headlines

area addict worried about the effects of rehabilitation on her crack-baby
/
area student one-ups resumes-padders: founds the National Association of Associations
/
area man mildly regrets decision to continue chewing gum while taking a shower
/

headlines

a princeton sociology study has corroborated the existence of anti-knowledge culture in the hip hop industry. aptly titled "MCs act like they don't know" after the seminal KRS-One track, the report showed the results of a questionnaire that was carefully crafted to reflect the realities of urban life, of which, researchers assumed, the rapper recipients should be fully aware.

much to the authors' surprise, a mere 5% of recipients responded to the survey and of those received most entailed abstractions, obfuscations and quite often insinuations that the authors' wives and mothers were sleeping with the survey recipients.

"not a single response contained the answers we sought about life in the inner city," said study author Bob Wuthnow, "even though these rappers have, through their hip hop music, demonstrated specialized knowledge of several urban topics, from ghetto linguistics to allah's mathematics. at first, i thought that our survey had been sabotaged by a rival journal with whom we've had beef for quite some time now, but follow up calls to survey recipients confirmed nagging suspicions that most of the MCs were simply inclined to feign ignorance."

headlines

black entrepreneurs invent side-sighted firearms; citing "paucity of supply catering to minority gangsta market"

area student inhales radioactive, genetically enhanced weed smoke; develops ability to finish all his roommate's remaining cereal in one go

aging rapper krs-one succumbs to alzheimer's, answers "the MC" to every question asked of him

stream of consciousness: cognitive bias

i like to tinker with the tools for your thinking,
food for thought i just chew it up,
no room for fools,

i pick and choose the rules,

and high jinks
lower blows leave a stink
like rows of roses, over those past the brink:
those for whom the pulse of doom got no kink
on stage you flat-line at my nines,
see your life flash like light,
i fight crews, i don't blink,
so glazed are my eyes all the time.
dehydrated,
i'm thirstier than drunkards
drooling back in their drink
but still fire,
bullet-grazed yet on point with the rhyme,
unfazed and amazing,

blaze a joint on this line,
put bluntly:
you couldn't find an axe that could stump me,
you dull B,
my cypher's sick, i'll smoke you like bud trees,
i'm hungry,
your tries to diss are stuck in your guts see,
like shit,
my rhymes will kick you right where them nuts be,
you're rusty,
your ammunition's awfully pointless,
pull a pistol:
bullet blitzkrieg that i hollowed the points in,
standard issue,
empty clips do get switched,
i anoint with,
an ointment of hits
that explode like the shits
and damage tissues.
couldn't fathom how i'll atom split you,
mushroom clouds to move the crowds: 

mind-matter fission.

and wise adage missiles,

the aftermath's official:

after laughter comes the tears,

look: here's a tissue.

headlines

area rapper consults timepiece, tells those niggas what time it is;

area penis passes out, wakes up with guy drawn on his head; completely oblivious

stream of consciousness: who's gonna save my soul now?

wrote this on the beat of gnarls barkely's "who's gonna save my soul now?" which had previously escaped my ears. a wicked take from a male dumper's perspective. what you say gnarls? remix with ghostface killah?

~~~

we used to be the sun in the sky,
stars shining,
hearts bright and, enlightened,
but harsh nights encroached on,
to spite our warm summers day,
delight just alighted away,
faint approach of the cold upon love,
some will say,
creeps quiet beneath us,
the flesh rendered weakened,
what spirits unwilling won't speak of,
mired in our own latent struggles:
our feet,
tied up in our frustrated hustles:
our hands,
tired instruments,
unplayed by dead minstrels as we,
cry out in a drawn sluggish speech:
i love you...
baby i love you
bitch fuck you,
i love you, but fuck you.
you're selfish i'm selfish, it's ending,
what do we spend all this night's oil to see?
in the valley of our shadow,
some trees?
nothing grows above a barren soil,
these leaves underneath?
but the throes of a love devoid,
of life,
brightest day burned in vain,
to the darkest void of night,
blackest hole swallow fabric,
the space we both needed,
invaded then bleeded,
the contempt we breed, it was fated,
fam- il-i-ar-i-ty
changed things,
from charity to favors,
the vanity enslaved us,
renditions of our love were now labored,
and labelled, conditioned,
serenades became sermons on behavior,
false fables, fuck this shit...

stream of consciousness: hunter killers

the mad nomad hopping stops bussin raps at earlobes, dropping bombs worldwide geo-tagging your globes, critic'lly thinking, kill em all, religious faggots in robes, priestly pillars pilloried for penny bagging the dope, rise the dealers, made a menace 'cause our tricks are all sleeveless, made a mess of crossing chests, saw it's not only the meekest, only the strong survive crap shoots the longest, guns rise, so fuck jesus, deuces wild so screwed am i while i play games with sharks eating, narcs cheating, packing shards-of-glass in crack-coated cards, see who dealt us, bluffed calls, out of options, zero deltas, money left us no shelter, discontent of cold winter sure teach us, many necessary evils of life -like strapping heaters disguised, and how to see through the lies what, beneath us are the tracks of deceit of, the acts of great speakers, at whom my gun-sights reveal weakness, "self-evident that all men are equals", i'll sneak up, apparatus shatter like beakers, i speak the TRUTH, that no man is born bullet-proof.