Two Words

My washing machine’s depressed ‘coz I wear black
I feel flat
my lips cracked and chapped
blurting crap like I’m on crack
making you all crack up and start clapping and shit
well, you know what?
I don’t feel like speaking
I feel like screaming and squealing
til all I can do is squeak and I’m coughing and wheezing
sneezing and feeling defeated, beaten
jesus,
this boy can talk shit
it’s like he thinks he’s been cheated by life
like his feet ache from lugging his baggage and features around
like a small and fuzzy featureless creature who cheats at battle-chess
and sneaks in random fags
these words taste like having a shit sandwich
and eating it
like eating a whore out
then stealing her cigarettes
it’s like picking a fight with Andrew fucking Mehrtens
at an All Blacks test match in Baghdad
The shit just doesn’t make any sense
being a smart-ass in the present tense
I feel tense about the number of rent checks
that I’ve raised and gifted
compared to the value of the shit that I’ve lifted
the shit that’s been gifted by karma
and fate helps me pay for
like a cheap whore
I love that word
Whore
it sounds like a nice heavy smoke – stop – door
sliding closed over a dusty concrete floor
in front of a filthy stinking whore
onomatopoeia and synaesthesia
like an orgy
a wild party characterized by sexual promiscuity
drunken revelry and sibling rivalry
in the sickest sense
I’m the slickest
these rhymes eat chef-aid fucking sandwiches for breakfast
anyone who can say sandwich three times
in a rhyme as sick as this
is a fucking genius
alcohol was a factor
responsibility for the bombing has been claimed by al kaeda
sinister business
flawless and sinless
sharing secrets and un-known features
of magic tricks
convincing people I’m a purist
the purest epitome of giving
coming across quite different to someone who’s winning
grinning through gritted teeth that have been ground down
by crisis, grief, grime, crime, time, demons and mis-placed belief
but with Mastercard
it’s been priceless
look at the tiny human lice and their crazy devices
trying to achieve release without speaking
and gain a deeper understanding at I-Max
Fucking Slackers
what’s wrong with you nasty little sneaky freaks?
you’re weak
too soft to deal with real stuff
like synergistic co-existence
I take drugs to win
I drink to prove what a mess I’m in
I stink of smoke puke and squid ink
have you ever smelt squid ink?
it stinks worse than a cat’s piss
smear snails on your face to save grace as you gracelessly age
when I pass you, I have become virtually faceless
I’m nameless
I have nearly no presence
no character
and no discernable essence
I am a personified manifestation of your
own most feared fantasy
I am your conceptual psychosis
a ghost of your super-ego
and all you can come up with is this?
go figure
words of an aetheist preacher
a blind teacher
be careful – caveat emptor
there goes that smoke stop door
don’t let it hit your ass as you go the way of the aforementioned whore
you want more
I’m a pragmatic masogenyst
I’f ladies were babies
I’d eat them
There was more
but fuck it
I’m done

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Tags:

sandwich, rhyme, angry, rap, hysteria, spoken, nasty, whore and antisocial