Rikoshay

[trap.]

"We make ourselves heard"



RIKOSHAY
We make ourselves heard, modest or blatant.
When the animus starts, we channel this art that’s both modern and ancient.
The expression of dichotomous statements
conveyed through verbal confession and bodily language.
Full throttle or languid, staccato in cadence,
or harmonized with charm applied to melodic arrangements.
Makes no difference if it’s impromptu creation
or reciting mottos verbatim.
We make ourselves heard,
shoutin out from the mountain tops, to the basins
of every metropolis wasteland, where hopes hinge on lottos and patience.
Regardless if you're a role model of sainthood
or a wayward persona non-grata acquaintance.
From –
the popular patrons
of places where everybody knows your name and name droppers are shameless,
to –
the brown paper bag bottling vagrants hitting rock bottom in basements
and everyone, on up to the astronauts in the spaceships.
Including –
the truth seekers caught in the matrix.
The adventurous nomads stranded in backwater locations.
Even –
the privileged few prodigal aces with pot-o-gold tastes
living in the luxurious lap of a tropic oasis.
We make ourselves heard!
Making more than just some minor modifications,
we topple the basic fundamentals upon which the basis
of established reality is built from elaborate fallacy and dramatization.
Until this façade is negated,
we make ourselves heard.

ViS
We're heard like...
The whispers of ghosts of the past...
Or the Holocaust victims that choked on the gas...
The AIDs sufferer dying in an African slum...
Or his kid brother laughing...
Taught to fall in love with the crack of a gun...
Or the poet's pen scribing to make a stanza unknown to men...
Like a nation gasping...
When the Panther's raised their gloved hands on the podium...
Or the blast left after Hiroshima's cloud...
And the cheers that followed...my GOD they were proud...
Like the screams of civil un-rest in Asia...
Or the dying breath of a friend...
That it doesn't take much to savor...
Or the blare of the police blowing their siren...
As they pull ANOTHER innocent kid to throw in the asylum...
Or the lonely orphan crying; ripped from their home...
Like the millions that hailed Hitler like drones...
Perhaps we're quiet...and you hear violence instead...
And while it's NOT golden, sometimes silence is best...

emurgencee
What were we thinking when we ran to feast?
Left pressed against walls, in this land of beast.
For I was never deemed free…
Only crammed for peace.
So when knowledge wore rough, we’d bland it’s sheet.
Scrambling to secure originality, but the tangent’s weak.
How will we ever find the truth, if the answer’s bleak?
I’m just as straight as the fate where you would strand beliefs.
So if this is the last supper, then I plan to eat.
Finely etched my mind’s slate, plate canned with peace.
Digesting scrappy seconds, I took a hand at greed.
I’ll manually push this envelope and demand we speak.
For It’s a fight for the cause, until we stand elite.
My family won’t succumb to the light, they just man the leak.
To rust the foundation, where the fountain’s meek.
But I’ll reach out to the world, who’d practice sound release.
I never claimed to be your God, but I’m down to preach.

((?))
As far as carnality & faith goes, the hungry have adored,
The image where my halo is hung around the horns,
Stand tall? I had nil say so – I’ve rummaged on all fours,
Until happening on the stained clothes & blood from my own corpse,
Hence: The inception – my words suspend the deception,
That if speaking in coded language whatever’s said is pretentious,
I can dispel what is mentioned of oratory elites:
Those lacking auditory-like means CAN be lords of the sheep,
If you imagine a human, handicapped with his herd,
In front of a troop steadily standing deferred,
Who then blast through him when commanded the word,
Don’t tell me that mute man’s plasma can not be heard,
He MADE them listen as a cadaver by spiking,
His blood’s decibel level until it shattered their psyches,
And for the span of their lives he’d leave an impression,
That without syllables he would speak for the deadened,
So, I AM that mute man – who shrieks with his eyes,
I AM the deaf man – hearing screams from inside,
I AM the blind man – who’s seeing in silence,
I am ALL of them, heard because I bleed when I write…

Focus
Auditory sensors updated, the Truth beating your eardrum/
God's glory ensures that I'm heard and freedom is nearing//
This group of extremists tickling your tympanic membrane/
Time to recoup, SMO seen as a living symphonic template//
And you wonder why men hate, but fake with flattering lips/
I'm smattering wits of hypocrites who lust at battering hips//
But still your opinions won't change my life's chain of events/
A Just Will ensure my winnings aren't for trife fame or pretense//
Eternal Gain is reasoned, God spoke and we make the choice/
Infernal Flame is seething, I woke and became His voice//
I can't create myself but I determine what path I follow/
Violent predate pry hell, I'm discerning the wrath I bottle//
Caged rage but the glass is hollow, which became my disposition/
Prayed grace filled my cup, switched and I chose His postion//
SMO is perturb-able to weak fears, Retake par, delve this Word/
We're a proverbial Q-tip to clean ears, We Make Ourselves Heard//

Judge The Decyple
My arts a shot in the dark, the proverbial bread and butter
that feeds the soul while eating a hole in the head of lovers
the minute dilutes the stain yet the covers drained of its godliness
because cleanliness has now gotten confused with opulence
watch the fences, for as soon as the carpet baggers mention peace
my fists are getting raised till their frivolous ways are made beds for the centipedes
forget cloudy days, every heads beneath a steel sky of burden
so realize in real time, take the real lies and discern them
from the truth burning vigil amidst groves of slit throats
who walk around like you or I, smiling ear to ear with a stern face and a clipped pulse
this house of horrors sits close to serenities shore
but the ebb and flow of the tides seem to roll back now more than ever before
this enemy's more of a friend to me than I let it seem,
I guess that would deem the argument null and void
but remember theres more to the picture than whats seen in the celluloid

H. Notik
It's either loss of blood or loss of breath
That causes me to carve my chest'n mark my stress…
The lark infest, soaring over thoughts of the mind
The thoughts that are mine?
Are hidden deep inside my heart locked in a bind
In a locket of time, the locksmith of rhyme…
When I sit'n ponder scripture - lost within time.
Soon I realized, the words that I write…
Disturbing the night.
Will never be heard in a world that is "right"
But wait I'ma herb and I'm white?
….riiiiiiiiight
My words paint pictures allowing sermons to cite,
Learn to recite - wisdom, stop, listen…
I now inhale the system and Vermin of life

Wait. It's burning inside…

I now exhale sims… fueled by knowledge of self
Leaping out of my cage - my mind'n soul begin
to entwine rhyme, divine vibes…follow me within…
on coattails of an outburst, neglecting poverty'n sin.
No! never.

Please people - pay the tender…
A quarter an ear and a dollar for the whole agenda
Of knowledge prepared to strike scholars in tears
If they don't remember the bombs, that dive into piers…
Well I'll remind the minors while the elders cower in fear…
Don't stride behind common thoughts often taught
With pen an pad pick a pocket of the simple profit,
Atop my writers block…still my words inflict the topic
Rolling off the tongues of people bound by tear's n frowns
I fight to be heard - YOU WILL HEAR MY SOUND HERE AND NOW!







----------------------------

Solo


Title: I Give Love A Bad Name


We’re yelling again.
Yelling?
Well, she’s emphatically pelting my back with a healthy attack.
She’s got a well practiced whine and an axe to grind.
If she hopes to overwhelm me with facts she’s welcome to hack.
I’m immune to shouting so I tune her out.
Her points are compelling and accurate. She tells it exact
but the wounds she carves will soon be scars.
And, though I seldom extract it,
when I seek revenge I delve with a hatchet.
Subtle and slick, I cut to the quick.
But I don’t let loose for fear that, if I should swing away,
she won’t recover.
I know enough words
yet, somehow, I don’t always know the right thing to say.
I’m bone-head stubborn
and so, we suffer.
Maybe I didn’t display my emotions every single day,
but I know, in one term or another,
I’ve shown I love her.

She’s telling the truth.
I’m selling lies.
It’s televised by my body language and crass demeanor.
She’s crying again.
Why do I try to defend my side of the fence
when her grass is greener?
I feel a kinship with denial
and I’m a master at turning an inch into a mile.
That is, afterall, how our bed became this vast arena.
We both know she’s right
but I force us to spend another lonely night
clutching the gap between us.
The toll is paid.
I roll away and pull the covers up
over my shoulder blade.
The cold invades but we mustn’t touch.

I’m dwelling in limbo, I live to conceal me.
With no regard, I stole a heart…she would have given it freely.
It pulls apart my soul to shards, and I can’t lift this unwieldy
weight from my chest.
My spine is weak.
If I suffocate in regret it’s fine with me.
I don’t have the strength to confess or mind to speak
and I’m ill prepared to face the effects of finally
disclosing my traitorous theft.
Unkind indeed.
The hands of this filthy thief are painted red.
Why do I enter a not-guilty plea with strangled breath
while my unspoken soliloquy explains the rest?
My most atrocious act of villainy remains unsaid;
in her heart she still believes.
I hang my head.
As though awaiting a guillotine and painless death.
Where did I find the skill to weave this tangled web?

With no regard, I stole a heart
because my own was cold ‘n hard.

[Saint]

RIKOSHAY & SCISmatters "City Silhouette"

Rik the Country Bumpkin-Something:

From afar the summer stars become the sparkling filaments that thread
patches of midnight together into a silken, gentle, spread.
Stealthily, overwhelmingly, the city casts it's silhouette against
this infinite canvas of ebony, creating a brilliant specimen
of void, as absolute dark engulfs the surface of each soot gilded edifice.
Thrusting towers scrape the sky and escape the eye in a guiltless testament
of man's diligent attempts to live with gods while wallowing in familiar decadence.
What was once a community in full bloom esprit is now a wilted settlement.
A wilderness of metal and concrete where bewilderment is met
on a regular basis by it's remarkably resilient residents
until the breaking point is reached and the human quilt is shred to bits.
We rely on faith 'n luck and back pocket media to rake the muck,
when the filth is evident
in the wasted humans and human waste that form the silt and sediments
layered throughout the canyonesque passageways to kill the resonance
and assure the insecure no longer echo goodwill or sentiment.
Talking heads with demon smiles stream to file idyllic messages
which instill a restlessness intended to fulfill the peasant's wish
to out maneuver his neighbor on an stilted precipice.
No one wants to live in run-of-the-mill oblivion,
yet a community pillar's lineage traces directly back to civilian simians.
Imbecilic symbionts form a vicious circle round a stand-still meridian.
We built this city with an endless supply of village idiots.
Now they all sing the praises of the puppet masters that shill their itty-bit.
Over-the-hill committees sit in executive offices
and expect to live off interest accrued from illegitimate
acquisitions and lax traditions intrinsic in a system that milks the innocent.
A unique disparity left the meek inheriting an off-kilter, splintered, mess.
Those who started the portrait departed before it's completion.
A pilgrimage expressed through the following generations filtered images,
besmirching the heart and our search for an artists with the skill to finish it.

SCIS the city slicker Matters:

I got the city in view, an obsidian hue
for the love of colors you'll get blown to oblivion too
But I call it home, of the ballers known for gall and stones
but never crumble, do as they do, but never fall in Rome
You would think we were all alone but unity is,
the only helping hand returned as soon as we give,
our all for the throne.
Our grapes of wrath make every king the prune that he is
Dont strive for par. Pride is God. Get the livest car
These city lights can drown out even the brightest stars
Dreams of buying bars out wit' enough cash to do it
We clockin ya fastest movements as slow as molasses oozin'
We glow when the flash is, losin' it's bulb.
Go out only when we can stash the tool in the club
The brashest fools are the loved ones, half the cools one get slugged
while those same fools laugh when the cool kid is cast in a pool of his blood
We make pinky swears
then read the index for the rules of thumb.
Check in the mirror; take a look at what you've become
A dweller of off roaders, gellin' wit' lost soldiers
I've seen living men walk where John Edwards would never cross over.
We are the heart of the flesh, the darkness of death.
The machine that never stops still sparks in a breath.

[Saint]

"I Am An American"

I wrote this 04/05/03 after returning from a peace march and rally in Oakland.
Perhaps inspired by speakers such as Barbara Lee and Harry Belefonte or just the cumulative effect of the whole event.

.

A placated population is not hard to decieve when,
a media well practiced in the art of bereavment,
wears the mark of the beast camoflauged as a heart on a sleeve.
Those marginally in charge all agree,
the world’s in need of impartial police and,
since the criminals at large are too large to impeach,
we’ll begin with the watershed pairing of red herrings and target the east.
Meaning no harm in the least, we’ll charge with a fleet
of mercenaries who kiss their virgin Mary’s while armed to the teeth,
then cry like spoiled children over oil spillin
when it doesn’t bring them round to our sympathies.
Into the lion’s den we fly first, only to crash ‘n burn in friendly fires.
You too can be a martyr. Just keep your instant karma reciepts.
The latest stock market release is ugrading your system with patriotism
which can be yours for the bargain of peace.
We’re on guard against evil,
like the snake that caused Adam to argue with Eve,
so just be greatful you live in a garden of Eden.
Now is not the time to take sides against.
Let the genocide commence and ride a fence while the jargon increases.
To avoid the spotlight, keep the dark within reach.
A candid remark is a treasonous act when malarky’s in season.
Traitor removal brings higher rated approval
and keeps the monarchy pleased.
Also, regarding the freedoms our founding fathers had ardent belief in,
like those of art and of speech,
relax, you aren’t on a leash.
Just keep wearing this muzzle
until we’ve prepared your rebuttal with our snake charming techniques.
Don’t be alarmed if it reeks of propaganda.
Our top bannana’s not playing with a full deck so we’ll just discard your critiques
and, with a laugh, dismiss the activists that marshal the people to march in the streets.
Those who dare resist, of course, support the terrorists.
Or their hearts are just weak.
War’s not for sissies.
Opportunity still knocks when the doorknobs are missing,
so we’ll barge in and greet it head on
until the final death throes of the carcass have ceased.
Then we’ll carve it to peices and throw a marvelous feast
to celebrate the harvest we’ve reaped.
Not to party or eat
but to drop table scraps to the disabled saps that starve at our feet.
Finally, once the farce is complete,
we’ll return you to your regularly scheduled programming of brain retardant repeats.

"I Am God"

If I were God for a whole day,
I’d smoke the world’s supply of pot till the smoke made
the polar caps dissolve, then ride on top of a slow wave
as it washed the remainder of Sri Lanka to stone age,
then set up a “Relief fund” to fill my pockets with Hope’s change
and riddle a baby with cancer for every dollar you donate.
If I were God for a whole day,
I’d sit atop snow caps turning boulders to crack and powder to cocaine.
Pick up some hookers, set the sun to a moderate, low flame,
and show these lightweights how we used to blast rock in the old days.
After all, you only regret the narcotics you don’t take.
If I were God for a whole day,
I'd play the possum in probate, omit errs from the omnibus
and split heirs with automatons to bring apocalypse post haste.
If I were God for a whole day,
I'd resurrect my most successful prophets and role play,
with me as devil's advocate and them as my popular code names.
Convince them Hell is the most exotic of locations.
Have them gather all my followers, my prodigal snowflakes,
and tell them “We’re going to Hell! It’s a tropical oasis!”.
When they say “The Gods Must Be Crazy!”
I’ll show them how much a, 5 mile wide, bottle of Coke weighs.
If I were God for a whole day,
I'd grab my crotch 'n disrobe Space, my androgynous soul mate.
And that obstinate ho, Fate, would eat my cock on a gold plate.
In fact, I’d give all women the bodies of super models with no face,
so we wouldn’t have to hear them bitch about the petty problems they blow way
out of proportion and, while I’m at it, I’ll give em bodies with no legs.
Make it easier for them to sit on a rod and just rotate.
If I were God for a whole day,
I’d appear on Earth and tell every slob that their soul's saved
just by believing in me, then demand that the populace show faith.
Tell them “In order to ‘See the light’ suicide is not only okay,
I’ll even make you an angel for doing it the most macabre and gross way!”
then condemn them all to hell and laugh as their confident ‘glow’ fades.

Then again…
If I were God for a whole day,
I'd know that it’s all a lie and wonder why I do my job with a bold face.
I cause overcrowding to expand exponentially to poverty’s growth rate.
I let rappers enforce oppression while they’re robbed of their own names
without realizing they’re being insidiously held hostage with gold chains.
I allow men to make the governing rules and silently watch women obey,
even if it means having their clitoris clipped like the crotch is a bouquet.
I indisputably establish evolution as a legitimate process we both take,
and view the irony of men being locked in a box when they “Go ape!”.
In my name, armadas take rogue shapes
and drop a bomb if it shows strength.
I endorse patriotism in clear cut slogans when the promise is opaque,
leaving veterans to become vagrants while war profits uphold banks.
Whenever someone succeeds,
I’m the one “Thank you” they have in common at close range
Yet, in all the world’s ills,
I’m the accomplice with no thanks.
…
And so
…
if I were God for the rest of his life,
I’d connect the dots from my wrist to my elbow and end this mess with a knife.

[Saint]

If You Can't Find Something To Live For"... F. Neter

If you can't find something to live for, you best find something to die for!

*Martyr - somebody who makes sacrifices: somebody who makes sacrifices or suffers greatly in order to advance a cause or principle

RIKOSHAY:

And still I see no changes.
All I see is peers who don't dream and spirits choking.
Expectations and aspirations disappear in smoke screens.
Queer ass folk schemes control commercials.
Wholesale role reversal creating fear and loathing.
Star gazers. Car chases. Interference, both teams.
As hopes cave in the raven settles on the sill, I can hear him quoting,
"Never more. Never more".
The truth was never more evident.
Man's reach exceeds his grasp so what the hell's a heaven for?
It stays hell on earth and we keep fightin the devil's wars.
Human life, borrowed and lent.
Tomorrow is spent, so they leverage yours.
Balancing budgets with gallons of bloodshed.
Can’t fight it when night sticks are used like a phallus to bludgeon
all who oppose or challenge a judgment.
No trials for traitors.
Smile‘s a brave word.
The unstable are sentenced and labeled as menaces to society.
Slaves first,
citizens last.
Trade head lice ‘n do-rags for red, white ‘n blue flags,
and silently waves yours
every time the nation’s addressed by it’s beguiling savior.
Deposit the hell within a closet of skeletons.
Our violent behavior is merely a symptom
of pieces not intended to fit in our superior system.
A product of men too corrupt to mend.
Don’t be surprised when a deal for cash is struck and your ass is stuck.
Getting fucked again.
You can’t duck the end.
So stand up, don’t grasp for luck or pass the buck.
Buck the trend.



Neteru:

Life..Death..Purgatory..Breath
Masonic pastors speculate in church the lies you ingest.
yet operative in the Lodge..initiation..hand on their chest
pawn soldiers of the Illuminai...ya'll figure out the rest.
Not here to preach to cats, Net's much deeper than that
fuck refer & crack. religion is the devil..n*gga believe dat!!
perceive that, Then tell me [why] religions don't get along
Why are most Black Leaders assassinated, dead and gone???
Why are religions and politicians the backbone of society?
it's not inside-of-me to ever show a False Christs piety.
does god love the homeless? love infants with birth defects???
i think not, common sense i manifest by words expressed.
i once embraced a wooden cross until the day i felt a splinter
seen bums on curbs with plastic bag as coats in dead of winter
seen relatives in third would countries eating bread for dinner
seen the meek dumbfound the wise and bloodshed of sinners.
i was once told: " Know-They-Self or Face The Consequences "
every man is his own god and devil, just be more conscientious..