Listening in, now i hear my love’s voice
muted, a little, by the red-hot moon
crank up the engine but don’t rejoice
limping in here, Irish condom, so soon
thinking of nobody’s assassination—
just the drugs that keep us from the real me
a creative djinn loved by everyone
read my manifesto—believe and see
outer darkness, what have you, creeping in
suddenly my love is so important;
love her a little more if she lives in sin,
ever out there—the venison i hunt
bursting with self-confidence and joy—i can’t compare to that—it’s best if her lover remains her lover since, as it happens, I am him;
yeah i want the full package—letting your hair grow even longer, making me sick with a combination of loneliness and desire
Norway blond can do that, too; it’s my affliction, anyhow, to be with her and dream, all that time, of you. Be gone from my love, brown skinned small-fry; i’m better off if i stick with the trophy i kiss, making me, as she does, her wee little slut
driving me a little out of my mind; the dark language is new—comes in, a little, as the medication goes out; but i’m not alarmed—i believe in God, he wants me to draw a line
that only hot potato language can predict. Fuck it, then, we’re doing this; let’s roll rawhide; embody the telepath. I’m up for it, lass, take on a little shame—it goes to the bank
sound-king, me, rolling dough to make bread; knead it a little—limp dick ahead; i use my imagination, don’t i, to fill in the gaps—or even to create a whole new experience
So [fuck it] this is happening; this is how i roll: i’d suffer more than anybody—considering the work that goes into this; but the work cancels out my suffering; makes me whole again - with the confidence of an ape
this is my authentic self, brain child of mine
i swear a little when composing my rhyme,
i double down when it comes to my shrine
In a decade or so, well, we run out of time
Norway blond—looking for you, kissing ass
i guess—losing my audience; raw sex,
fundamental building blocks that come to pass
i use them when creating the love i vex
she’s coming for me, Norway blond, she’s going
to take this energy and channel it out of
our mind—making the world fit for a king,
if we could go back to Obama and his love,
third terms, however, do not follow suit
we need to ensure, at best, that we exist
young blood needs a chance to make us moot:
for a second, limping in here, i resist
what’s happening all over again -
draw the curtains, washing my clothes
socks with a drop of exposed semen
the residue, love, that cancels out the pole
everything here goes to zero, if, that said,
you flip it on it’s head, adjacent to each
other: i need, don’t i, to think of you as dead?
there’s no getting past what you cannot teach
a love for your country and those we meet
damn the screen—it tricks me, thinking
we get closer as we learn more of our seat,
but that’s just it, the phone, love, shall not ring
damn the screen for fooling me, tricking me,
making me the laughing stock of those
that, pray tell, don’t get cold in a cold sea,
shaking our spear, there’s the rub, as it goes.
got an itch that holds fire, makes me a fool
can’t believe i’m bound to love his rule,
no sex before vodka, on the way to school
limp dick, tostado, the bitch was a tool
losing my audience—but others come in
can’t please them all, what’s happening?
My faith, gee-haw, is a function of men,
those that, across history, are my thing
this brown skinned woman, retroactive,
will be good for the country—thought,
shit, she’s bad for me, one life to live,
Norway blond—make her pay what she ought
for coming, through the screen, into my
home—don’t know what’s best, limp dick
walking, with purpose, they’re telling a lie
history of women, watch the doll i’d kick
go down and stay down you racist cad,
losing this battle with my ex—no foreplay,
just the improv that makes me look bad,
losing my audience to the world i portray