Catch me hangin’ out. Fangs and the Black & Mild dangle out my mouth. Matter fact, I’ma break ‘em off now, I guess I’m stubborn like Sampson when he breakin’ walls down. The truth is, I never let my lover be my lord, no. Beat the pussy up just like I’m gettin’ back from war, though. More so morose. Source in the forked road. Melloys are planted where the spores and the swords grow. Blood red red beard, drink plunder pillaging. Been on time maybe twice in my life. Phillistine. Super star of “Super Stoner Rappers Say the Illest Things.” Probably die alone, a hermit that’s word to Pope Cillistine. Sky fall. See the Son of Summer Sun’s body lyin on the dry wall. The Throne is mine, by law. By gones are by gones. Right on. Fine. You can keep the change, bitch, I keep the time and you ain’t gettin’ that, nah. Serpahim sold soul, so go scarecrow. Ergo starin’ at the star scape spear throw. Hold up! High on Hydra blood, holed up. I’m just glad the gods of cosmic blah show up. Listen, I can flay your skin in four to five seconds, flat. Hollowed out skull? Touch Nice Mother Fuckin Hat. Soul trapped in this body like a firefly inside a jar beatin up against my skin like the glass. And that’s all I know so I conjure the sound of a boundary that grow and a fountain that flow through a town where the hounds and accountants all go. When I’m down for the count, count the ounce, and we’ll smoke. I told em nope! See through moves goons make while I float like fumes through the ashes of the wake. The steeple in the stipend of absurd enamel. Acolyte, Lavender Town Dirge Disciple. If you’re focused on the past then we pedal right past because we’re movin’ right on. And the prison couldn’t last because the prison couldn’t pass for a prizm that long.

A cold wind was sifting Divine Rain. I sat alone on a vacant street wishing the final bend in this Labyrinth held something but the harrowing echo of defeat. Was it loneliness punctuating these moments? These half-hearted mockeries of life. I guess I just fucking hate how I can still hear them singing their hymns as the Good Ole Gospel Ship burst into flames! How quick forgotten, that macabre Merkabah slicing the throat of the sky that night while dissipating letters on a neon sign whispered silent instructions to the Devil inside me. I was fastening my gas mask reminiscing on those very same letters myself while leafless trees swayed in the Sea’s breeze like “She’s keeping Her poetry to Herself.” The trees became swords, the sky a scroll. I had a foot in this world while the parchment rolled. Benevolent birds took flight to declare, “THE PURPOSE IN THE SOLITUDE HERALDS OUR DISPAIR!” then a ship-wrecked sparrow hollered from a tree, “I AM ONLY JUST A BODY! WHAT COULD BE INSIDE OF ME?!” But then his unseen Counselor that has a thousand voices revealed Itself in the shelter of past choices. Gargoyle. Delighted in his haste. Used to have a purpose now he only sits in place. Demonstrate morality, it’s written on the face of Collective Consciousness stubbornly embraced. I’m present presently. I ditch the Holy Ropes. In the shadow of the Suffering my true self revolts. “I” am not “I”, at least as I would think it. I’m a wolf (inside), a man (inside), a stubborn ship sinkin. I shot an arrow into the air. I was lost at sea for lifetimes, it seems. So, I shot an arrow into the air. Just to hear the Moon scream and see the Sky bleed out slow.

Fresh as fuckin’ sushi, hoppin out the mouth of Krishna while crestfallen Angels stumble drunken through the Mishna. Fixna do battle with the dull gods of drudgery then eat the skull of Justice, full savage (fuck the cutlery!). Desert Father types used to call me “Touch Supplicant.” Surf board soul in case the vibe is too undulant. Diet’s pure shit but my reading provides the supplement I need to take the torch that lit the sun and start to run with it. Now my mentors wonder, “How’d he get so nice?” Man I’ve been swimming through the icy veins of the TechnoChrist. It’s like ALL THE SAME SHIT BROTHER, WHAT’S A DUDE TO DO?!” The black waves of Acheron fade in to a Xanadu. Ridin’ constellations til my luck slows, snatch an arrow out Orion’s bow and holler “Fuck no!” My mantra is, transform the sound-proof to sonorous. Ego death eponymous, anonymous, honor this. Sittin’ on the road in a way broke van while DMT elves holler, “Stay woke Fam!” I never knew myself ‘til I was ridin’ on the skirty, now I die a thousand deaths a day before 12:30. Stoned from day one like Medusa used a cloudy crystal ball to view and skew my future. Still, I do this truly to prove a fact that when your fuel is lookin’ truthless you can pull it back. Back from the dead, hands red, caught me rollin’ somethin’. Cold as fuck, Odinson holdin, thunderboltin’ somethin’. Better duck down! All around cameras catchin’ ya. Kings’ blood. Check Mate, checkin ya. Wreckin’ ya. Shut the fuck up! I done told y’all once that if you notice the shoulder with coldness it’s cause I rode the road with the bumps. And I’ve been ridin on the skirt like Han Solo on the outer rim. Truth in the presence of the counterfeit. Winners take all like Winters take all shitty share-croppers lackin that foresight in the Fall. Patient pawns movin’ Mothers, Crones, and Maidens but I mostly murk beats if Mr. Highmoon made ‘em. Identify Raiden but I’m more so Goro. Pendragon grabbin’ at the Stone like “Where’d the Sword go?!” I’m told Death strolls a horse so khloros. I’m trying to clutch my 40 through the chorus with the door closed. Ridin. FRAME HOUSE!