The Son of Man’s son I am – stand speakin’. Every mic stand in the hand of a damn heathen. Phantom leech logic, disconnected from the host. That stream just don’t seem so red now. Feast or famine, I’m keeping this shit moving like pre-historic people, deep in the trip, shroomin’. Grab a shovel start Jesus-Freakin’ fumin’. We sleep in what we dig, I’m trying to dig amid the ruin. By “dig”, I mean “run.” By “run”, I mean “ramble.” Air Christ, shut ‘em down in +1 sandals. Eucharist facelifted, hominid gone vandal. Crack the fortress of the egg inside your mind! Time itself speaks against the voice of false prophets, a sign of self-weakness until the mission is accomplished. If I ever feel accomplishing the mission is a promise then flay my fuckin’ skin for the craven and the honest. Leper at the gates of consciousness, sittin’ outside the city walls trying to levitate with confidence. I made a point to slay the joint that made a compliment come across cradle-to-the-coffin cacophonic. Nestled in a level of a traveler’s mindset, I’ll be offering my service for a frivolous dime, bet. Bet what? Bet I’m better when I’m breadless. Nothing lasts forever, sister? That’s just talkin’ reckless.

Most days, I post up. In nothin’ I trust. Givin’ up the ghost plus inhalin’ the rust. Slit-wrist ravager scavengin’ angel dust, just a basilisk that clap when your cranium go to crust. I Ravishing Rick Rudely, truly, ain’t givin’ a fuck. So, miss me with that brittle bullshit and fisticuffs. I’m a “Start from square one” type kind that don’t question. Night crawlin’ blind, killin’ time is so depressing. Listen to them streets sleep, son, you’ll learn a lesson’. Correction. Listen to them streets speak, you’ll hear ‘em stressin’. Correction. Listen to ‘em weep and get yourself a blessin’. Impressionable freak show, belief is just a weapon. Capital “F” in “The fuck is this dude doin’?” Keepin ties with flies and locusts, speakin’ ruin. Peepin’ violent times and people gettin’ stupid. Freakin’ out inside, my treatment is the truest. Got a drink in my grip. Gotta drink to the dead! Not a drink just to sip…a lotta drinks to the head. I toast the moon under some mausoleum light, pale; disfigured face hidden well beneath the night’s veil. Titans ain’t shit. Matter fact, I find ‘em quite frail. Burning for the blind. Touch, the gust, ignite brail. Re-write history – no heroes or exes. Shift the whole nexus. Black hole suplexes.

[Hold the phone, it’s the Unholy Ghost.
And you say nothing is forever?!]