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.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Sunday, August 9, 2009
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...
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...
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...
Monday, August 3, 2009
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.
- 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.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
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.
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.
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.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
"Alarm Clock" assignment
DW:
Broken glass with my face,
Shreds and scrap paintings;
as if Mona Lisa was destroyed
Accidently.
And the pieces rain on bloody soil,
Like precipitation, and stormy
Weather, except I crack into skull
Crevasses and dip into eyes, and
Swim like whales in their juices;
I find their hearts.
My head is throbbing from worm holes
In brain segments, like broken beat
Heart attacks; staggered and delivered
By painful impulse.
So I lay downIn your body until you sweat me out from
Your skinny pores;
I’m the virus.
We’ll both probably die or something; so let’s
Play for now until we grow so tired and moonshine
Sleeps.
Meta-Physical:
With the grace of an egress,
and eagle feathers shunted to white windows
labeling the sky an open masterpiece;
tiny trumpets laughing at my orchestra -
not quite sure if the band plays a death knell...
or sordid wedding bells
but the veil is stealthily holding my abstinence,
taunting me.
A stray arm playing the violin
with honey strings and orange tales
of laughter and jazz,
soft and smooth and starry-eyed
I sway...
I sway, and can't help but be blind
behind theses images firingcorset-laced bullets of time-bombs
with eons for shrapnel,
and just as the curtain closes
its withered and dusty petals on gloutenous
destinies,
she breaks...
she awakes...
a shot through the heart,
it was just a dream.
It's just her alarm clock.
Maybe you can write something with these topics. Compose a work of an abstract dream, and don't let on that it's a dream. The audience will know once the alarm clock is mentioned at the end!
Have fun!
Cheers & Peace Across
-DW
Broken glass with my face,
Shreds and scrap paintings;
as if Mona Lisa was destroyed
Accidently.
And the pieces rain on bloody soil,
Like precipitation, and stormy
Weather, except I crack into skull
Crevasses and dip into eyes, and
Swim like whales in their juices;
I find their hearts.
My head is throbbing from worm holes
In brain segments, like broken beat
Heart attacks; staggered and delivered
By painful impulse.
So I lay downIn your body until you sweat me out from
Your skinny pores;
I’m the virus.
We’ll both probably die or something; so let’s
Play for now until we grow so tired and moonshine
Sleeps.
Meta-Physical:
With the grace of an egress,
and eagle feathers shunted to white windows
labeling the sky an open masterpiece;
tiny trumpets laughing at my orchestra -
not quite sure if the band plays a death knell...
or sordid wedding bells
but the veil is stealthily holding my abstinence,
taunting me.
A stray arm playing the violin
with honey strings and orange tales
of laughter and jazz,
soft and smooth and starry-eyed
I sway...
I sway, and can't help but be blind
behind theses images firingcorset-laced bullets of time-bombs
with eons for shrapnel,
and just as the curtain closes
its withered and dusty petals on gloutenous
destinies,
she breaks...
she awakes...
a shot through the heart,
it was just a dream.
It's just her alarm clock.
Maybe you can write something with these topics. Compose a work of an abstract dream, and don't let on that it's a dream. The audience will know once the alarm clock is mentioned at the end!
Have fun!
Cheers & Peace Across
-DW
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Currently Recruiting.
So you can call me Meta-Physical...and that dope-looking dancer up there is D.W. So far, the two of us make up a poetic-lyricism/hip-hop group temporarily called Naked Music. We're all about integrating poetry and metaphorical language with meaning to hip-hop over beats, like those from Nujabes, RJD2, and Jazztronik. Our inspiration? Our love of words. What we sound like? Dreams. The truth. Reality twisted into something...just a bit more.
Here's the deal: we're recruiting. It'd be ridiculously easy if we kept the group at two people, but where would the fun, or the diversity in that be? We're looking for poets or prose writers who's strengths lie in creating images out of words, and the building of metaphors. We need a beatmaker with a unique style.
We want to open our mics to three more artists, bringing the group to a total of five. If those of you out there interested in this are beatmakers as well as poets/lyricists/hip-hop verse artists, so be it - we can use your talent.
The screening process will be simple: a cypher. Bring your hardest, most metaphorical verse to an open cypher against anyone else who's interested. If you're picked from there,the next step will be e-mailed to you - we'll give you a word, and from that word, you're to create a concept, find a beat, and write to it - spit something into nothing, basically. If you want to make your own beat, then that's dope too. Web cam or homemade videos are accepted as well.
From there, we won't tell you whether you've been chosen or not. We'll just post the track or video here, on the site, for you to come back and discover on your own. Good luck to all applicants!
Here's the deal: we're recruiting. It'd be ridiculously easy if we kept the group at two people, but where would the fun, or the diversity in that be? We're looking for poets or prose writers who's strengths lie in creating images out of words, and the building of metaphors. We need a beatmaker with a unique style.
We want to open our mics to three more artists, bringing the group to a total of five. If those of you out there interested in this are beatmakers as well as poets/lyricists/hip-hop verse artists, so be it - we can use your talent.
The screening process will be simple: a cypher. Bring your hardest, most metaphorical verse to an open cypher against anyone else who's interested. If you're picked from there,the next step will be e-mailed to you - we'll give you a word, and from that word, you're to create a concept, find a beat, and write to it - spit something into nothing, basically. If you want to make your own beat, then that's dope too. Web cam or homemade videos are accepted as well.
From there, we won't tell you whether you've been chosen or not. We'll just post the track or video here, on the site, for you to come back and discover on your own. Good luck to all applicants!
- leave your name and e-mail.
- Jump into the cypher.
- Look out for our message.
- Keep doing what you do!
The cypher will be coming soon.
-Meta-Physical of Naked Music.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
