push of shivering hands on rusted claws
catching the drunken sadness of a mother's land.
Ivory on Mahogany,
with elephants that can never forget
and trees too slow to remember
before both are extinct.
When they pulled the extension of kente cloth
the thread fell apart
and left her naked.
They were only too proud to rape her.

The long keen of Gaza went underneath
the last laughter of an exploding star
somewhere on the streets of the middle-east,
and everyone who flocked to die
was plucked and pushed
as well.

Six-pointed children of God flung themselves into furnaces
and steady fingers set their souls in place
with the rest of the world's steady homicidal digressions.

Women threw their daughters in the bowels of the ocean
and their tears slipped from dark slits
like a burial.
Tuck and pull,
over and under
went the compression of green strings as precious as gold
and it became the sunlight -
the very air man made us breath
or die for.

There was a darkness
like fingernails flashing before the lightening hit -
bright smiles before creation
and a black basket of politics.

Microphone.

DW


I remember listening to words that blew
congested air; that spit like hot water into my
rigid, lined face. I listened to some man's fight
for freedom throughout the one coloured, rainbow
hands that joined for the revolution--they extended
to the back back's and open fields, with tribal wings
woven into their bodies like angels. I stood high before
them, and I saw that man and woman shrink to ants
and can'ts; The one's that cried little rivers and
sweat into their black and blue, heavy tailored suits because
they were comfortable, or confused.
Kings popped and rocked
countries and blew long tunes
in lean nights with tiny stars waving like
an ocean in dark skies. Rocks rolled, and
boom-bap sounds clicked and clacked following all
plethoras of puns that bang into the ocean like
a fist of God tsunami.
I listened to those good vibes and
'peace up' anecdotes against cherry-top, black armoured,
cain carrying soldiers.

I listened to them.

M-P

With the flavor
of open arms stuck to the tip of my tongue,
I exhale
a breath
of insanity...
and watch the world explode.
One beat left to kill.
There's an orange sunset
waiting for me
at the end
of a black and white rainbow...
and I've only just begun.
The sizzle,
frying dreams
and artful snapshots
falling desperately,
gracefully,
like fingers that forgot to fly from the ink
before it set,
to their ears.
I can only poke holes in reality,
but reality is left to poke holes
in my words.
I am a body full of sounds -
so let me sing myself.
Sing...

Wonder words and lustful metaphors
like a meta-physical rhapsody
of damaged dreams,
drizzling on darkened clouds -
everything is frustrated
and only beginning to live.
There is a greeness
in the cheeks
of forgetfulness,
but still we strive
to remember.
Let go,
slice it through the mesh,
spit it through the wire,
wriggle out of the flesh,
drop it from the rooftops
and blow it from what sweats,
just let...

let the world slip through your hands
and into gravity.
There is only so much saliva one tongue can chew
before it spits.
There are only so many letters one can write
before the ink sets.
Crackling expectations
and sultry whispers loaded from frozen thought -
there is reverbration,
and background noise,
and then -

silence.

I dropped it.