Posts Tagged ‘Bela’

The results of dishonesty

The results of dishonesty

There is a hole in my heart, and I can’t contain the light that is pouring out. This is the brilliance of truth and the refraction of soul. This is the damage that is done to a human being when you are betrayed, blinded, backstabbed, and belittled for trying to be more understanding than is humanly possible to be. The Froggacuda has held his enormous, razor-sharp, whiplike tongue long enough, and the slings and arrows, the sticks and stones, having come from all quarters, determine that the defense of the 360 degrees is back by popular demand, and must be enforced with the unpredictable and uncanny gusto that is the Monster from Red Lake.

This site has been populated with what I once was and, apparently, what I still am made of: not snips and snails and puppy dogs tails, but fifteen years of poetry, ten years of making music, five years of DJ mixes, and one month of unemployment later, I am sitting all froggy on top of a pile of meaningless (to you) shit that perhaps someone will wander through and find a gem or two amidst this midden heap of detritus. Although the catharsis of inputting and then burning all of my available poetry journals is healing, it tears a lot of scabs off of present and historical wounds that should have been viciously expunged with a gallon of Bactine and a scalpel when the damage occurred in the first place. Except that I am a coward.

I don’t know why I am so creative; why I am able to pour my guts out on the kitchen table and read your fortune in them like some sort of Street Shaman or modern-day Gypsy — to help you, only to stuff my innards back into this ridiculously fat and out-of-shape barrel-like body of mine, smile, pat your head, tell you I am alright, and send you on your merry way with a little bit of Murdoch perspective to think about. It’s what I do.

I am so brave when it comes to telling the truth to other people. In my own private hellish closet where the real me lurks and shakes his fist at a world that I never asked to be a part of, I tell myself I am making the best of it. I live, I love, I breathe, I get up in the morning, I go to work (when I have it), I get shanked by friends, family members, acquaintances, business partners, bosses, co-workers, Sunday drivers, wives, fuck-buddies, Internet personalities, and the population at large, and it all it really makes me want to get this thing called life over with. That’s why I am trying to smoke and drink myself to death like a modern day Charles Bukowski. What is the point of all of this happiness and misery, anyways?

Seriously, what is a blog for besides spitting ridiculously self-centered screeds to an unsubscribed and uncaring Internet where my body of work will be lost as another couple of drops in the ocean of half-formed content scrabbling for purchase or publication like so many Lovecraftian half-formed nightmares populating the craptacular pages of the 21st Century’s equivalent of pulp fiction: WordPress.

I was going to wait until I had everything I had ever done (or at least kept and found again, only to be re-humiliated by rediscovering it) pumped into this overblown MySQL database before I started ranting again, but enough is enough, and the tongue must be let loose to rave in the dark as an orgy of one. It is terribly frustrating to understand that the highlight of my life is the eulogy I gave in a shadowy, barely filled cathedral for one of my best friends Bela Feher, who I miss like an arm or a testicle (he’d love that) even now, and I DAMN him for falling off of a big rock and leaving me here to struggle through this bullshit they call life while trying to console myself that I can’t die fast enough and that his wisdom, magic, and sarcasm is still contained within every ray of light from the hole in my heart.

[ original image courtesy of www.basehead.org ]

You wanna know what? You wanna know what?
You look mighty stupid with my foot in your butt.
I cut like X-acto and I’m stronger than stone
and you’re the fucking chicken from Aames Home Loan;
always being rescued, always being bailed out,
but no amount of money gives you my type of clout.
You’re soft like a Kleenex™ on your weakly old track.
Your tongue’s only good for licking my sack.

Give me a beat and a drum and a mike
and I’m guaranteed to break down something you’ll like
because I ain’t a mystery and yes I’ve got the history;
that girl on your arm — she just blew a kiss at me.
What’s on your mind? you wanna battle me, boy?
I’ll wind you up and break you like a Tonka™ toy.
I never know whether to laugh or be sick
when I see you walking ‘round, grabbing your dick,
blowing your nose, soiling your clothes
and paying all those people to come to your shows.
I’ll step to you and put your pea-brain to the test.
I’d like to see you swim wicked witch of the west.
I run the show like I’m Captain Kirk.
On the street I’m known as DJ Lurk.
Rhyming and stealing from all types of scene:
nothing is safe from my sample machine.
Sortof like Aliens got acid for blood,
I got funk in my veins and your name is mud.
Five years from now my shit’s still in
while your CD’s are filling up the bargain bin.
But I let you go, let you run away.
Hide in your home and practice all day.
Come back tomorrow or Saturday,
or do you have to ask if you can come out and play?

I was fucking born with a mike in my hand,
that’s why I’m named Mike, do you understand?
Let me rock the party, just slam the groove,
and we’ll see how many fat asses I can move.
Jumping out their seats and wiggling their hips.
Smiling like Erik Estrada on CHiPs.
Turn it around with a likkle house sound;
all those silly sucker still suits get clowned.
I mosh and I mumble, I drink and I stumble;
turn up the bass ‘till the foundations crumble.
I can rock a party ‘till the break of dawn.
My mind is so sharp it can mow your lawn.
Kick lyrical footballs to pop out your eyeballs;
invite your friends over to put holes in the drywall.
I said I’ve got a serious flair on the mike.
Do you want a lick of my ice cream? Psych!

My rhymes are built to give you something to purr on.
I’ve got tricks up my sleeves when I ain’t got a shirt on
and just when you think I’m all through . . .
I catch another beat and I pound me a Mountain Dew™.
Wired on caffeine, vicious and lean,
an eliminating terminating rapping machine.
I’m a wild man Bigfoot and I’m getting prepared
by kicking back Schaefers™ with Bela Fehér.
I’m a screaming kamikaze on a technopop track;
the needle in the haystack, gett off my bozack.
Give me a break beat, my mike will destroy.
I’m a wannabe member of the Beastie Boys.
Party people in the place, doowhatchyalike.
Funky rhythms, straight talk and such ya like.
So I give it to you straight from the soul . . .
have another beer, then lose control!

Stepping to me, you’d better come correct
because the Mission Hills posse’s always in effect.
When I rap upon the mike you’d better shake a leg;
this jam’s so hot you could fry an egg.
I’m a lyrical spherical diabolical demon.
I’m so glad to be here — I must be dreaming.
Y’all out there having a good time?
Well I’m about to rip out a funky rhyme!
I’m a party playing, roof-raising Point Loma rebel,
and the school administration thinks that I am the Devil.
I never will slow down, I’m back in my home town,
the suburbs to downtown, here comes the lowdown:
a shotgun tongue but I’m always nice.
My back’s always covered by OB Vice.
I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming for you;
make your booty do things you didn’t know it could do.
That’s the idea, guys, get out here and dance.
If you wait too long you’re going to miss your chance.
The walls are built to stand all on their own,
get your dérriere out here and shake your bones.
Yo, the building doesn’t need support
now get busy like my brother MC Alex Kohrt.
I’m a poet of freestyle, my lyrics are worthwhile
I get paid every day making other people smile.
A magician of attrition in the MC arena.
I wanna dye my hair like Jerry Medina.
Who’s in the house? I am, that’s who.
I’m always in the mood for curing your blues.
Pass me the bud and the pipe and I’ll toke it.
Wipe off the blood from the mike and I’ll smoke it.
You know I’m getting lethal, yo, word is born,
and now my boy John Roy will get dumb on his horn.

I don’t get paid much, but I stay in touch:
that color you’re claiming? Your bloodshed’s still red.
It doesn’t take a man to pull a trigger, loc.
It takes an education to use the mike to smoke
silly suckers that walk up on me,
get played razorblade by my tongue, G.
So leave that shit at the door with your worries,
and shake your body on the floor in a hurry.
I got skills, I got bills but you do, too.
So let’s see what type of boogie-business you can do.
Vocal acrobatics coming out my speakers,
speaking to your spine, your shoulders and your sneakers.
Get to know your neighbors, don’t pick and choose.
Be obnoxious like my boy Kevin Bacon in Footloose.
So pump your fist if you like the sound;
I’m a disco inferno, and I’m coming to your town.
i got a polyester shirt and the collar could kill you.
“Good Times” in my eight track, my mind’s gonna thrill you.
Fresh artistic sleight of hand —
you’ve got a real jive show from the one man band.
I’m out of here soon, I’ve got to watch me some cartoons;
I eat my Lucky Charms™ with a ladle or soup spoon
and just when you think I’m comin’ wack . . .
I’m gone with the diamonds like Camel Jack!