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1. |
Lotto Complex
03:57
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I stole my valor out the back of a truck
that was crashed into a liquor store that trafficked in love
for all the false starts and all the charred hearts
and veterans of wars foreign, familiar, and peculiar.
And as I made my getaway the penitent drunk
clutched the handle of his crutch like the neck of a dove—
the pope in his purse, his hope as a curse,
vomiting at me with his deliriate honesty:
"Run, old boy, and they'll chase you down,
trip you to the street and crack your crown,
or do it my way and give up now:
live pretty pretty in an ugly town."
Fakie.
I learned to take a dive when I was reading the good book.
Felt unrelated but it taught me the good look:
to let my hair grow long and treat my body all wrong—
am I a dirtbag prophet or a slacker terrorist?
And as I made my demands to my unruly hands—
that it's now or never and it's a pen or a lever
for my contact list full of prop IEDs,
they bent backwards and signed to me:
"Eat, old boy, and you'll choke it down,
swallow your shit and wear the gown,
or do it our way and give up now:
live pretty pretty in an ugly town."
Fakie.
What's this poor punk life ever done for me
but made me dependent on the governing?
I'd rather get fucking rich and spend recklessly
on guns to kill cops and land to roam free.
Burn it down or buy your way out.
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2. |
Hominidae
03:26
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Where've you been, my little gorilla?
You been wending well lost amidst the flotilla?
Drinking all the poisons they're so eager to give ya?
Thinking you're invincie 'spite that naggin' scintilla?
Did you see them big trucks and which way they're driving?
Did you have the good fun with domesticated thriving?
Oh, I know it's easy to get carried away.
And oh, I know bowing's easy with the ebbing and waves.
But let's call a winner a winner, motherfucker!
This fight isn't mine and it shouldn't be yours.
I'm a dim-lit slackjaw and born-again scofflaw
with just enough spit to spread it on my wrist.
Slip the cuffs off, monkey run.
You trusted the wrong man, my little gorilla!
It's not the one with the gun who's tryin' to kill ya.
Look at the silvertongue, baby, the maybe-promise-filla.
For he can't dance to you without a little of spilla—
spilling the blood from his goblet,
spilling the blood from his pimp cup.
So let's call a winner a winner, motherfucker!
This fight isn't mine and it shouldn't be yours.
I'm a limp-fist glassjaw with little but a bonesaw
and just enough grit to run it through my wrist.
Slip the cuffs off, monkey run
to the black butter shack
where they keep the bolts down
deep under the floorboards
where they dream of the heat now,
'cause this is just the kind of thing
they expect you to do
'til you take the business end to your crown and your crew.
So let's be losers together, little brother!
This fight isn't mine and it shouldn't be yours.
Just pinch your piece to quick release and fact those fucks with your disease
so what they feel in the belly will settle in the skelly.
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3. |
Mediums
04:48
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I just woke up, broke-backed and a little bit dizzy,
humming to myself off-notes of a song I only
heard about from a close friend who ain't ever yet met me
but I know loves the way I be.
I caught the hot news in a dragnet on the way to work,
worrying myself about the time I spend chasin' dirt—
like if that's how it can go down is it worth the pull down,
or ought I just pull out?
Nothing good,
nothing bad,
nothing good—
just nothing.
I keep a razor focus on my one hundred tasks at hand,
wondering to myself if life's better whereveristan—
it could be, it should be, it ain't fuckin' here—
I ain't fuckin' there.
I slip into a stream and float down the way
I promised myself I'd be able to one day,
where what I think is great pays tribute to what I hate
and I meet me in the middle.
Nothing good,
nothing bad,
nothing good—
just nothing.
I feel quite sick not yet having a piece of it
like an upward drip, 'cause though I don't trip,
I do quite like how it makes me want to fight
and get it all on tape.
Tape the police, tape the clock, tape the job—
tape whatever the fuck it is
that makes me quietly
when I wanna loudly.
Nothing good,
nothing bad,
nothing good—
just nothing.
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4. |
Savah
02:08
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5. |
Doper Grindset
04:33
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Suckers far and wide, come and join the tribe—
we've got a soci system and it runs on vibe.
It's the good plant growing at the good plant—
for a taxable fee, even you can feel free.
We fought for the rot of ego abnegation
on the front lines of the local voting station
so we can now rest now that we have wrest
from proffered palms a balm for the oppressed.
Independent businessman, no corporation:
you buy it from your mama and sell it to your daddy.
Prez green in the bank, prez green so to thank.
Keep her feeling flush, keep him in your trust.
Independent brainstem, no configuration:
you roll it up yourself and forget for your health.
All that you need, you find it in your dreams.
Don't be so critical of what keeps you liminal.
When the fog is thick enough you can't even see your hands,
nor if they're bloody, broken, or counting beads.
It's the good haze that keeps you in a good place;
it makes you feel wild, though it keeps you a child.
So line up all your problems and we'll blow 'em over
in a kushy fuckin' cloud where only police are sober.
And we get quite dumb as a rule of thumb
'cause they won't cuff us up if we gladly succumb.
The good corporation with proper allegiances:
never buy it retail when there's always a sale.
Prez green in the bank, prez green so to thank.
Keep you feeling easy, keep you asking pleasey.
The good duty brain with proper dependencies:
never don't do something that makes you feel better.
All that you need, you find it in your dreams.
Don't be so critical of what keeps you liminal.
A little bit of boredom, go far away.
A little bit of weed gonna make my day.
A little bit of pain, go far away.
A little bit of weed gonna make me okay.
We'll all feel better if we smoke together.
We'll all feel clever if we smoke together.
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6. |
Junebaby
03:50
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You are the anxious, leeward, and tired.
You are a raindrop in the sea.
You are the overtrucked and underfucked.
You are of the same market as me.
You are the anamorphic, cloistered, and horny.
You are an idea, incomplete.
You are the fortissimo e bellissimo.
You are the rapist on your TV.
In your palm lives a prayerbook—
pure Savahnnic liturgy.
Corpus consortium cum pugilist boredom;
the you you always wanted to be.
I stay up all night lookin' to fight.
I stay up all night and I wonder why.
I stay up all night lookin' to fight,
then wipe my own memory & start anew tomorrow.
You are a puerile mote of fungus
sprung from the intestine of a flea
of such consumptive significance
to you and only ye.
You know there is no afterlife
because you've watched too many different people die in too many different ways
to believe all of them could end up in the same place.
Bit rot, watch it for the plot.
But in your mind thrives an impulse—
that yen for freedom that begs:
surely this can't be everything
when even love feels like the dregs.
Here yoked I ask myself:
"Who did this to you?"
and here yoked I reply
"The eye, my god, and I."
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7. |
Roiler
03:26
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I'm not allowed in my own home
the home I grew up in
the home where I lived
the home I fell in love in
they kicked me out
for trying to burn it down
when I saw what they were doing
in the dining room
in the family room
in my own bedroom
I put a little flame
a flame to the curtains
I thought if I could end it there
it wouldn't follow me here
but I was wrong
oh, I was wrong
I'm sick to think
how I was so pretty
pretty little boy with the big bowie
with the big wide smile
and the sharp white teeth
Now I don't get along
with very many persons
the very many persons
running games on me
games of chance
in which I don't stand a chance
of eking out even baby victory
so I get a bit loud
and I get excited
and don't try to burn it down
but do get violent
miss a few punches
and say a few strong words
to make me feel less weak
but I am still weak
I'm sick to think
how I was so pretty
pretty little boy with the big bowie
with the big wide smile
and the sharp white teeth
You can untie me up
unweigh me down
lay me in a puddle
and watch me drown
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8. |
S03E21
04:10
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Ooh good and cold in my wet bedsheets—
wet with bad sweat and remorseful dreams;
wet with bad blood,
wet with forced love,
wet it seems forever
ever wanting for touch.
But you're way better bending than the metal replacing
these nocturnal visits—all so seamy and hazy—
with the thigh fission vision sacramental and daily,
I'd rather this than just licking my lips.
It's 4am,
and I'm half asleep,
half with you again.
You moisten my skin
and you taste sweet,
despite embittering.
Ooh good and hot under your heavy hips—
heavy with bad faith and reproaching dreams;
heavy with bad burdens,
heavy with pink curtains,
heavy it seems forever
ever wanting for certain.
But you're much worse wearing than the solace I'm chasing,
these nocturnal visits all so lurid and racy,
with the lip spit session for my retrogression,
I'd rather the threshing than the orthogonal blessing.
Its 4am,
and I'm half deplete,
half imbued again.
You etch in my skin
a codic ward,
a pluck-feather warning.
And when you look away, I find myself following your gaze,
and I tell myself it's to ensure it's not at her.
But I know different, I know better, I'm unconvinced:
I know I'm looking to see whom you might go for next.
And I'm filled with a feeling unlike the dread,
unlike the fear,
unlike the pain,
unlike the lust,
and I realize it's jealousy
that your haunt and your horrors may not be exclusive between us.
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