13 Working Scenes, 13 Minutes to get Infinite

13 Working Scenes, 13 Minutes to get Infinite

Part I: I can handle being wrong. A lifetime of experience helped that one along. Staring doesn’t scare. Scat fast, terror is what lasts!

Don’t stop staring like a cop to a criminal. Front and glare with strife. Top my spin yo! I’ll hop into the red like the one-legged undead and pop your head like a pimple!

Everyone has inner children. Even my Nether Son, glimmer hidden is untethered, undone, and under the gun, Lilith bitten. I’ll ill from the splitting switch of her fiery licks, bewitched and smitten! From where I’m sitting I’m too conscious and still getting in where I fit in.

For being so much bolder I’m still overly chronically honest . Colder but I can’t get over being absconded from such tragic sore and good, magic Horrorwood, tactics from war in the hood condition.

So I suppose it was my inner child that wrote this prose, like Clothos, spinner wild. Like Brahma on ganja all riled. Like Hosanna, Shoshanna, got it on. And then released their prana in mandalas. Then palavers under marijuana seeped the scene with steam deep into my lungs like a sauna.

Kundalini rungs like the universe spooning me with her tongue…                            …so there’s little wishing for the remission of my condition. I never stop listening to the heartbeat that starts moving the raucous feet of my monstrous art complete. Every night has bright frights and every day is a clever fray and between fight or flight? It’s better to slay than pray.

Kill tight when scared simple! Fear clears interference so get back with your flack or get near for a disappearance! A rare parasympathetic response shares intense frenetic bombs from a lair developing with ganj, enveloping wrongs.

Step and test to jest me and you’ll just stroke Loki of Literati to bust a naughty oddity and help it along, pelted by another mind-meld firebomb. My cares are minimal, aware of a subliminal, bare hymnal.

Beyond compare to tingle. Dropping dingleberries and tinkling on despair because terror turns on and Wrinkles in Time. (A handy angle, fenangled from Madame L’Engell. Look up HER book, it’s worth a HUNDRED of MY hooks!) Sprinkling of rhymes sinking to unwind through a glistening mind. Quickening lines sickening crimes from Spock-Rock, ticking off, quickening like Highlander, divide to pander, sigh and scamper.

I bleed to flow and need to show how I eat the slow to defeat foes like Magneto…                         ...using Transformers as hand-warmers! Or share levels of dissonance. Like Daredevil’s assistant: Froggy Nelson. From the fog I’m well-spun. Like that dog and log cartoon that ended simply: Ren and Stimpy. My zen is within me. These rhymes bristle me to climb…                                                                …up a divine rope. Like a Sufi hypnotizing serpents.

Under scrutiny I’m hip and sliding curves of sin. Wonderous Captain Mutiny, slick and riding swerves from my pen. Thunder loosens from me quick and fighting with a blur and a grin. Infinite to begin, anointed to a point so sharp it’s infinitesimal! I hit a joint and get invested to roll true and free like 2 over 3’s decimals!

I won’t drop the flaring rock hymnals! This is a logic project and my object is to bare amazing like an ancient gym. So if you front to get off on squaring like windows, we can get to blaring, share what you have to bring and I’ll be there to sling. I won’t hide but mock your errant agendas in prose, then drop you like kindle to explode. Then share your mom’s rimjobs exposed! I get off on every cringe yo! Please don’t stop staring like a cop to a criminal.

Part II: Battle me for blitzin’ fights, infinite nights, unlimited sleights!

He runs his mouth fast. A full house: 2 laughs from 3 jacks of ass. Jabs without clout to last, he gabbed his scat into a mouse-trap. A cheesy splat from his sleazy chat it’s too easy to leave him flat. So in my house I’ll take him to the mat!

He’s betting tight, hasty from a place that’s to me tasty, right from frights, settling for stepping to regain the clout that divides. So he risks stepping outside? Allllriiiiiiiight! Out loud, shout to ride, he pouts inside! Thinks he’s proud but he hides! Can’t afford to get sore, cross the border and get tortured by a brighter fighter, tighter despite being shorter. I’ll slice him high and liquid like a geyser, liquid prizefighter. For sure, insecure hate doesn’t rate; when it escapes I delight in taking it as an igniter. This fader fears no alli-hator, I won’t deny this shit; I am a riot instigator!

He conforms from the start; he wasn’t born hard; if he was a porn star his name would be Mistress Tirebiter! He misses, tripping, slipping on his own chunder. Losing his grippin’ like Stevie Wonder with an uzi playing Call of Duty. I’m leaving him confused under heavy scrutiny, this blistering victim of Captain Mutiny…  
               
…was used, burned up, discerned as a pup! I earned my pluck and raucous ruckus, rocking bad luck and picking gladness back up on it! I’m positively, honest enough to live so free, options mobbing from me, distributing all of me like charity so there’s nothing left for Oligarchy to rob from me. It’s just such: he sucks. I turned him back into a joke for an ass poke and now he’s puckering up!

I see through you! I’m lenient about the means I can gleam because what you call genius I conveniently doo doo. I poo twice to do vice ‘cuz your mom isn’t through until late after round 2 to wait for that lover to recover and get tight like our multiple rubbers. I sculpt like no other. You skulk and shudder. The bulk of what you spit is blubber. My slams are vicious like the hammerfist of Hulk…

…with Banner rolling control quick to think sick for results. I’m lean and clean, your comics? Honest, they lack chronic steam like Charles Schultz! I mean it. You fail to entail a laugh, like Peanuts! This world will learn when my turn comes to burn. Then I’ll discern to let up the fight and spit fire higher into the night like a bulimic Phoenix! Purging disturbed urges to encourage demons of unreason to tarry the best of me, parry the jests of me, carry my legacy! I blow prose into Kleenex and expect to set standards of truth like my Atlas-neck noose was just a practice lanyard of blues for the family I choose!

So much to reach tonight, escaping from me like seeds shaken from the Tree of Life. Busting clustered sights of lustful delight popping from my body rocking naughty measures of defense and treasures so dense in untethered sense!

Flowing natural, showing magical, growing tactical like the stances discerned in tussles planted and earned into muscles. Fancy the burn of the hustle? A headful of struggle is shaking the pain of my strained mettle like a quaking train trestle when the locomotive fills the station with escalation and sound…                                           ...right on schedule.

I’m loco and show this in animation. Lucid imagination grows in every round settled. Rocking iller, A to Zoso, like Godzilla when he ate Tokyo, mocking thrillers in between notes, yo! Just goes to flow excitation rose from the ground with nettles. Snagging every step you made like frag grenades, bagging your mom in the first play, before she was sagging with age.

I’m not bragging, just enraged at opportunities wasted away. Under scrutiny there shouldn’t be a single mislaid day. Between you and me creator made us just to play.

Such teachings so bright, japing in the breeze and taking freedom from strife. A hush over the beach is making me freeze on sight. Trust we each got right, waking and seeing what’s aching without fright. So much to reach tonight. Escaping from me like seeds shaken from the tree of life.

Slam a jam real nice when that strife is on me. Life is beyond free so I’ll slice it like my vice was a knife to salami! Getting right ‘cuz fretting is uptight but stressin’ releases lessons, increasing blessings. And I might call upon the ganja to calm me again for my zen.

But beyond a creative play, vitamin THC isn’t a part of me to party. Grave’s Disease overwills the condition of metabolism in the remission of T-4 in my bloodstream. The flood gets mean? Try getting one over on me when I’m sober. A higher vision than hyperthyroidism robs me of! I don’t toke just fucking ‘cuz! Unlike the curse of a 3rd surgery and the bio-wall I hit with Topral, weed never makes me fall but keeps ahead so free. Surgeon-steady as the sniper, unready for the viper at his knee.

Back to the battle-spree. He’ll be gone before me with a flick of whispering wit like a bic lighter in the dark. Enough spark to brighten up the whole room for a second. It lets me in. Sweet confection, that second is all I need to be wrecking! I reckon tighter to zoom. Check in discrete like a street fighter, children at my feet like the Pied Piper; they’re all mine but none were spawned by me.

Still I’m raising my kids to be warriors so if you’re sore with my lack of borders? Handle me in time and they’ll cannibalize yours. Search and never find. Lurch and remember this rhyme. You were warned against hurdling scorn. It wasn’t just a verbal land-mine! These kids’ll be around to carry the sound after I’m in the ground.

Invest to jest? Challenge a balanced mess of verbal distress in text textured to get your woman wet? Fancy this for a test? A chance to see what’s next? I snap your wrists, break your neck, seal you in a cement vest, conceal you as a pigeon rest out at Santa Monica’s sunny park crest! In the Wild West that’s how the Empire keeps the war in check.

Unless you prefer the cure of aesthetics of ascetic. Divinely sped up credit willing behind the crime of my illing. Start finally shrine-building with a shrinking family unwilling! Should’ve chosen the first one without fret. Here’s what Missing Persons can expect:

Every year another tape reaches your ears. Collecting your family’s final breaths! First one delivered by calling collect. The rest left to wither in every year’s out-dated post-rated birthday postmarked cassette! Listen to the gift without regret.:

The sound that’ll be around is the fear of your near and extended ones seething like a brick oven. Wheezing sick lungs filling to the brim, non-aspirating to drown…                      …no water to bother but buried in the ground. Don’t be angry at what I said. My grim sin is around in the placement of every pound I paid.

This is what’s within when I scrounge for every statement I played. Cuts and grins and be shut in to a coffin in the ground for knowing the sickening fear that nobody is around listening; no one is near. To reach a state of speaking from grace I have to breathe and eat each place I create, meditate on the scare until I’m right there.

Map all I see and turn it into a tapestry. When I laugh at the wrath you’re hearing every whittling bit I have within me like graphology, nothing hidden. Feeding my dread, and boosting when I spar, meteors run into the red. I bleed to reach the tip of Lilith’s wishlist. For this sort of sport I cannot afford to be short by meters. Even one leaves a drop of red.

What spits quick from me in epiphany is reached when I cleave and whirr. I made my chance on every blade dance to beseech the muse and stir. Inspiration games and creation has ranges of locations changing every feature. A hard climb for an artist to find when part of every rhyme starts with my mind meeting her.
 
So tarry my solution, scary confusion and be wary of the revolution your entangled family will have to wrangle well after my chatter and final scandal. I’ll find a roll to matter and mangle, scatter and strangle! My songs bereft, cleave with long arms even after my own death, bring it on with no warnings left!

Part III: Wrapping up what matters in this chatter, like the early game masters I came after for untamed laughter.

Gasp! Let’s get lyrical! My wisdom is crass and empirical, clearing gaps of interference and shearing past experience without fear of lasting interference. So visions appear like miracles when I hurdle circles and bounce every track past flat curves. Swerving in 3-D ‘cuz 360 degrees just isn’t enough for me. I’ve got to get spherical!

It’s the anti-hero cure I use to groove and stir, cut loose. Murder a verse with a hellhound’s bloodthirst, spellbound and worse played like whirring blades, curling layers of skin off your face to shins. Twirling the thin strips into ribbons. Fleshrope is my vision with fresh hopes the taut line will outshine and outlast linen for escaping out the window of Hell’s holy prison!

Hurdling disturbed worries and squirreling my stories, never in a hurry because I’m sure of my glory. Pain and scorn won’t refrain but I roll out of its control, the reigns were torn from me. Forming every morning to wake and bake my needs, eyes opening and scoping to already be rhyming with the first notes spoken.

Quaking all of my verses like Earth was shaking lava bursts. Unsettling science fast from my dome for violent traps like Oliver Stone remade Home Alone. Every called to order tome falls into more brawling zones. For every purpose I stated, every purple haze phase I blazed, every workable face I amazed I stay in a divine state of unwinding grace.

Rhyming clean, finding means from behind the scenes to climb the sky; it’s not just a dream. Horribly I understand toil concealed. More RAM to stand, foil and reveal with a mouth to threaten and hands to reckon as weapons. Fuck the blessed lessons! I’ll finish bombing this statement after bonding you to the pavement! Every round starts and ends on the ground.

A snakebite to take the night this rake splits vice and japes tight. Even Halliburton is overworking to conceal, like royalty’s plans on oil fields what I reveal. I’m a sick nerd with slick words to part quick and disturbed. The universe isn’t enough but it’s part of the mix for this artisan to start some sin. So let’s start this like we had the Tardis as an escape artist’s backpocket trick!

Pick up slack off of it like speed-cuff keys to laugh at cops who can’t stop any missive I dismiss. I don’t play dead cattle games but sometimes I just prattle off my brain. I babble away without restraint a whole world I made off my prose like Daedalus got betrayed by King Minos. Oh no, I suppose the harbinger of carpenters picked up slack and played that slow, joking, chode king right back!

Matching the rage of this, practicing like Daedalus, on it and steady. Combat ready, I’m sure through the maze I made sponsoring my plays by honoring the masters of early days!