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Sn00p
02-07-2013, 01:03 PM
Split Eight


Also known as Split, Clutch, and Dr. Dog.
Active from 2012 to the present time.
Posted on Netcees, RapMusic, RIA and Art of Battling.

Split
02-07-2013, 02:11 PM
Time Lapse
10/4/2012

Okay, feelin me?
Seats in the upright position.

Can you hear me?
Question poses rhetorical,
Purpose metaphorical,
That's the sound of indiscretion as this basis
Implies a presence near me.
Reality equates to the sum of every thought,
Fear subsides as I reverberate in cranium,
My success implies cooperation:
Insane is one to hear these teachings that I teach,
But the beat succeeds to plant me
ingrained between the lines you seek to speak.

Message received,
Text is crystal clear,
Drive pursuing truth
and this is what was seen:
My beams kiss the mirror,
Light can't be un-perceived
As the meaning's ever clearer.
The pixels as they read:

Red for finality,
tinted magenta aggression,
stop you in your tracks,
that's Amtrak intercession

Yellow the cautious treaty,
Amber holds the moment hostage
like mosquitoes two milli BC,
Wit edged sharp like penny's
aerial probability.

Green concludes the fable,
Paused and now enabled
Freedom leaves my lips,
changes color like the seasons
as I loose this reason by the clip,

Split Eight's the infinity
Set upon its' side,
Cracked in half to let me
Sew split-seconds at discretion,
I've got the power of perception fast and slow,
When the thought to challenge breaches surface,
realize illumination is my mission
vision self-fulfilled in purpose



Park Bench
10/6/2012

"Say something funny" is the text I see,
May '11, streetlights mist the streets.
Didn't seek the relationship but
that's how it always comes to be.
Her tone rings off-melodic,
Remains self-evident that hindsight drips sardonic,
In her open invitation- hesitation to partake.
The seed of doubt sewn to hoodies,
She scrawled the end in public paint.
Lettered together per tradition,
Simple heart on a park bench,
Names cross to spite what remained unknown,
Epitaph to words unspoken,
Prophecy of solitude unbroken except by time alone.
She sought friendship in delay of suicide,
Day before she died was hardest
Last thing she said to me was
"Leave a message at the tone".
Stars above the bench still reside,
Pave a familiar constellation,
Tilts uphill to unkempt adoration.
Connect the dot commiseration,
Fate the sacrificial agent
Cannot appease the debt another owes,
Yet complicates these contemplations.



Labor Day
10/16/2012

First season I recollect, crack the window and reflect, trees catch wind of death, ease into the next- cease to speak to coalesce, cut beauty by the blossom, glimpsed reason then lost him,
Breathe a frosty breath and introspect- nostalgia is the weapon catchin reminiscence in the chest,
Shape sister intuition, re-up the inhibition then relapse to stress,
Does the blood we bleed for betterment impress? Interrupt staccato macho cliques to beat some life into the mess, flicks his spliff to pause as-
tick, tick, tick
-mortal bates his breath to reckon with slick fits of schiz schizophrenic schisms,
Pray it's just a phase, man, panic risen,
Fall laces time to traditions, coax ambition, daydream wishing,
a scheme of blessing all who ask forgiveness- is he with it?
Pressing sense of slipping breaks even what Eight is missing,
What's he missing?
The question never reveals the key,
Broke the cypher in ninety five, two years alive, can't read while you rest,
Sleeping hieroglyphics are the lecture not the test,
Autumn turns leaves not pages, retrace the letters and close the text.



Marky Mark and the Catholic Clergy
10/17/2012

Keep your alliteration to yourself, cocksucker

Ahh, yes, Boston Massachusetts, city on a hill, built on swill and pilgrim nuisance,
Lost the pennant the past few fifty at bats, paired bloody stockings? Beyond useless.
Set the scene, pretty in green, but Fenway's table is lacking napkins, Paul Revere lived in that shithouse,
Freedom trail is long-winded don't I mean? Just about.

TD Garden, Banknorth, back and forth, rescinded in impatience,
Built on Mass graves of native civilization, they lost a couple limbs, we chopped the R's from our conversation,
Wicked pisser, sure did miss ya, Dunkin Donuts only fuckin onus is they can't swindle trans-fats for gilded caps.
City of sin, oasis polar, spin the globe over, only Europe in fact, Irish immigrants, you down for a round of Red Rover?
Vegas ain't got shit on this lime schemin' four leaf clover.
Baked beans and corned beef, win Stanley's mug, put the key to the city in the sheath, new batch of bastards is good for a couple pumps,
Got you out of work for half a century, thanks for Saint Paddy's fuckin chumps,
That's the spirit of New England, mention names, pack again, am i right B. Valentine?
Love these dirty waters but I sure wouldn't drink the Bay wine.

Welcome to our homely harbor, get apathetic or get dead,
Marky Mark and the Catholic clergy stopped breaking bread,
If you know what's best, start taking what your pal said,
Reverse it, rehearse it, reimburse him, Boston Creme slander,
That's Brighton for ya, seems terse, no words for bystanders,
Absurd and mighty, Beacon Hill still stands here,
Advice, take a look and take it elsewhere



End's Gate
10/24/2012

Baby boom generation, settled for less than expectations, ghost-wrote the revolution from their tomb, set sanctions on salvation,
And now the duty to beseech supersedes validation,
Ten years of young minds, abandoned and unheard,
Angst incurred, the question posed in turn:

If God made us in His likeness, shouldn’t our moral mettle meet minimum qualifications?
Demand we better ourselves, stay righteous, unfetter from hate, but the greatest offenders populate the pews themselves?
To greet the canon with my fodder, I gotta repent for past itself?
Three ruminations from detonation, in all my gambled wealth- I couldn't read a tell if His red-italic knifeprint scrawled it on the felt,
Bet a bag of black chips, dealer's gonna bust, swift flip of tactics, slips a card from behind the belt,
Cue the knuckle dust, bump a line of rust, feels idyllic, thinks fuck the scripture,
Pulls out and flips the river, sets the audience aquiver plus mistrust- not to break vertebrae in shivers, do I digress or drip acryllic on the picture?
Honesty fails to prevail, found the silver lining when I struck my dick with flint then burnt His leather tome, not quite blasphemy- just in Rome.
Untethered to my mortal stint, Rhapsody in shades of gray plays as forefathers collect excessive severance,
Did they sift the footnotes at all, or stay obsessive over my lack of reverence?


Handwriting
11/25/2012

Regrets? I never quite learned cursive.
It was my teacher, I thought. Ancient. Coercive.
Dull expression, churlish, that of a coelacanth.
For every question had a practiced spiel on hand-
The same as print, in essence, with a subtle twist.
Think fame! Autographs! A sense of showmanship!
My wrist, for shame, well behind the pace,
Mind begins to race, untamed, these words pile on top of me,
Inspiration and ability, absurd dichotomy,
Headrush on a tilted tee without the spacing,
Heart strapped to sleeves, bleeding at the seams,
Art slapped with blood 'cuz we're not loosening the lacing.
Eight years silent, written bars then kept me stationed,
Now vibrant kindergarten scrawlings returns the favor,
Exhausting, spinning written images I've no time to savor,
Paying off this oxygen debt, two cents per installment,
Sick of people needing toxins to comprehend their smallness.
That's the catch, cardboard steeple for this substitute preacher,
Plastic patch on the starboard port, else blind becomes these creatures,
Chase the trailing off of ellipses, forming lines to glimpse eclipses,
I'm just happy sailing by, cutting strings on fingers, tying apples to failing eyes-
Never sin, just flash a wink to dames and sirens, face masked in a villain grin,
Seek a new horizon, sink to swim and become another nameless effort antonym-

But see? It all ties in. For want of a thought, the ink stains pages,
So I was taught, it's the art of sideways pen and mastery takes patience.




Split Eight's Whack @ Text
12/10/2012

GenericUser4, I was feelin that shit DEEP bruh.
I swear you turned to a spirit and fused with a fuckin cheetah.
"I'ma SPLIT EIGHT in half, two fours and times two he's still tru useless. on all fours w/ 8ball of cocaine"
Fuckin flames, mate. GU4 tha truth, mayne. Split... your wording's cut rate, slash a wreck.
Your whack text wordplay's a classic case of butterface at best,
Swap the paper for double plastic, and it's a maybe on the sex.
Which means if you pay me, I'll double date it's sister and skip on the check.
It's all true, b. Hardly gifted. I'm a skunk strain, truthfully. A pauper, can't stop penning thoughts.
It's Call of Duty, me and J-funk McCain versus Wahlberg and all of Denver SWAT.
Ole maverick bickers with his PR phonies, learning how to walk, and I'm mic-spamming TWAT trying to not get shot.
I guess Right Trigger is "you're domepieced and spawn with rabid dogs"

BUT YO Ima stay ecstatic. I got the picture, tbhonest I'm abstractish.
I got a laugh track of cats tellin me I'm a pompous asshat-
FUCK THEM. I'm PHat with a pH o fourteen, that's fact kid.
I failed chem, so I'm hoping that score means Eight's fantastic.



Matchmaker
12/16/2012

yeah. saturday night alone. fuck Rusko... puzzled still? don't ask, aight?
bagged another half-dime. little dash of muscled guilt then-
corner of my eye...
"Fuck her, Bill. Brosign" "ASK HER OUT KID-" Walked with a pitch outside.
America's pasttime, that's the gist, sound the message. Wind up a kiss... slider, ounce of prevention.
Time flies, tied up in pride. Dragging by. Pillfull of anti-depressants, shout in St. Doubt's Basilica, pounce--
Tagged out at half-time. It's willful, huh? "Milk it, cuz. We'll build it up, more asinine,"
If DJ Illwill don't get you pussy- a jog down first baselines- you're a goner, past your prime.
Eighteen, steams Bill, useless as the cogs grind, concubines at this point on his mind,
Sweaty palms, ostracized, Xanies kicking in (Dog, I feel fine)
"We got a Plan B, crack a Natty, I'll feed you lines-"
"Bill." Two sets averted eyes. "This is Mel. She likes goldfish and awkward silence..."
Was that bold? Quick, internalize it. It's honest, offer birds a dance and sage advice.
Two cockatiels sing off the lull of byes, the cage of words, a plot device that Spock-in-heels rejected,
The sacrifice Buffalo Bill never half-inspected. It's toxic, a muffled hack. Nameless sex, exotic self-expression, duffel bags packed-
A sect of zero self-respect, sauced and weepy, if opposites attract then I'm the hero Deus Ex.
My thoughts, you're seeking? Fuck off, regrets? Know we only play the hits...
Throw away the script. I'll be rehearsing my growing rant of brave attempts,
Writing romance with grave intents, flipped first to third person.



Ace of Hearts
12/27/2012

I'm sorry, Megan...

You know you're annoying? Jesus.
Closed mouths equal buoyancy, bitches...
Lo-down on the seuel- just toying with e-Kisses-
What I'm saying is your praying won't bring romance OR worldly peaces.
'Come back to Cleveland' but I've left and she's leaving,
Would've felt sorry if it wasn't so easy.

I'm Jay and the green light's fading out of vision,
Grating superstitions conflicting with aeortic incisions.
I mean, forty flicks past quick without conflicts of interest,
If I'm honest, not gonna waste my life only dreaming scenics...
I totally mean it. Sun oozing between the blinds.
I smell of looseys and she smacks of a different kind.
I had the bad luck to never color between the lines,
So these pastel designs wreak havock on hazy eyes,
A soft sheep in the paddock, begging the wolf to stay a while.
I fake a glance at the dial. I get my living in while I can.
No eye contact, but I'm sure she understands. Leaving...

I can feel the hurt, in every missing word,
But if memory serves, she never made my heart burn.
That's it... only sad if the princess' face is pert.
Not discarded- rewinded before quietly returned.
(more unwinded pride of a bride undeserved)
Every digit of my cell grace her eyelids, she found,
I got hers- not consecutive, single 5 or thereabout...
and yo, not fit for any executive, that's the hand dealt
I always knew 'unrequited' meant waiting on the shelf,
And when she stutters as she breathes, it's hard, yes...
As far as hearts in sleeves, I'll always have her card left...



Duly Noted
1/11/2013

"Dedicated to everyone who wonders if I'm writing about them. I am."

Brittany. Eighteen. First dream, president,
Kinda pubescent so she ditched it when she got tits,
Apparently with two shots, spills thoughts like broken beakers,
Titrating lines from empty wisdom, mixed in darkened Cleveland theaters,
Wants to suck face- next to booming speakers. Bass leaves metallic aftertaste.
Hearts racing, Ritalin syringe, dialed in a twist to the lacing,
Silver screen adrenaline, settled into panning city scenes-
snapped to scrolls past the scripted dreams-

An itch I gotta pen to pad in handicap stalls, distract pendulums as they fall,
Or risk the twisting scrawl of tongues between thickly lipsticked lips.
Muses drip thick passions in globs. Typewriter hammers fall, smith the feelings hot,
Limelighters screen calls from amateur crystal balls- audience exits right-
And I'm left to write, double-crossed in promised written thrills.
Full of ink to spill in sprawling walls.

It's far from passion. It's creation in deconstruction,
Building tension in recursive functions, a discursive luncheon
with lusty inversions, choke-- hurried the words in on a stretcher
Then misinterpret every quirk and gesture- catch the DNR tag.
Fuck.
See, it's hard to patch the art in, the day stitched me in grips,
Piqued catharsis then dragged along it's brother resistance.
Fenced in carpe noctem. Pieces, foam puzzles. Car carpets.
Nostalgia in puddles, formerly known as the mindful artist. Exhausted.
Arkless. Speechless sparked the brush, seamless darkness stroked it with genius.
It's the contrast! The past to which we pledge allegiance.
But once we lost meaningless, the flood broke through to greet us.

Two of every kind, they're infinite and leaderless,
Defined by minarets of drugs and booze, featureless,
I'm here to lead them, yet shrug the shepherd's creed...

Jenny, the stoned teacher featurette,
Wants to preach the value of education,
But writing's an ancient escape and not an exit-
Stop and pause the lecture, lets dissect that tidbit...
shakes her head, what a hypocrite.
That's the problem, or the tip of it.
Words that bubble up, but aint worth the come-up,
Too much to stomach, abstract, but hang for a moment.
Writing's a pact of saving sayings. A drive to hold the prose in.
Then drop weight in letters and rhyme components.
Knowing people's unspoken, lonely, and comes without a bonus.
Write it down.

Mazes
1/28/13

"I think this aquarium's bigger than the last one"

every technological acheivement,
philosophical soap box thesis,
offering me no soft egress.
only thoughts like sliding pieces.
the space between the lines we shift.
breeze, timelessness, whitewash colors,
freshest style. test tube vials not uncovered.
bless you, tiles, sleep on holy linoleum with a woven bathmat,
exfoliating lab rats, shots of Stoli numb their cataracts.
they won't see or feel the lack of meaning,
with every sip fleeting from just the tip of what we feed em.

Science is not fear in numbers but application of your demons.
walk down your favorite city street. tell me what you see...
paper chaser dreams taped paper over in betweens,
the blackness of alleys- cardboard walls tacked to fallacy.
shards of stone, torches, holy tomes, null practicality.

paintings in blood in France of coarse song and dance...
what forced the hand to snap the evolutionary chain?
trapped in solutions, jewelry hangs, tax elusion high and low,
blacksmiths of polluting, dressed to kill in pastel clothes.

I walk the Paxil road. Packs tipped for looseys. Facts corrode,
But fictions atone for ages. Windermere, dog-ear pages-
Alcohol spills fears. Obsessions.
She manifests them in the rear of Malcolm's Cavalier.
talcum tears, can't adjust to candle scents and velvet either.
help is here. screwdriver, two timer- takes advantage, that's clear.
symptoms have expanded, faster than we can take it,
The divide between effect and cause, cure and vaccination,
fades to a haze in the speakers' gauze. insert your interpretation.

"keepers, hold them dear", me? Or notions of the dagger's teeters?
Packed in theaters. Potion from bottles, drags of ether,
They can't kill us just quite, full throttle to white lights... we're the deer.
But deer know their fate. Aristotle's plight, am i right? Hold my beer.
A toast to cheers... No one knows what it means. Posterchild for numbing cheese.
Silly, broken homes've become thr start it seems, endemic- a plague, disease,
Deer know their end, and I fail to comprehend the faded seams in place behind the trees.

Deja vu comes in twos and ancient falling dreams. Now is never,
It scrawls on the patient's schemes in graphite letters.
It's all for the better. Not for us, for the life we invented.
Cover tucks, sleep tight under the knife of intentions.
Pall Malls and vacant stays, not literal... the phase we delayed,
Cardboard walls. Familiar traipses rearranged. A single match away....
Freedom in death. Facts are facts, burn the path
we all die as rats.

Split
03-04-2013, 10:01 PM
Random Cypher Post I Really Sort of Liked
3/4/2013

It's a monstrosity u guise. officer of the law u got it all wrong, she offered me her bra and I should've complied.
Miranda read me my rights, a bedtime good-bye, lullaby, song, but once i saw those cottage cheese thighs gulping her thong-
well it was all over. see, sobriety's for fakers. highly contagious. i'm fighting the craze,
one flip of the cup at a time. say, what a fucking design flaw. customer line called,
they said AA's run out of juice and up to you to refuel them. SPLITS ON THE LOOSE.
loose on the job, comes to fruition in nods, shakes from alzheimer patient alarm clocks.
remember getting up, Marv? u probably did. i'll buy your gin and tonic, chalk it up as a win!



Another Solid Cypher Post
3/12/2013

never meant anything I said, simply meant the premise instead.
infinity is the ends to simplicity. the means stays alive in your head,
paper mache cityscape dried in lumps, lobes, newspaper clots,
stay open to circular logic dumps, fake epilogues,
First loves, first loss, nerve agents in appleseeds,
Asymmetrical drug-induced apathy. Fictional imaginings.
7th Message- Prefuse 73, still adrift in your wake.
It seems second dates, y'know, stenciled et cetera
in lieu of dearly beloved or an eye for an ache.
Inevitably, love lies for the love of old times' sake.
Surprise. Late is our time out of sync, tune...
Centripetal think ties me to you.

Split
04-07-2013, 03:28 PM
The Last Father (vs. Veritas)
04/07/2013


RELIGION 2.0


Patrick, 000.001.001
Father Patrick attacks the blackened pews, Windex and paper thin sheets.
Encrypted in vagrancy, its rows home to those who aimlessly plead,
The simplex decaying city sleeps in droves, arise as corrugated chambers grew cold.
It's seven oh-five on Sunday, 3405 AD, twenty-nine hold service for eight running weeks.
Cursing the meek, inherit the Earth that bleeds ashes and dust.
Stained glass above, adjective: rust. Anno domini blues, captive of trust,
Seems only recent news that God gave a fuck. Plotted off course.
Consumate corpses, toxin'd, constantly drugged lords frolick above-
With laser pistols drawn they'd stolen every end and odd for a buck-
Made off with crystalline goblets, copped for bankers, jesus pieces for gangsters,
Murals and crucifixes appended to resemble President Bernake XII (wanker).
Indigenous strays reclaimed immigrant papers, diamond spangled banners,
Gold White and Silver draped over missives, silent constituent drainers-
the Bibles ripped by ambivalent teenagers, violent and faceless with anger.
Every vial of wine, wheat little crackers. Got Love, Law and Militant Mavens,
As price signs shimmer in their eyes, our gold ***hes definitively raided,
The Pope cashed his check, Rose of the West vanished like a thorn in Italy's lands,
But effects of pedantic prose and holiest tomes expands, torn by our fiddling hands,
The imminent revitalists rose with a clap- cried stimulant manufacture-

For the price of a million pounds- or tithe of sermons and interpretive rapture,
A SimuLink cursive of your psyche mapped, and memories relayed to the Master.
So when- with dwindling cries, heavily forced breath resembles an endeavor-
The Lords Men will arrive by Four Mezzers, make for a Minister Center...
And when you awake. Find proportionate measure of devotion recreated,
ogent sensory pleasures adjacent. Heaven noblely exposed in rays of essence indefinite,
Run-on words expand on mental TVs, hopelessly indentured and separate,
Treasure stationed by cerebral extensions of rope, silver-spun band of Endless,
Sewed to every digital cloud in the cyclically wound Silvre(R)-Diskette SimMetric,
Life-everafter affixed. Equivocal septims. Drivel, grim and yet depthless.
Embezzled in excess, riddled consensus whispers a reference
I brittly interject- "but what Words have we sentenced..?"

Just a pivotal rebuttal to visceral soliloquy.
For God and I are one. Residuals of a pedigree.
What need is God when you never must meet?

When the first of my brothers blanched, embraced in Confessions,
My shaking hands blessed my own soul with hope's wafer-thin vestige.
The bourgeoise's incessant advance, je ne cour pas is the stance and the song.
Records have been drawn... forced awe at our hands, corpus christi vineal flaw,
These raw numbers don't lie, even in loss of their prometheal Gods.
His people run abroad. No false idols, appears to be no idols at all,
The technological holocaust that caused society's zealots to fall.
Holographical norms expelled beyond limits conceived previously,
When the grimace recedes, we'll see we all but encompassed Ecclesiastes.
Knowledge streamed, bludgeons faucets to maws. Living extinct paradoxically,
Scholars, doctors, children interrupting Gods, it's all but modern ecology.
With these withered digits scheming up loads of honest apologies,
It appears that upon finish, believe I'll only owe one


To theology,

Some say there's no soul, no afterlife, that life and death is the straightest line on the compass, and nothing more. I say believe what you want, because no matter what you do, cut everything up, burn it all down, you're in the path of something beyond your control.

Signed,

The Last Father


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

I woke up alone, and infiniteless.
Exposed to my open omnipotence.

Split
06-26-2013, 02:39 AM
topic: AngelFall
5/15/2013

angel face.

my mind's Elsewhere too, didn't find divinity.
just empty, sinusoidal anonymity.
wash in austere infinity.
lapping in brain waves, concert hall echoing.
Boston Symphony.
this is deafening:
music to a silent memory of a place you knew,
then deciding anything was better than December, in a faded suit-
angels fall.

I watched you dive. diving forwards into nothing,
arms stretched, wrists bent, fists clenched, saying something.
clinging to the swinging metronome. heavensent.
this is madness: looking pitiful, as you fell alone, didn't grasp to what you said

and this is what sin is

listening to the silence as the depth opens wide
and not answering in time


she did

Split
07-23-2013, 01:15 PM
Phenomenon
02/08/2013

[not my best work, just my latest... For namix's thing]

i caught a glimpse downtown,
movie scene rewrote in winter ides,
instead of listening, drowned out its picturesque designs
with SepSe7en's rhymes and unfocused eyes.
not getting used to the phase we've defined,
hesitance that erased a generation's drive-
I'd rather eyeball an Epinephrine pen
than see my Twitter name trend-
see, I'm bitter again, it's this miscreant phase,
tired of glimpses of the past but nothing remains,
it's not society's fault, no scapegoat to blame,
but yo, same note- it makes deja vu strange-
am I reliving summer songs from Boston
or what the TV convinced us we'd long forgotten.
culture's built around a golden age
whose yellow details stain every fresh page,
the phenomenon of lies we've accepted with praise,
quotes- the lexicon for conveying cliches,
artificial displays, emotions relayed,
catch a single thing authentic-

she caught me mid-sentence and said
she'd known me before, dishonest at best,
but hidden inside a promise was expressed
conscious, unscripted, tied at opposite ends,
then just pretend that it'd always been tied.
hands slightly misaligned-
take a moment, revel in infinite time,

unspoken complaint, workings of fate,
the nervous refrain of every first date-
buried regardless of duration of stay,
and the best we can say is it's hard to explain?
it's a focal mistake- past's presence delayed,
hung on fingertips so long, we haven't opened today.
bus rides, Lowell light displays,
catch a familiar face lined with a nameless gaze
spinning reticent yarns in the safety of age-
honest lies, a phenomenon entertained


so it goes
1/24/13


"The moment one forms an idea of a thing and successfully catches one of its aspects, one invariably succumbs to the illusion of having caught the whole."

It was the voicemails, I thought, hanging on the tone for closure..
There's the trail- displayed in photos, perfumy clothes' odors.
Park benches, etched hearts. Where it started, lost it in the take over.
Just last week we shared meaning, best intentions, something happened.
Last remaining traces, far stretches, baseless conjectures made way for plans,
The dance of kind gestures, defined better with every day and synapse.

Yet something stays the same.

Lake Winthrop's beaches, sand where faces age, footprints fade in footpaths.
Twelve steps, they say don't look back, but I could say the same-
There's no blame to accept. No nuances to explain away.
But there's a time and a place for everything anyways, so get over it-
Sobered up from many things- hope, her kisses, close company,
Unfocused love for the limits of redundancy. How passive were we...
Seemed seamless. Find contentment for a minute, then just its absence...
A mistake one or the other made, a lesson I shoulda grasped then.
It's all too ephemeral, the ease with which tensions pass,
Fingerprints on glass and smudges of love's opinions of facts-
Past tense is eventual. The fleeting grasp of amnesiacs,
cause time's a state. An emotion to hate, a secondhand clothes rack,
Just borrowing moments- then strangers ask for their moments back--
I catch words we should've spoken drifting slowly past,
but I deserve every verb, adjective, that lacked the right rhyme,
... it wasn't love. Infintessimal mentions on the tongue of life,
Father time? Yeah, you can fuck his wife, purest pleasure,
But then the months rectify the sin in measures of remembrance.
A year went by, relearned independence, a syllable, a sentence,
Single but willing to pretend it was like the summer had no end,
But then, as paths often do- they intersected at our expense.

Her hair's a bit longer, face a little less pretty,
Just the grind of the somber middle-women of pity-
Both in the city now, but she screamed beach weather,
Something still the same, a familiar pressure
I asked her how she was and she said she was doing better,
Then-- I thought what we had was special, or real,
And she said "What was left unsaid? I'd felt all there was to feel.
To be real, I haven't thought about us since October,
Isn't young love something dumb to lose sleep over?"
Something stays the same. A disconnect, what is,
and what I recollect. Just a glimpse. That's all it'd ever been.




Skylit (AOWL S2 vs. Geno, W11-1)
I'm sorry, up front. As sure as this globe's neutral cerulean tint,
This isn't an aria for love. Not tragically-flawed unduly remiss,
it's all the thought from above fused in a sketch
as the sun drew me traveling fog upon illusory pitch...

Sixteen was my age. By the third or some-th date,
We quickly explained we'd 'just hang,'
and relaxed where the sand missed the lake.
With embarrassing shake, dropped a palm on her thigh.
I'd brought a (finely aged) water bottle of Skyy-
Alexa... paper-rocked harmonica eyes,
Rough radiant slate, with lineal faults of glassy azure-
and we talked 'just' to listen to the laughter of words...
the sun wasn't set, next to yellow-red rays in the pond.
I cut the inappropriate slang with a cough,
despite the enormous ration of shots.
In light of transportation-based costs,
we were just a walk from her home.
Falling in close, I thought of the pause of my touch,
and lovers and love is brushed as broad as dawn and the dusk.
I'd caught in her eyes. The light sway of a sigh,
this was one kind of way strangers say a good night.

In the winter, I stood in an unravelled apartment....
We'd met in the park over casual coffee, among the rabble of Harvard.
Caught up fast over scatter-brained grey matter reserves,
the growing pains college days can have on your nerves...
Her eyes were faded navy, spangled in a glowing granite explosion.
It was maybe the angle... or I'd forgotten the tint ages ago in synaptic erosion,
Friends see apology framed as a distance. A gap with width of an ocean,
falling in stasis- crawling haze like the flurries as the blizzard approaches.
In shallow, miserable focus I slipped in my coat- she adjusted my tie.
Wrapped in the black of midnight alone, I looked up and laughed in the cold
this is just a way strangers cuss their good nights.

Shaded by funeral parlor, we escaped the sound of "til death"
And her eyes were alive, defined with a new color again.
I never had noticed, everything changed in the suns many crests,
but nothing becomes something from which it doesn't begin.
For the sake of time... I kissed her as love might intend,
as sure as her eyes are as blue as summer day sky in decline,
I knew this is one way strangers delay their goodbyes.

Split
11-10-2013, 10:45 AM
Warning Track
5/16/2013

lost my edge. spit sledge spot check. reverse finesse-synaesthetic onset.
merciless problem set. modern pen phonicitis.
within the words of my newest yet tardy assignments,
reverbed a grifter suicide.
See-

truth is not inside Aside- my iris of our viewer, my You alive.
the glue keeping the marching drum in tune with a round of fries.
diner basket fries.
carcinogized. a concluding act. gastric key of glucose-C,
against the waitress's grain, the recital for Capote's title Magnus Opi III.

It's the lucid ghost of Bukowski. beat devourer.
proudly died.
pounding dry- the fact you think that's sus is why Im consumed to annotate,
and he is fifteen Arabic numerals in yellowish fade(
cart blanche keratin, buried in
synthesase)

it got away. the tune escaped.
we buried it, married it.
carried it, like Tim O Briens award-winning fakenessy.
its our paper tiger-god, now.
bleeding in the sink. creased. safe and sound,
(those stories are poorly written)
That metaphysicist did it big in PTSDistic fistfuls. of course he did he's
sleazy/ resourcefully scripted, with his industry consistent forgery'd epistles.

you're more to me than the court dates.
corny theatrics.
forty-something, pity pageant,
grinning bastard courting asses
tits and city subway passes
you're forcefully absent. alive in your hearth
burning bark. Red-eye faucet, groggy water weight,
dihydrogen oxygen dearth: forgotten in Dasani crate...
American-made father figure, escaped abroad to get his mistress made.

stars, pride, stars, stripes. hashed together. harmonized. new trend.
you lens? lens harder. lens better. lens martyr in blue plastic protector,
the baseball cards we appraised when our pastime became our fetters.
when your frail hands can't sew
Barry can't Manilow
Ill look for your insanity stupor for the sake of old,
in bloopers on the humanities Antiques Roadshow



SKULLKID- (deadman/ split8)- Emeritus I
9/29/13


-



Are you living, breathing, and acceptably conscious?
Please blink in your beady, TV scheduled responses.
We've been tied to our bretheren by 3D ventricle vomit,
but to succeed to our fullest, is to peel off the centripetal clauses
of this tealish and globular vehiclular-comet. I feel it more.
The Lostness. As if my dreams have been sequenced
in cloth, strummed across helicore- sponge clean cement floors
with the still-running maw of my dungeon-breathed boss-
'Tune into FUBAR 24.7 from sun-up to closure,
and catch the odd composure of our off-melodic funeral rock,
the slackjaw Top 20 Hit, "Bossanova in Keyboard" by Cubicle Sloths.
They beseech you, crude cross emphatic, that -IMAGINE IS GOD-
as they spooned you proofs mathematic that the truth of all magic,
lies in inadequate bias towards thematics of science, reason & thought...
before the breach of a contract was unsleeved in Briefcases, by Glock.
I'm not pleading for off-brands. Not steeling my skin
for the singe of the sympathist's sin, not sobbing with God-Hand
as we sped along familiar flaws along Akina's twists.
Saccharine bliss met rhetoric raw in midst of Nazareth fogs,
subliminal Vatican slop. Sorry if my bible refs are token and basic.
I'm slipping this centerfold a seminal code, at request of the matrix-
apologies, Tron. You'll never know the ending nodes won't awaken
again in the Kingdom of Hearts. Confess, I can't bury the CDs,
jay pegs, readings, the vids or the lyrics.
But I can set them in boxes, and never go near them.
Lived 1000 lives within life, professor emeritus leaving
to find I haven't experienced much.. the American species
would have me believe this bucket of ashes from Kansas
is just dust in the wounds of a madman.
The dreams never change.
I am lost in somebody's forest.
Facial features darkened, the silhouettes were expected,
Wearing no spark of resemblence- recognition regressive.
So his song will evade you, since nostalgia's forsaken you
in an attic-set labryinth that switches every play-through, and listen,
Happiness happens. Misery's the shit that makes y'all revisit.
Time to keep rhyming these steely, eulogical rivets,
Someday you'll find it's you thats gone missing.



someday



someday you'll find a receipt. and wonder
how much time a person buys in his sleep, for under
twenty six dollars and a sigh of relief
just wait. capitalism says you'll die in a week
the thunder bellows. walls separate, enlightenment leaks
cracking spiderwebs like rainforest, islanded beach
sandy seminars, my scholarship - the science of dreams
dissertations due the night you believe. try it and see
iron microchip sequences cyber viruses, freeze
typewriter whiskey and water, lantern lighting, serene
masks off.
look around. your eyes are likely a leash
another diagram is right underneath. devoid in-between
Saria's Song on saxophone to silence the screams
lighting trees til there's not a drop of blood on the leaves
seems we're all looking older now, as summer recedes
smell the roses. stick your nose inside their fungus & sneeze
wonderland, the wunderkind, please. it's a natural trait
mathematic, abrasive. abacus factory-made
chained myself to the moment. made an elaborate escape
cause i never had anything interesting to say.
satisfaction's like a castle with palladium gates
or a class where every student's either absent or late
Split halves into 8th's, punch timecards, passion can wait
clockwork for bread. spread another crack in his face
Rhode scholars, camouflaged as addicts or saints
cocaine catholicism. pray they'll pass you a plate
valleys and lakes, rivers and tides, you live or you die
shut the fuck up or become the very thing you despise.
we're lost without a clue. but i was simple to find
in the cubicle where Kublai Khan and incubus lie
olympus will rise, like spinal column shifting chemical mind
there's paradise in poppy seeds, wisdom in wine.
if mission is rhyme - sip slow and let our documents shine
envisioning crime to serve justice like optometrist prime
for homogenous tribes in this particular groove,
religion is viewing different shadows on a similar moon
triforce when logic fails to hum a resonant truth
on forest frequencies too ancient to remember their roots..






think again






SKULLKID




"Small Talk", Vulgar feat. Split Eight

SPLIT EIGHT

so
Her cardigan's parted, just playfully though.
Paying parting regards to common waves. We patiently pose.
Establish painfully arrested cliches. Sentenced since ages ago,
Then play-act em away as if some development showed..
Save when we're stumbling spelling all drunk,
discussing some jelly filling, bellying up,
The setting's spinning, constantly spilling..
Resenting that her top 3 jokes-
are bottled turns of phrase Franz Kafka prolly wrote
as it's torrential rains all on my Parade-page/ paper-maiche gondola boat.
Seriously got to me though. Coming up dry with pause-reconaissance quotes.
Grope for dated coffee-table novels, we'll awkwardly page through,
Edgar Allan's God was that raven, God's just a deja entendu-
Stay up-lifting the bottle, baby. Cradle half-full bottles of Gray Goose.
Are your problems stable? Putting up the rent that's got until pay is due?
Talking is bargain bin. Go in oh-so prepared,
As faux as my fake-and its opal pro-pylene glare,
So barely warm on this worn out, poorly carpeted square.
Are y'all even aware youre misquoting the whole status quo?
As self-image aware as non-problem kids can sadly go.
You already know that I'm there: been caught on it, i'm all rhombus,
She's a box-office swan song, she's diving deep,
Meeting me and leaning on this boxed product,
More'n often talks nonsensically to me. Wanna isosceles her angles,
On and on, some-body please, explain her plot synopses aren't all impossibly deep.
I catch more feelings for Poes in Zelda, hella bastardized types of youth,
than Bella Don of self-shotty prodigies, gone cracked and try to find the booze,
Got me bottling demons, caught between this magnifying of truth-
-lends some limelit lantern legions, all sing song saying-sooths,
Said you find that after leaving, "not all spirits are calmed by a song you see."
Maya, I missed all our sopping sheets... as in toss the script.
Shnopps and peach, you shot some speech,
Cops and shit, stopped and geeked,
Not all these odysseyes follow proper plots like prophecies,
Standing off outside to not-breathe, Maya and me smoked in 2012.
"The weather" just suited me.. just fine. I don't hail and tell.
"Fines" just isn't selling favors. Fine, well... Spit it out.
...in 64-bit peace, dream desert grotto sabbaticals.
Gobbled all those Adderalls. Attention crawled back to battle,
Reload study chambers, steamboat the paddles,
distorted/ deadpan bravado of the "yo still nothing major" measures,
that's clouded out the shadows we'd stand for in the sun's dusky vapor zephyr.
What were you talking about?
shut up
...

..
.
..

...
VULGAR
so
this girl was sketchy on some bullshit (she actually drew)
a Blade Runner requiem, left me with a dull tip (she was actually Drew)
Rule 1: Diamond-studded bodysnatchers flock to light like moths
protracting the fact that opportunities fall onto laps: Life might toss
I abided by finite laws; sights set on Dawkin's approved delusional wisdom
I'll tell you what. 'Honesty is the best policy' got me landed in vitruvian prison
coded larynx transmitters, cerebral attachments, all tied into a spire
Relationships didn't wreak from the passion - a One Nightmare Stand,
I stood bright, yet perspired, an MK-Ultimatum that was icy as Breyers
leading Hope Armadas may lead to blindness, hence this conjunctivitis acquired
slurred words perturbed, exchanged with a heavily chlorinated valkryie
My passive genes didn't convince Cathleen to go out for decaf with me
Didn't jizz in my pants - I gave GZA my pen
since intellectual inkwells tend to dry up if verbal swords travel in liquid descent
Mistletoe prickling again. Breast milk sweet, but why the ruthless haste?
if Bora Bora Bora bores her on a movie date
I couldn't splooge a grape, unless this was truly fate or just an ill gimmick
Peeling back a chilled Guiness, wishing I could still finish
She's a lollipop guild tenant, it ain't a wasteland if there's a milf in it
Post apocalyptic skies, cold Cirroc and dripping wives.
Coastal docks, my dick's subscribed to Vogue: the Panoptic edition, Time
plus her tits&eyes, I tsk tsk if I don't get a rise. Not trying to preserve my condoms.
The wheels of sexual fulfillment are reliant on the turbine's columns
solutions confusing as Harrison Bergeron's two steps
soon as I reach second base, Lucette gets loose-lipped
drunk, pasted, trudging - too bad Desire's interlaced with Glutton
I proudly declared as if it were an ancient custom:
'You don't have to be a baker for me to taste your muffins."



hide//seek
7/19/13


I'm a holographic flash flood. free-reeling in art...
remapping Man's atlas with these blurry intestinal scars,
after perceiving the catch that there's no perspective to stars.
when nothing remains, unhinge the projector, at the back of your brain-
voila- nothing remains! inject a syringe in a vignette's coagulate veins.
coddle the past and yet nothing remains, rosy ashes in a vase or a vase.
glimpsed the big picture's vanity phase- open pastures, an absentee's space,
taught to believe ancestral wisdom, go pray in the ablative case,
phrased a kid and his horse:
"breathe in the corpse- death's but an axiom away".
hitchhiking roads to perdition. sticking a fork in the local tradition.
defying this hopeless addiction. handsome eyes sin has silently cauterized.
hide and seek, with phantom delinquents you've promised to find,
Humanity's essence- step forth and sink your omens in closeted light,
awake and question your passions before the Colossus can rise.


mexico city blues
6/27/13

[blues intensifies]

clothbound notebooks opened. Robert Johnson
didn't note the jots in- stitched time. jogging mountains
it's still there. true Paradise, Sal. you couldn't picture,
paint, or scribble air inside my mestizo Santa Misirlou

sitting sullen, mexico city simmers blue.
sambuca= mean drunk to you. the love i mean
seductive sexist. autistic fucking Buddy Holly resemblance
but instead i grooves it, steppin through this
harmonic bible of dharma-buddhists.

mood is often tone deaf. cigarette spit,
crisply cogent. nope, it's..
sitting slack. gulping flask. fixing to be feeling razzed.
Whitman. Pullman cabs. waltz n jazz, volley of Misty Blue-
tenor, drawling sax. San Francisco valley ballyhoo
who blast different slit-throat trolley tunes.

oye como escito, y servesa, la necesito..
porque alegra ha me despedida: cuando
ella me da su vida. me encante mi mes contiga,
pero estoy aqui y a ti acá. blanca camisa en la cama madera.
es vida, y sera como esta. aun hablamos en la musica.
que lastima de corazon.

the moon is luminously bright.
truly, her eyes are nice. my direction. i'm crusing by, touching
horizon ice- the compass, Rose. tonight is diamond dosed.
then finding life is just another sunken, lump of coal.
time.
she measured it in sloppy, morning dew. record skips.
couple sips of coffee boost. thirty of, a nothing night with you.

too noir for Kerouac.
a different age. it was greater grace then any song I blare or blast
and thinner than the coarsest page, passage filled with her barefoot pawprints, i caught her after,
kissing honest tunes in her barest stockings, intoxicated, lost in the missing chapter of our jaded absolute

[image of trolley car in what appears to be SF]
not based on a true story
excuse my rusty, broken, poetically licensed spanish. feed returned

Split
01-22-2014, 01:37 AM
Two-Way Mirage
1/14/2014
RD 1. Winter Topical, vs. VERITAS (W5-2)

="Dad? He seems kinda lost."
>"Well, this isn't his home. But he doesn't know that."
="I mean, he looks like he's in a whole nother world"
>"I... I think he's just bored"

the jungle escaped me.

their sad, pacing amazement disgusts.
ever facing subtle cravings of lust, for my power- supple and fatal,
that would devour their fucking Cradle to a basin of dust.
this containment is civil. whittled by masons, who dug
into loam. stuffed with numberless stones, grains of
of an alien soil that's drained through a plug
it's nothing of home.. a dreary and embroiled painting of love-
like the type you hurriedly clone, hang to adjust an uglier tone.
Ridicule. Something husks in clinical rehab might fake
and cynically recap the why's within fate w/ no curtain curtailing the scene.
It's they who have crated the orange-red embers-
for our failings were due, exploring the tethers of Siberia's sheen,
the glaring of dew and the open of space no city could grasp,
they left us at ease, to gaze on infinity's Kingdom of Wrath.
An inanimate magistrate, condemning millions to glass
and dominion would have that masses would reign...
the last King, sat alone in his cage with his vision glowing ablaze.

long enough- I've pondered the forest ahead,
a pandering storyboard spread, flora whose fauna oft flew
or just stalked in the pews like a wandering court for the dead.
you wore the morning regret that your enormity slept.
I bottled a quart for the tenth of the blood that you bled.
invested remorse in morality's debt. slobbered on teeth,
vengeance is sweet. saccharine stench. noxious to breathe
again and again, like smog in the streets. the cough on my breath.
I'm their savagery, dreamt, as they slumped in their seats:
the sepia tone that wept into stupors like Damocles' dreams-
greedy, and gold, it's seldom complacence will fold with sutures of fur-
sunburst like the velvet liquor that they sip to belabor their words.
simmering. cinema still. venomous swill, sitting to fill.
pity's an imagery-pill, but the predator watches, not seeks.
prey for the day when I walk through the streets...

you and I have lived together, but remember.
I am the one looking out.

the jungle escaped you.



city of man
1/26/14
RD. 2 Winter Topical vs. Vulgar (L3-6)

The surgeon thought the park was a shrine.
Among the stones and organic designs
he plodded alone, stopping to groan
while unwinding his gait. He let moonlighting taint
his ever-hard gaze, procedural focus.
Paused to whittle away at the bestial closeness
of those who remained in the wake
of humanity's smoldering opus. Fauna,
and flora, microcosmic diaspora through
the alleys and aves.
University streets.
The walks and relapses of actions that
gradually crept between sleep
and cramming for classes... packed into boxes,
habits and doctrines, that dragged at his feet-
but it was certainly sweet: grasping the document
that encaptured his knowledge. Valedictory speech,
thrown off some caps (he hadn't been that since 2003).
His study of science developed into a studying science.
In the lib, ostensibly silent with
his felt-tip outlining terms and asides,
traipsed back with a wealth of words on rewind.
Home was a house he had left. Passages walked
til he found a thought to follow again.
Like shouts in his head. Mantras mounted like death
and surrounded the bed among baubles, and pens,
water bottles and academic doctoral texts he had read.
The only company he kept was colleagues,
and all these... friends... he met all of three times a year.
So it was folly, he feared, that he pledged his life
to the art of surviving, and felt so far from alive
unless he reclined by the pond... a forgotten city of man
drawn in, silenced in sand, encroached by a miniature
ocean of a nihilist god.

Ghost1
01-24-2014, 10:41 PM
Crane

Split
04-23-2014, 03:31 AM
airfish.
1/29/2014

http://www.davison.com/creators/wp-content/uploads/2009/11/grandscaleset1.jpg


The oceanographer stepped to the light,
and felt an awkward sense of surprise.
A tingling cold. But didn't register why
the colors and palleted blends had turned so
unnatural upon the ballast's descent.
A light chiascurro, gradual on the canvassed conception,
was badly distended for what the mammoth was destined.
A mammalian museum piece.
Gallant. Promethean deity.
Callous, seething, she cursed the being she
met in the depths of the Barrier Reef.
Marie Therese could barely believe
the shape she had swam past.
A grazing, old land mass, weathered
and barnacled with better tomorrows
ahead. And she would hold her hands back-
when the aquamarine beams concocted
an aura between her the God of the Seaweed.
She, the reverent daughter. Heart impossibly beating.
But now, all she could see was a fish out of water.



Haiku Topic: Shameful Ecstasy
05/08/14

rolling in bed. sheets,
skim pages, tabs ((stay intact))
twist.. turn lonely again.

Split
10-08-2014, 09:45 AM
collecting conscious
4/23/14

blink.


wary... of motion. a climb.
or instead... a closeness,
divine. your senses implode
on the silence and

rest is the road.
unwinding.
untread.
undying,
undead:
heart murmuring 'Delilah, I give!' but
its words were twilight eclipsed by anathema GLOW-

skylights ***ophony. the Abraxas- once broached
bore on your corneas a
morbid, and blasphemous dull....

aurora borealis. in the back of your skull.

...from axons, from cones, and then rods
the young ashes were sculpt- young components of god,
a synaesthetic clashing of culled...oceans of raw-
ribs, tendons, sinews- all impulses impended by sloth,
your riveted bulges collected in pause-

"...get it together..."

finding the yoke. and an axis to prod
you twist a bit backwards and laugh at the thought:
that you, pinned to the mattress,
escaped the despicably savage claim on your cortex
by the grips of Death's gravitational forceps...
and for a microsecond you hang.

the Sun is beneath you,
and it leaves you- hostile, but hidden,
your shade collecting a contrail Olympus,
with winged boots, you kick off-
into what?
the Earth still sings in blue at your furthest vicinity,
aluminum angel, birthed in periphery,
burning so perfectly as afterburners maliciously
propel a shimmering fuselage,
shivering, brooding off,
the perfect symphony in which you are
piloting downwards in a elliptically grinning superarc
on the face that had raced against death,
seeking a weightless descent.

you're stymied. perplexed. pertubed.
you provoked the clash of
diodes, cathodes, and LEDs
as Sol's vitals wrapped you in red.
muttering, between the sky and yourself
what you were trying to tell- you'd been safe all along.

the gravitas situated far beneath,
spun far between warmongers
sparse of teeth
flossing molars your forefathers dreamed
the Gods had smoldered in cosmic borders between
night/// and ///day, so callow and cunning,
so that we would always know tomorrow is coming.

http://images2.static-bluray.com/reviews/638_1.jpg


scraps
4/25/14

mostly scraps i just wrote in boredom, put together.




Existentialist confused for absurd-- if you're quoting my quotes wrong.
If that sentence fit you- observe when you're phoning, my phone's off.
I'm Albert Camus prescribed these Klonopin blues.
The ghost of Godot has arrive as the impossible looms.
Medical K-holes. I'm a dead man theoretically stable, dosing, on quotas
of rhyme schemes to conjure and brew. Humorless. Knocking your ulnar.
Conversing through literature, coughing coffins of letters,
pugilist pawing a plume, Brock comma Lesnar
who's just rock'em socking'em too,
with big words, talking for two, oxygen dwindler,
running my maw to muffler rocking off limiters
till it's a hunnid monox in the tomb and I fall into slumber
in this mono-columned sepulcher- so you all get the picture in color
that I scripted by numbers with no sound getting through.
Duller & dimmer. Metasevenfold.
My ultimate finisher's dry wit, it's soul. I'm quick. The Brah would believe it,
even apologize, sheepish with watery eyes while I'm being Boston & proud.
He'd probably mean it. I'm drinking gin straight. I'm sloshing around.
I'm analogous to Whys with methodical doubt. Dote on your fallacies, too.
That'd be wow. Logical bounds.
Conclude that the photons surrounding my noggin's
perimeter are my tautological tout. Stick to your frowns.
I'm sleep walking. My week's sloppy. I seem wonky.
I found separable equalities in the fountain of youth.
They called me a racist. I only meant that the process
of aging was intended for you to sense depth as you float on
to death in a cold pond. No rhyme here.
Be the misconception of you that impresses the most broads,
and in back pockets, save breath- fiberglass, toxins intact,
but instead pack it in opposite, like with the top in the back,
talk off tits & collapse- at least your awkward pause'll be lucky.
blowing smoke. the pack has been thinning. combusting.
Roanoke in a census. So hope in the sense that once lost we will seek,
says the Dalai Lama si se llama Dali, seems as these clocks have been gushing.
I'd pause for my viewers remote, but im limited to play, skip, and rewind,
I'm the fourth wall's dimensions in which divisions of Eight is confined.
grape is to wine as "starship's to base" s'to a station,
television at night, stationed to the bridge Enterprise.
Syndicated and shit. Shit that's decaying the shit in your mind.
I'm impatient epitomized,
Inpatients would sympathize with my cynical deference,
you give what you get, which- hey! it's a gift of my fucks unsolicitized.
as my Ritalin kicks- my function is release and rehearse
a speech to confer that the greatest trick I'll ever pull-
was a vindictive bitch (but believe she was a better girl)
graced with devilish physique and a jetsam of curls, in a twist,
whose favorite conceit was convincing the world I didn't exist.


Nikki
5/2/14


Billerica's shallow-breathed madonna. A wealth of exposure.
She had delicate shoulders, that were pallid, translucent,
and fell into loose ends, an umbrella of brunette locks-
seldom reclusive or obtrusive at all. A true inner ten.
She meandered through minutia of men, starstruck.
Bruises and red accrued in the grooves of her neck.
Harmless... aloof, when you're tense. Abuse was a stretch.
Freezing as comets, sleeting rain toxins, I'll hold your hair
but the solution ain't death. The fleeting hush between vomits.
She was obsequiously honest. It was becoming.
She was plain and petit. Soft-lipped. With a dusting,
of make-up, Nikki cropped the mistakes quarreled by lovers.
Her constant sorrow was smothered in the drapes of my coat,
she kept her acquaintances close and heralded secrets to few...
like the punches (or rhyme poems), the very things breathed into you.
The Shins as her splint, a traipse into smoke, open, in visceral bliss.
She labored to know the pith of your intimate truths like a quivering kiss,
but turned her own head as the grips of it grew and presented her cheek.
Unrequited chic... the resume of every night's trends, hit into snooze,
you the listening room, and she- silenced for the Xth "and again".
Unfashionably late. When class was engaged, she wore rings
in her eyes, margins drenched, torn with the stinging of dye,
living a lie that's tattooed on your carcass in your studio apartment.
I love Nikki's sister. But my message, so crucial imparted...
For him, love is an appreciative gesture. A withering fortress
to imprison what's gorgeous in a sleep that's unmeasured,
and she the dream that is gardened but never in bloom.
Fear is the heart of man. And you've slept in the room.

She's thinking it over.


a short dialogue from Psych 214
7/3/14

[papers rustling]


you've got the symptoms, it seems.
graphing the numbers. it's specific indeed.
I've tallied your resting heart rate, and
tested valleys & crests of your arm shakes...
definitely sense enlargement of your bicardiac arc range.
diagnosis is a bitch, really. no quick reading.
so misleading. all, correlation with causes extant.
more patience than gauze, defeating swarmed phages,
pervasive coughing, or cramps. steamy warm hazes
for cleaning sore glands. no.
the vaccine must exist.
but as so, many victims are sadly stuck with it.
go unrecognized. live those entire lives.
drift towards a ghostly second time, less complexities.
bravo. encore. crest intensity ((fringe))
confess me your sins. syringe & a stylus, pinch,
envision a violin's bridge with a throat to be strum.
it's like the lightest note you can pluck.
so close to silence, which no one can hum-
yes, you are one. the syllables betrayed you.
the fill as they fade through. you should sing it.
I think if you sing it enough, sometime
you'll find you've forgotten the words.


FLY
8/12/14

Standing alone-
a pop whose neurological symptoms
as a youth just confused you, blossomed
that fatherly distance from dysfunction
and budding Dad-absences, into
a levy-buckling flood as mom's bloody custody bath was set-
your ripped Levi's rushing in grasses. Perhaps it was childish.
That sidled grin. Sirens ring... but you popped open my window.
We'd dive in the creek, bottling minnows 'til Officer Kazka
caught us- but you got him in, soaked. That giggled laugh
was a song shrieked through the little gaps of lost piano teeth.
Or the drying oils of a finger palette, strands of green and blonde
between my Hot Wheels sheets. We grasped our hands, close.
Sinusoidal sobriety of a battered man, ghost. Squeaking soft,
you'd sneak me off. For ninety days a year he'd be your weekend haunt.
That sidled grin, covered in the lie of a jersey cotton sleeve.
It invites you in, trusting eyes of a butterfly cupping a gutted wing.
Skeletal. Every moment bare but for the caress of time's fabric.
Father sky, wrapped inside an infinite braided loop
and while he writhes & hangs inside the sun and moon,
what became of you?

Midwest town whose pretty sighs, a symphony, wedding bells rend.
Chasing down life's idiosyncracies in a deftly held net,
she's thinly veiled. This is number three.
She always seems to eventually let them go.
We both remember it's better to be free than to be freed.


Drive Slow
8/15/14

I'm neutral- her first. She said she'd like to do stick.
Taught her to climb and then fall as you slide through the shifts.
As streetlights creep by, I can't see why each night
it seems like we fight. Maybe we don't quite mesh.
In my own passenger seat, I'm as silent as death is.
Maybe I'm picky. Or slightly irreverent. Reach for the radio knobs-
we grind into second. Reassurance is cheap- I gave her a nod.
Listen to the gnash of the cogs on the synchros instead.
She steers right down a byroad I'd honestly skip... she drives slow,
clockwork- the odometer ticks. I stop her, and drive home.


Keepsake
9/12/14

a semblance of close as different as treasure and cove,
a sense of remembrance so vivid, it's an extension of home.
cyan. printed on redness. a red eye. the bedside,
a light I leave on right by my post- & abandonment easens.
to my lighter i'm senpai. CONFESS- I cancel my evenings to manage my demons,
and plan to confide in the handful I don't. Beauty and cameras can lie.
regress into the cure of a cancer I breath from. I could sample my throat,
bleed, and ramble for evenings, with every gram that I smoke,
then coalesce to a vanishing point to let the impending develop.
Send a sad little note I had stashed- I've an preference for relics.
Polaroid photo attached, know why I chose it- to stow in the past.


Oktozen- A Light in the Attic
(with Zenland)
9/16/14

The room's still spinning. I've lost my mind. Shit. A broken heart reminded of old scars I hide with Old Charter and wine tips. No caution. Defiant. So often I'm violent, hurtful to those I love. Forget memories, reload the buzz. In misery, fill nose with drugs. Wishing I could remember what my Rosebud was.

A violet Nintendo or perhaps, my old winter gloves- perhaps I'dve known *which* of them isn't ratty old junk. Mementos to casually throw in a trunk; relax, when alone, just crack for a moment- and gas your whole home with it. Spiral off into a child's stashed notebook with designs we'd imagined would save us when the world came to end. I'm stymied by pages alive in life's madness. Swirling in bends. Scratched in with motions like sorcerer magic. Coriolisesque thrashes on the highest of oceans with a forty year old Atlas. Skimming the beaches for the Northwest Passage with no ruler or compass, til the storm just passes & I knew at once there's no in or egress. Divorced of passion: knights cast in old pots. Dusted, in a scabbard, undrawn. The purpose forgotten or something. Reminiscence that dribbles off into nothing. Childhood ends and life just gets taller, shadows and light playing hide and grow smaller. They touch for a moment. Fight the cold water. I could cast a pallid reflection- and spar with my last bubbling onus til I choke, grapple and end it. Nothing to toast with but blood for a bath or repentance. Reluctant to spite but delight in love's torment, nothing is quite like the height of the moment. Leading darkness on for so long it's become line of sight and it fries all my cone ends. Color me absent and paint me a martyr who died undevoted. Leaving the darkness on for so long, it hangs in the apartment, an idle enclosure that shrivels and grays all your garments.

Shit, Bane was raised in the darkness. I was raised in an apartment on minimum wage. Became bizarre with a bit of rage, put it in a compartmental cage. Partially to entertain. Watch this mosh pit play inside my conscience. Obnoxious. Fucking nonsense still bothers me to this day. Nothing’s forgetful. I still replay arguments I had back in the tenth grade. At a young age her parents were gone. She told me she uses because she’s a heroine when she nods. You should've seen her face when she woke up to learn that Paris was a mirage. I watched her carry her scars till they came apparent on her arms. I should’ve helped her get clean but instead I let her keep carrying on. She said it’s not a problem all the way to the cemetery in a box.

I'm never there when she wants. You could compare me to songs that never play at the bar. Put in your two cents a dozen times and stay one penny off. I'm stuck inside of your head but sort of dissolve to a tempo. Call it a silent crescendo. The words don't seem all so right. Perpetually flawed. So you nod your head, gentle, or something along those lines.


Typeface
10/6/14

Crawford liked to marvel at his midnight reflections.
The philosopher's fodder. Prophecies, quipped nigh perfection.
Clipped like the 'just right' midsections of an inline
descent into vanity's clutches. It's this type of vantage he covets.
Emboldened, centered, no- he tampered with dozens.
Crimped into samples, sins spliced a glowing merit to justice-
when the squares of the serif carefully scuttled
by the narrowing stare of the sheriff- he's puzzled.
And to be fair, Pete's dog hadn't deserved it.
Such a grisly end. But when the columns of words
seemed so strongly concerted on cramping his fun,
he naturally cut them. Into flotsam, that spurted.
But he was a prophet. Observant. A solemn,
strong servant that just dabbled in murder
when his master grappled his shirt, then
explained away doubt with a morbid enchantment.
He would chase shadows of sound into
form-fitting phantoms.
The more that he sampled, it dragged him on down &
engorged his fealty's depths to the hands of
the fate that sealed each gasping breath.
What happened, on Earth,
matched all the words that his God had provinced
as a plot for his scripture, stitched in his conscience.
Epithets and apologies, stick a lot better when brief.
So then, the following is presented as evidence, please:
http://i.imgur.com/Nc99NPD.png


6 am
10/6/14

trace sidewalks alive, skies a spotless cerulean blue.
then watch the chalk melt in tomorrow's ensuing deluge.
you cant accept life and death and refute the impermanent,
but you can ride through the loops with a stoop for a firmament.
rails are steps in a slide off the counter, crash into miserable,
abstract and cynical. distraction pinnacle- you'd have reworded it.
that's the Split Eight steez, and in complete seriousness-
welcome, and stay please, he's not paid to make these appearances
at the attention deficit, ten-eighty HD experience.
so, it's hard to believe this is stream of consciousness
cause it's hard for me to scheme through a phonics list,
and it's hard to meet the Dean, off a college list,
so I sneak into receptions and drink through the vodka fifth.
"if you think you conjure it"- Mr Rogers with a ouija board,
I'd have never guessed beneath the vintage cardigans
sleeped an armored demon lord, but he hints at all the symptoms
and to me it's pretty obvious. Living large again,
Scotch and sardines, literally off a hundred ten dollars a week.
I spring for seconds on ramen and my coffers would squeak.
I'm that on poverty, b. Wore a watch with dead battery,
til the time a Professor gets to askin me,
but I (think) I didn't skip half a beat-
and I told him, get a watch you fucking fragile old freak.

I'm attachment. Untrue. Arc, tangential character plots.
Creased in the cracks of shoes, stopped, like a meandering paradox.
Stamped into the barren earth, a stake to the neighboring deed.
Nail ninety-five plagiarized theses with felt tip to cloth,
savor the fraying of meaning as it melts in the wash


SKULLKID- Elysium
(with dead man)
7/13/14
/


ive had acid rain on a permanent loop.
and the rhymes still resurface in two's.
i wonder if consonance has deeper significance.
in truth, speech at its synthesis as profound
as fountains are deep. missives expound
on mountains of me. & the echo is sobering.
stencils, I'm totaling up to rough drafts of dreams.
the sketchy half- between asks us for audacity
to stop casting deep. expectations can cede.
i stare at my handwriting and can't see the progression.
I care for my family and can't beat the depression.
genetics dictate the alpha omega
in nostalgic arrangements. bloodline in cursive.
once, I was perfect. every memory tessellates in
a memorial collage with the softest inertia.
the story of god is a process of learning.
rum runs deeper than wine. troughs & capillaries.
noxious adversary. when I leave her tonight,
tomorrow will gloss in the streaks of her eye.
graduate thesis on sadness & bullshit.
I capture it well. waxing some grievance.
I'm an adjective cultist with a rack of condolence.
talk, & you can tell it exists. tap & control it.
artificial alive. intelligence simmed
like a season of 'chell. and seldom, it sticks,
wisdom drifts through your mind,
appeasing yourself is a sin & I'm a demon from hell.
i'm tethered to fabienne. monika. the seat of the bell
till the last one rings & boy meets world.
phony is honest. pitch the inflection. catch her in rye.
Elysium lives as a trick of your mind


fine,


i've had Manson Family skipping the vinyl.
ticking as time, religiously since 6:45
Snake Eyes and Sissies alike. let the children inside,
serve dinner, then dine. roll cigarettes. flames flicker and die
bonfire blacken the sky. cornhusk whiskey and pine
bending over paperbacks with delicate spines
you say it's literature, fine. i say it's documentation
the impossible playlist - ideology on a constant rotation
forgotten and naked. drink half a bottle and chase it
drop a little honey. let the colony taste it
broken clock with a facelift. bells toll for honesty's sake
buzzing on the table. time to call in your favors
who's at fault for behavior? is it the martyr or savior?
follow monika's gaze. solemnly. it's part of her nature
to empathize from distances and fake it in person
let her cherry glow in darkness to create a diversion
feel her breath rise like worship. our embrace, so imperfect
lungs break beneath the weight of inertia. exhale again
see, this life has a funny way of making me nervous
so let me sleep, only to wake at the service. dearly departed:
may you rise above delirium often. it's a parallel doctrine --
rainwater in harvest season, tears in a coffin
may your spirit pass, untarnished towards wherever you'd like
once i left you tonight, i knew you'd never return
let my corneas burn. acid rainstorm weather resurge
listen once again and watch the memories blur
its all eventually dirt. eventually's a helluva word
condemning tomorrow. embalming present, preserved
we'll all eventually learn. we're trading karma for goods
listen closely. Skull Kid's alive. still lost in the woods
woodwind melody to marinate the mourners maraude
who praise Elysium, but realize it's all a mirage.

Split
10-08-2014, 09:50 AM
scattering ashes
10/2/14

http://www.opticalspy.com/uploads/1/4/4/9/144966/7948928_orig.jpg

Sevilla, shalom:
closeness, I never embraced.
her visage transfixed,
"Anju, another story?"
then she read herself silent.


ISLAND
9/25/14

http://fc01.deviantart.net/fs70/i/2010/117/f/e/___The_Return_To_Home____by_designtu.jpg

later, rather than soon the occasion will rise,
I'll pour you out in the dunes & we'll wait for the tides.
waves for goodbye. "soon" is a day that breaks every time,
for you, I'll stay for the ride. By one, the news will say you're survived,
this and more at eleven: as eleven's the age that we're tied.
remember to never change for me, chime; fatal, entwined-
insular. death came graceful but bitter, tasteful as vinegar wine-
but I think I'll decline. it would be my wish, for the night.
to sink blue into the burn of a blackness. dilate the sea,
dip into twilight a skyline an axis, a flyweight to breeze-
just to emerge in a blink in the eyes of a temptress,
sink into sighs of the divide in-between. dive, submarine,
into dim incandescence. the ocean will take us. a security blanket.
shelter from the burning sensation. the sprawling marine
a salty saline that crushes, compressed, lungs are just spent
at the brink of forgetting you'll surely surface, gush into breath-
nervous, a wreck. make for the archipelago. a shuddering mess.
huddling, clenched. ditch the bottle and message,
face an angel then a ghost, and show the land water-
it's a stapled envelope: full of fools gold and sand dollars,
jetset, & flotsam. no, you'll stand tall, for age is pentecostal:
get closer to God until you're practically one, save for a father,
but you can pray for your daughter & break your back for your son,
build a home along the coast, and capture every last bit of young
til your bed sags the bars with the rust, dressed as a casket for one
as your days are dawn nigh. and your coffers are wrung dry.
as sooner rather than later, the occasion must rise.


is (we are)
8/27/14

love is everything, a whisper-- she loves
as whispers meet... a sudden distance
of emptied forests, sing. in between. you
and me, lower voice, still (hushed)
forgetting all as Monday morning
flushed an open void. swill, cup
solo read. a bad reminder, rushed
hungover stress, as absent-minded
as brainless Starbucks quotes with no
beginning and no end. tomorrow
never must restart- as harsh as when the winter
warrants getting thinner. one of these does not belong
love, is everything- a whisper.