A Little Room in the Village

My whole life spent searching relentless for adulthood. No I'm force-grown and well fed. I had sent out misery signals over angels and airwaves. I procrastinate less in these latter days. All work, all sleep, all eat. No beef. Lack of drama and a future baby-momma.

I like it like this. A pentatonic hum--rolled on my snare--drum. I drink a beer for sleep before i brush my teeth. I wake up for work like my middle name was "Good Sleep". And this winter we're moving out. Found a house by my job. No more pushing papers for the stoner mob. And I found a new release in peace of mind and clarity.

Ten minutes of rock drumming every day before I'm on my way. I stretch when i wake up and it works out just fine. I am still trying to call Trisha sommmmmetime, because this friendship is crack and i can't get enough of her back!!!!

so put a [bass / / snare / bass/ bass / snare] kind of beat box to this one in your heads.

i. am.
a fresh money maker with my prospects on the incline.
a second level dealer who's been dealing from a land line.
the first rate killer of the rap game, in prime-time.
i will be there standing as hip hop falls down to the ground, mang.

check your engine levels as we pull into the verse and
don't forget to reset all the verses you've rehearsed and
from the 50 milliliters. i put mine down first, mang.
so what's with the discussion over who must feel the worst.

i'm ten strip tripping, like we're going to hong kong.
my white paper stretches further, almost twice as long.

and anyways, i'm in the grade of some better men.
heard what tey're saying, and i'm trying to get some dividends.
my rap flow is so slow, can't freestyle.
but catch me at my desktop, and you know i put the beat down.




more on this later.

and the Sun's Hiding in the Shade

So i broke her heart like that, right there in the driveway. One hundred bad reasons all rehearsed through summer season. And it's not alright for me to walk like this. Hunching over like the bad man carrying weight through the bad lands.

Honey, you were merely a transition. From lonely, to better. And from this point on, I'm honestly honest. Lacking of all inspiration.

And the last thing she said to me tonight was "i don't wanna just end up another song in another notebook you've been recording at another studio on another sober day between the haze of your drunken ways."

so maybe i'm a problem starter. sniffing glue and problem drinking. but these legs of mine can't kick no more, so he's sinking into his reclining chair. and i'm watching him throw away his old ways. relaxing into purity. and reclining. now channel flipping. now beer drinking. and now glue sniffing.

and god damn her voice is sad, but my face is smiling. so on and on, i'll be honestly honest.

"I've got the Good Lord is going down on me!"

I wanna seem more subtle and indirect, rather than my latest vents of personal stress. Clearer than the clean glass on the tallest wreck. more turp to the canvas from the jar spilled in the back. washing clean the notes and words you've constructed. all spoiled the the crude oil, like a chalk board all erased up.

Emailing Prose to All Lost Souls

the weeping trees hung sweeping over the Old Mill and the roadway. On sunny Saturdays sitting casually by the lakeside, watching the auto's coming by. going by the water to gaze into the rippled murky reflections. beaming sun and blue sky perfections.
Caitlyn sat tiredly by the way side. feeding squirrels from her brown-bagged lunch. Doritos, Doritos; the squirrels away would munch.
"i'll miss you little friendly fuzzy creatures, with your wide eyes to humanity, and your cuddly buddy features. Miss you when i'm gone back home, away from text books and research paper trodden teachers." Said Caity to her brown eyed mates, all munching her brown-bagged lunch away.
my good freinds all say you can swallow the bad times away. bottle by bottles your troubles all mellow and you lack interest to meddle.
but Cait had a bad debt to settle. empty dorm room once over flowing with clothes, books about animals, and burnt cd's of underground hardcore bands. Those things now packed into cardboard amd moved out like piano players.
"back home to the B-lo" and then she drove seven hours.

In My Early Days

Of my later ways, I was screaming. Crucial attempts at developing a clearer head. Avoiding the gluten bread, and the wheat flour. Sticking daily, to bottles of water. Reading nightly, and writing every morning. Writing every mourning was the start of evolution. From that gray mass of insubordinate waste covering flesh with anti-body and procrastinating to consume me.

But I shook off the rain with a couple of dry clouds. The moon grows so big and the stars and I've got dry eyes now. The angel's got you. Plucking her feathers to soften that deep fall. Riding you kisses so you don't have breakdowns. Calling doctors, alert the Mrs.: Heart filled up so much, he exploded into several pieces.

Call this "tide" that I'm in; the more I try, it's sink-or-swim. Call this "crowd" that I'm in; we cry and cry "let us in!". Call this "stride", that i move with. Our hearts'll fly, if work permits.

Tereza and Thomas

Let's sail away. Momma, that paint black mirror acts like it's faint. Packed my cigarettes up, and continued hand movements to light. Baby, that sweet smile's gonna get you in real deep. Don't miss the murders under water down beneath. Sweety, them soft words are gonna bring you back to me. Under water, music blasting, waves crashing on the blue dead sea.

My home life couldn't be any richer. I spend close time with a paint brush and a bottle of some strong liquor. I spend personal time writing, typing, riping over pads and pads of white paper. Letting lightning words all unrehearsed fly from his head in A-B-A-B verse. Granting wishes to the dope man. Paying stitches for his dope, man. Swimming like fishes from the ope den. Grinning like Christmas towards a fresh black pen.

The artist mumbles quietly into his wholesome drink, in his lonely pad. This is his house for creativity, and resentment, and fertility, and anxiety, and reliablitly, and resentment. As the half highted, necromaniac strolls cross the floor, finding the dead legs much softer, sexier, pleasurable than any legs he's felt before. A strong, overpowering realization of erotic and erratic compulsion. "Let's fuck dead people!!!!"