Archive for November 9, 1993

Untitled Poem #173

Posted: November 9, 1993 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , ,

sometimes I finger the scars on my heart
in the dark, all alone,
rough ribbons of hardened tissue;
they are braille lines of poetry;
railroad tracks to remind me of my innermost fears.

They feel almost skeletal,
and read like the scriptures of God,
and sting like the scorpions of God.

Meatgrinder (Version 1)

Posted: November 9, 1993 in Poetry
Tags: , , , ,

I get wicked like the wickedest man alive.
I stick your head in my window, roll it up and I drive
your ass around your own block so y’all know:
I’ll stick your face to the wall like a gecko, huh.
You always try to come off like your hard, son,
but every rhyme that you write’s like your first one.
I never want to upset you, but I know that I do,
because I can’t help but point out what I know is true:
you can’t rhyme, can’t wrestle and it’s nonsense;
you think you’re hitting hard? You’re not making dents.
What the fuck is that? That’s your fucking track?
I’ll put it in my pocket as the definition of wack.
You’re so high, G – you’re played out, see –
I never fret backstabbers like you, ain’t that right, B.
You think that you would look as good as I do? Huh.
I think a Doberman or two would suit you and your crew
of sell-out suckers who are lying through their teeth, not rappin’.
You say you’re from Compton but you grew up in Cleveland.
Listen to Cube and chikkity-check yourself
because my foot in your ass ain’t good for your health.
And I’m just waiting to hear you say that talk is cheap,
‘cause then I feel good about cappin’ your ass, creep.
You don’t want to feel humiliated? Get the fuck out,
because I’m the fucker that your parents warned you about, huh.

I’ll cut off your motherfucking hands if you touch me.
I can’t stand the man who’s gangbanging to fuck me
like I was ever looking to be taken.
Move over bacon, ‘cause you ain’t moneymaking.
You’re not honest with the shit that you talk about.
You walk around in the streets, thinking you got clout,
but you lie, and we all know motherfucker
you call your girlfriend a ho, ignoring her at a show.
I don’t say I’m from the ghetto ‘cause I’m not from there.
You’re formatted for pop and it’s sad that you don’t care.
As long as you’re a gangster, a hustler, a pimp
mack daddy loc biscuit-eating knucklehead shrimp.
I know my boy Brian, and he’s honest as fuck;
you should be on a game show ‘cause you’re pressing your luck.
You should be doing time – there’s no soul in your beats,
you should go into politics because you lie through your teeth.
Now I’m a scandal vandal man with my hands – they’re slamming
and your rinkity-dinkity jam falls short ‘cause you’re shamming.
I might wobble like a weeble with my sleeves full of tricks,
but your track couldn’t hack it even with a remix.
I’m carefree like an angel, not a package of gum, see,
and you can chew on this because I know that you’ll bite me.
It can be tough to get respect from turkeys like you,
but you trudge me, begrudge me because you know I’m true.