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Initials B​.​R.

by Initials B.R.

Initials B.R. cover art
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credits

released 04 April 2011
composed, performed, recorded, and mixed by Luke Kirkland
mastered by Alan Douches at West West Side Music
cover photograph by peon (peon.virb.com)

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Visit initialsbr.com to learn more.

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tags: indie architecture atmospheric electronic experimental gold grandiose painting post-rap rap rock Boston

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Track Name: Initials B.R.
'01. INITIALS B.R. (we have seen the moment of our greatness flicker)

I thought it was an office of amour or supper for the vultures;
Cobras posed for the strike don't bite.
Flight's from the homes that we like,
So we care where the culture's prepared for the nightlife.
We seldom scene and rarely herd
Eschew the turbulence of spread word.
I leave the herbs for the birds
And work to return my urn on good terms.

Dirges, distant, different,
Infiltrate catalogs, egging imprints with
Analog instants mixed in
Digitized dips into depths of delinquence.
Thieves in the night nab lights,
Crack shafts, splice back filaments diced.
Contacts at channels left and right
Bridge 'round wire-wrapped headrest heights.

Argon's passed through the dash into cabs where the
Gas is trapped by the windshield glass.
As the whole sky lights with a key on a kite
We heist with an eye for a bulb so bright that
Beats throw glowing effects on the
Streets, so leaving in minds' eyes a
Flee-ting image to sleep on.
And brother we keep on. Brother-ucker we keep on.

I write raps with the... (Initials)
I autograph with the... (Initials)
I monogram in the... (Initials)
My epitaph is the… (B.R.)

I axe acts with the... (Initials)
I ransack with the... (Initials)
I laugh last... (Initials)
Don’t ever talk back, it’s... (B.R.)

The path I want to take to where the pupa wake
Is on a pad of pape- I paint and pixelate.
I pick apart a crate. It makes me want to bake.
I bake a funnel cake and thus a tunnel make.
I rap slop like seconds stated preference,
Thoreau bows like the whole transcendentalist kraft works--
We crow bars while they lever-rage
Against the man-machine like they didn't get the messages.

It's a hard day's night that don't end cheap.
Pressure in my chest on peak; in my brain beats
Revolve around the axis speech that I can't seem
To voice against the noise outside. I don't rest easily.
Most nights I need the wind's white noise to make
The sleep-space safe to escape to the dream-state.
I place blades in a cage as the fan base
Teeters on a peg-leg and shakes when it oscillates.

If I could keep it L-O I’d lay and lounge on a
Mem-foam pillow and mellow alone.
More prone to rock bellows,
Webelos scout 21+ shows for the embryo.
See, I dressed up an egg, man, then put it on
Like the yoke drives furrows. A furlough belongs
To those who build burrows of song, so
B.R. other we keep on. Brother-ucker we keep on.

I write raps with the... (Initials)
I autograph with the... (Initials)
I monogram in the... (Initials)
My epitaph is the… (B.R.)

I axe acts with the... (Initials)
I ransack with the... (Initials)
I laugh last... (Initials)
Don’t ever talk back, it’s... (B.R.)

I wreck tracks with the... (Initials)
Snares clap with the... (Initials)
Kick blasts crack... (Initials)
Plaster and lath, it’s… (B.R.)

I wax maths with the... (Initials)
ASCAP with the ... (Initials)
I’m the cat... (Initials)
Who’s taking you to task. It’s... (B.R.)

It’s like that with the... (Initials)
And that’s match with the... (Initials)
Silly rabbit get your... (Initials)
Body cast graffed with the… (B.R.)
Track Name: Sesame
‘02. SESAME (we never sleep)

This false Simois makes my
Medicine mean more. Substance
Drips from a finetip: spilt Ipswitch,
Piss on the bathroom tiles. I'm a nightshift
Kingpin: place all waste in marked bins,
Sweep up broke glass and butts and napkins--
Lipstick writ dipped in puddles as the footprints
Obscure the digits. I'm on to the "What If?"…

Some kid on an "I'm the shit" kick
Probably got hip to some hit-on business,
Approached the object and spit, and maybe she
Strobe-lights as something she isn't in the darkness.
Or maybe she dimes but won't commit to split.
And ass beats class so forget it. Or maybe she's
Perfect and everything is curtains.
I guess we'll never know for certain. At 4:10 I fill a

Wheeled yellow tub with a hose and the suds grow
Round in a fountain of bubbles for the crud.
The floor is sick with mixed ground and grit
And more stick than you know exists. I sit and quick
Mix one strong drink for myself on the tab
Of a credit card left, so I have for the task
A buzz for a well-parched throat that'll last
To preserve 'gainst the bubbling morass I attack.

I swear I rock me galoshes with some yellow
Wet-proof slickers on top. And every other
Pass with the mop I approach where the stage drops.
Nothing's gonna keep me off of that rock
Of Gibraltar. Altars are few and far between.
Only one thing relieves me: the pop of the PA,
Sound checks, instruments, DJs,
And house lights dimming as the world goes away.

Trains irrespective of course
Quit rails when the clock strikes twelve in the morning.
So after all the fares tip a cab ride home
And after all the clubs have closed, I make it so:
I be the number one chosen just to keep you open.
I be the number one chosen just to keep you open.
I be the number one chosen just to keep you open.
On three: Sesame!

1-2-3: Sesame!

I imagine all the cab companies elbow deep in pockets
Of government officials and reps. College kids
Will spend stills and still wander night's end.
Six in the morning, the trains start running again.
I been keeping public transit on my end for
Polishing my moves on a newly mopped dance floor.
I see the sound sys thump and board shut,
Back doors locked up and trash in the dump.

Some bum alarmed by what's up harrumphs
And cheers a half crushed up cup to beg funds.
Quick to defense, I don an indifferent mien,
And think upon exiles and immigrants, innocents
Apt at impediments, denizens masked 'gainst
Mold spore culture dishing Orleans tenements,
Aged bent 'gainst deaf senses. I shiver at the
Evidence and shuffle to the train, pensive.

What makes a man's heart harder
To targets of stars' stray darts? What takes a
Man's arm farther than powder and pity at a
"Spare a little change, pardner?"? What takes
The parchment arts beyond Hallmark Cards
If audiences maw sentimental jargon? And what it is if
The very next night parts us, the train parks,
We about face and disappear into the darkness?

What insists, when trains irrespective of course
Quit rails when the clock strikes twelve in the morning,
That after all the fares tip a cab ride home
And after all the clubs have closed, I make it so:
I be the number one chosen just to keep you open?
I be the number one chosen just to keep you open...
I be the number one chosen just to keep you open…
Track Name: Strike on Back
‘03. STRIKE ON BACK (we play with fire)

Rate the effects of the song:
1 weeding wrecks from the lawns,
5 being half of the hoss,
10 avid pats and applause.
Anybody asking upon what
Attracts such a man to command of the forum,
Better take heed when I warn:
I want to match wits with the best in the form.

I one-man the quorum, get to business, split
Helixes with protein synthesis,
Menacing lids to invert kicks and leave kids
Dangling over black precipices. I
Pack punch like sack lunches.
Anyone crosses that line gets lit like
Light fixtures equipped to spit dikfer.
Ask and you get laughed at, get the picture?

Lean on the fence, kid. Sleep on the next. Get
Burned in the end, defenseless.
Keep all the rest. I can live with less.
I wait for the restless betwixt
Friction and phosphorous, with phillumenist
Nose jabbed into book jackets, this
Cardboard wrapped to set fire in a snap.

I wanna make contact. Pressure in a handshake,
Pupils in a dilated state, face to face,
Case by case, ‘til it’s safe to say,
We done set things straight, ‘kay?
I wanna make contact. Hunger insatiate,
Pacing the edge of cliff face, day by day,
Come what may, I lay in wait,
Aching for a hand to play ‘cause…

If I meet my match, I’ll strike on back.
If I meet my match, I’ll strike on back.
If I meet my match, I’ll strike on back.
If I meet my match, I’ll strike on back.

If you pull all the traces in, you can
See where the hands have been: little
Fingerprints, dusted in, each rippling
Ring expanding until you’re all twisting
Claims into questions like
Accents of New Mexicans. Then at
Last you get texts’ message:
Semi-colon, end parenthesis. I’ll tell you

This just once, in the event you have this
Flash of insight ignite and combust, the
Cavernous cavity’s switch flipped so your
Skull’s abyss gets lit like Christmas:
I hang up in the halls of yours and brew a
Beverage and pour it in thine ears’ porches, in the
Dark ‘cept for the sparks set to the canvas,
Hard steel marks in the flint of the language;

Large wheels’ arcs reel to grind
Gears and begin; the machine with a slick grin
Trims meat like an impenitent man’s with
Petulant plans intent on entrance in
Surfaces scanned with plans to adapt your
Shadow forms on a sage metaphor’s indoor
Grotto walls into transformed tableaus and
Raps like buffalo packs at Lascaux.

Teem in the tank, kid. Fiend for the thanks. Get
Worked in the end, relentless.
Dream with the rest of the rats and pests.
I wait for the restless betwixt
Friction and phosphorous, with phillumenist
Nose jabbed into book jackets, this
Cardboard wrapped to set fire in a snap.

I wanna make contact. Pressure in a handshake,
Pupils in a dilated state, face to face,
Case by case, ‘til it’s safe to say,
We done set things straight, ‘kay?
I wanna make contact. Hunger insatiate,
Pacing the edge of cliff face, day by day,
Come what may, I lay in wait,
Aching for a hand to play ‘cause…

If I meet my match, I’ll strike on back.
If I meet my match, I’ll strike on back.
If I meet my match, I’ll strike on back.
If I meet my match, I’ll strike on back.
If I meet my match, I’ll strike on back.
If I meet my match, I’ll strike on back.
If I meet my match, I’ll strike on back.
If I meet my match, I’ll strike on back.
Track Name: Heavyweight Bullion
‘04. HEAVYWEIGHT BULLION (we buy gold)

Nice corked bat.
Paint race on a face in a sack,
Cane and a cape for a cap.
Placate in a pace and attack.
Traipse on past.
Shake hands like a watch in clap.
Cats nap in the curve of an asp.
Forks fang facts.
Play scratch ‘til nails
Strike golden synopses like
Tunn’ling through follicles doesn’t take brain surgeons
Orders so eat your spinach. That
“Think I can’s” a grimace in a
Game of hide and seek, so would you
Hurry up and olly-oxen-
Free? I mean it’s been a week.

BR R VR R AV R N/A.
Thieves eag-R beav-R 2 C R RNA.
CDs on CBs means time 2 make eep-pe’s.
Now people-ay gon’ E-Bay BVDeez utz-enyay’s.
Trade R RC cars for RVs and PR.
Steel R blue rebar from PBR be-R.
PAs gon’ replay R 3 K’s and 2 A’s
Like “Touché croupier”.

CHORUS

Suckers gon’ tucker: there’s a runner in the road.

Decks don’t stack.
Ain’t fate put an ace in the hat?
Don’t folks fit a rope to the mast
Holding me back?
I wreck oak afts.
Best hemp’s an offense to the rapt
Job acts in the host at the apse that’s
Holding me back.
Don’t ask. Those goads
Won’t unrobe this Rhodes Colossus.
Fusing the gates of Dreaming and Waking
Estates and mating the hostages in
Moments of a capped-teeth-
Half-sleep chatter is the
Way to pierce the pallor of the
Hunter-gatherer.

See, BR R BC, but not PC per se,
Queequeg when perc-ay (so say J. Chernil-A).
Keebl-Rs in popl-Rs all TP-ed and cree-P
Go hack in sysAdmin and freebie R EP.
Keep R Pinot Noir from cape-Rs and cavi-R.
Sav-R in flav-R its strong Goute de Terroir.
Ces petites poulets boivent blasé Beaujolais.
Comme “Parlez francais”?

CHORUS

Suckers gon’ tucker: there’s a runner in the road.

I get that ChipGold bullion.
I get that Kinebar bullion.
I get that Kruggerand bullion.
I get that Saint-Gaudens, y’all.
Buffalo bullion.
I hold Maple Leaf bullion.
I see Hundred Franc bullion.
And that's Vreneli bullion.
I get it hard rock
And at spot price
I get it cold worked
For that medal metal, y’all.
Mother Lode bullion.
And that’s Troy stone bullion.
And that’s heavyweight bullion.
Heavyweight bullion.
Track Name: The Music Man
‘05. THE MUSIC MAN (we are open for business)

So your heart's broken.
Wanna come back home with me?
Something tells me you need a little
TLC and I could be all three. But I believe
There's a fine line between recreation and relation.
I could illustrate it all on maps and graphs.
But it's a complicated enterprise to separate the intimate
Asides of the mind's inner arts and crafts.

I concede that against betrayal of the best in
Verbal assurance of affection is a test of
Genuine devotion on behalf of a half
Towards a half. That's math. Why do you laugh? I ask 'cause
Maybe you imagine that my pickup liner note’s
Just faking a jewel-case for practical joke.
Or that my day-job va-kay’s a tour-length road-spree
Where PTO's good for PYT. Please…

I see it on your face now. You're wondering
What exactly is it I'm proposing if I haven't any interest in
Expediting amorous relations such as might befit the
Natural ambitions of a ripe young man.
Well I have to confess, ma'am. I’m timid in large crowds.
But in my room with no one else around, no doubt
I’m bound to wreck your body when I turn the party out.
Maybe it'll help you understand to spell aloud. See:

We just met. And it's a pretty loud club.
I don’t fly by night ‘cause no one hit nightstand’s
A hand in glove. It just wonders. Plus I was
Raised on LL. I know "I Need Love" by heart.
Pardon if I pause at the part.
Excuse? “I Used To Love H.E.R."
And though diamonds are a “Girl’s Best Friend”, I’m po’.
So you know, “I Know”, you know, “I know”. Baby, I’m

Needing no assurance of your “Beautiful Skin”, but I can
Barely see in light so dim, and I can barely hear you
Over the din. So if you're in give me a pad and a pen.
Hell, I could put you in my Top 10 if you friend me.
Better yet, gimme ten. You can lay
Gazing into my eyes, CD cover on your pillowcase.
Digits deserve canvas and paint,
I’d settle for toothpaste if it wouldn’t erase.

There are places where we’ve stationery
Better than a napkin. Quick, don’t forget to hit
Me with “the at” for my email list.
Lipstick signature and goodbye kiss.
And that’s it. Catch you at the next show.
I gotta go, I gotta go, I gotta go.

CHORUS

All of my interests mesh messes and jest.
Even my best attempt’s only a litmus test.
Disprove the pessimist’s guess that I'll like you less.
And I’ll like you best.

One of the things that occurred when I began to, uh, just, you know, feel some changes happening…I was kind of still entertaining in gin joints, you know…and, uh, it was weird, to come out, you know, to all these folks…a lot of Shriners and hookers and salesman, which are the same as hookers, really…you had to find ways to break the ice, I mean...and I told them a poem…

And it goes…
Everybody takes their clothes off (believe that)
Everybody takes their clothes off (and then some)
Everybody takes their clothes off (uh huh)
Everybody takes their clothes off
And I'll do anything I can to insure, if it takes
Every little bit, that no one forgets
I'm taking my ass home with me, 'til I see
Everybody--I mean everybody--gets an

Honorable mention, an honorary MENSA
Membership, an honorary doctorate, plus
An honorable judge presiding,
A medal of honor, and an honorable discharge.
It's this artifice that's the culprit. It's this
Business-as-usual attitude. It's
Strangers soapboxing pulpits, thinking that a
Tirade’s what attracts punditry.

It’s parents selling you a magic rabbit’ll be
Breaking into kitchens in the night and gradually
Hiding all the dozens that you dyed in excise for a
Chocolate consolation prize, all for
Christ. And we can all laugh at that but
Only after the fact has passed. And that’s the gaff.

CHORUS

If I should have no home excepting the road,
Blame not the sounds of those seventy-six trombones.
Take all my implements. Tether my wits.
Tell them my rhetoric’s rabid with expletives.
Tell me my mind’s escaped. Tell me I’m safe.
Sever the man from “make”. Then I’ll cooperate.
Render the precious pens penchant in chest
Deaf to the beck and call of all other audience
And I’ll like you best.
Track Name: The Confidence Man
’06. THE CONFIDENCE MAN (we give you our word)

Look at them cats on cell phones,
Talking out domes like ringtone snow-globes,
Earlobes targeted, charged with
Hair on end like antennas and fiber optics.
Head-band-width is Pangaea, with some
Two billion people on the other ends of send buttons.
Chomping at the bit, all rabid like
Animals, slavering, blue teeth chattering.

Ample in mind, I amble through life on the
Lam from the law with an eye on the type
Fit for enriching the grifter and right for the
Scams that I plan in the still of the night.
Making the ends meet towards feats more than
Selling you speakers out of the back of a white van.
Cat-scan’s for the con-tact: I
Play you like Mattress Man and that’s that.

CHORUS

Case you enough to
Take you for all you’ve
Got. Then when I’ve
Caught you right where I
Want you, that’s when I
Bag what I won. By the
Time that you call for the
Law, I’ll be gone.

Do the Ponzi scheme y’all. (Bin dun that before)
Do the 419 fraud. (Bin dun that before)
Well let’s salt the mine. (Bin dun that before)
And get ‘em ogged online. (Bin dun that before)
Come on, now, sell that bridge. (Bin dun that before)
And move prize packages. (Bin dun that before)
We’re gon’ make a deal. You’re gon’ get-rich-quick.
Do I have your confidence?

Recently, I’ve been working on a series, individual
Pitches replete with the sweet temptation of
Greed as opposed to the snares of deceit to
Feast on sweet fresh meat. See, used to be
I’d bootleg CDs to sell piece by
Piece except each case left empty. Now
It seems we need the technology to cheat
Fees for downloadable mp3s. Believe…

Ease of escape is the difference between
The police and a scrape, a career and a wake.
Even the aces believe that the laws are the
Tools of the trade, loopholes in the lay:
Legal recourse isn’t afforded to perps who are
Willing participants in the exchange of hot merch.
Knock first. I prefer notice. I’m a
Slip out the back and be on the road before you know it.

CHORUS

Case you enough to
Take you for all you’ve
Got. Then when I’ve
Caught you right where I
Want you, that’s when I
Bag what I won. By the
Time that you call for the
Law, I’ll be gone.

Do the money box scheme y’all. (Bin dun that before)
Do some Foreign Exchange fraud. (Bin dun that before)
Do the pig-in-a-poke, homes. (Bin dun that before)
Do the bogus escrow. (Bin dun that before)
Now Wash Wash the funds, y’all. (Bin dun that before)
Do the glim-dropper cool mil’. (Bin dun that before)
We’re gon’ make a deal. You’re gon’ get-rich-quick.
Do I have your confidence?

Sweet red lady with a
Rose. Now tell me where she
Goes. Tell me where she
Goes. Ready? Watch the
Red Queen lady through the
Throw. Now tell me where she
Goes. Tell me where she goes.
Tell me where she goes!

“Case closed. Possible suspect
Evades capture by local police.” At least
That’s what the headline reads. Still it seems like
More often than not it ain’t a walk through the park trees,
More often than not I feel masked hands squeeze less
Room to breathe. It ain’t even police. It’s these
Fantasies of phantom vengeful marks
Waiting for me in my own house in the dark.

How I sleep in this heat keeps
Eating away at me. Maybe I need to seek
Gainful employment and salary, a health
Plan, and eventually retire with ease. Son,
Please, imagine me, doing something
Even halfway interesting, nestling
On track, feeling like parole when you get back.
Chill ‘til your will snaps. In fact, just last

Week I was eating Teppanyaki in a Benihana
Thinking on the possibilities, like that could be
Me: reeling in hibachi heat, dripping sweat
Like sauna beads into teriyaki beef. Give it
A week before I’d go swinging santoku blades
Like katana made by Hanso, red toque
Wiggin’ out, stickin’ up the crowd outwitted, like
“Out with it, out with it, out with it, out with it!”
Track Name: Henry Darger
‘07. HENRY DARGER (we need a moment alone)

(You better give me the respect that I deserve
Or I'm a take it by force.)

Sucker, you better eye the
Pen(n) like Teller when I kick Gillette tricks:
Sharp tongue lever lifts close shave letters, licks
Ink-dipped feathertips wet with cuttlefish tint,
Then spits sepia print script.
This is the way I get prepped for the rhetoric:
Squids in a king-size ‘quarium (check),
Quills from the wings of a Peregrine (check),
Redwoods unwrapped and rapped up again.

Jet-setter Ledbetter bests aces to
Win, bends space in the end, straight tens,
Antenna transmitting amphetamine medicine
Sent between seams of skies and seaweeds with
Lines like tightrope designed to wind dope
Type taut in a fine tux and gussy up
Pressed Daedalus wax ebonous when I cut
Records like cross-cut shredders do evidence.

Finches flinch at the Doublemint writ:
Freshness quick to deliver true grit.
Hoss, I’m getting my kicks out of this, like
Docs on the patella to test reflexes.
Check the vestment, wrought in the details,
Running things straight through spiral seashells, with
Sentences like Stringer Bell hits, so you bet I’m
Better getting on with it.

(You better give me the respect that I deserve
Or I'm a take it by force.)

Now, you could bill it as a
Last-ditch effort while my throat sprays pepper, and
Temper’s on temperatures ne’er before measured, and
Pressure’s on critical levers. All you get is
Semper Fidelis: I never say never.
Stock up charts with auto parts like Checker, I’m a
Fend off fads and, when weary, take infinite
Offense to the bitter end, stewing even if I have to
Sit inside a room and spend a lifetime starving.

Pardon. You know a man's heart hardens. Who
Bent flesh to carbon pressed dark coal through a
Trial by fire into diamond. Tarnished
Metal needs a little bit of varnish. I could be the
Latter-day Darger: Sergeant-of-arms in an
Army of ardour, carving the carnage of
Carpenters' arbors, martyr alarming the
Ardent to arms in the palm. Sharpened

Pen-souls carve in and sten-soul parchment.
Stem-cells rehearse the fire like arson.
Men strike thin. I begin where the margins
Of book pages impart place, then I augment.
On to the end when the air of the art is
Absolved and prepared to depart from the carcass,
Marked for relieving the last breath breathed, which
Still won’t be the last from me.

(You better give me the respect that I deserve
Or I'm a take it by force.)
Track Name: Walter Sickert
‘08. WALTER SICKERT (we have got to be kidding)

If the polls don’t test it, I don’t suppose folks that’s in the
Homes gon’ check it. I don’t suppose rodents in the
Walls gon’ measure the floor to floor pressure when the
Floorboard setter’s a door-to-door lecher. I’m a
Bad cold catcher. Down sherpa gon’
Catch a cold shoulder for lack of a better boa. The
Feathers are fans, better for flames unfettered; the
Fancy temper of rams is mainly leather and lamb and

Tantrum and Centrum powder, ground A to
Zinc and, each half an hour, devoured at
Random. Man, abandon the bran to the
Hands of the man with the mandarin tamarinds. You
Cut your loss if you want to cut your cost. Either
You got or forgot the Osh Kosh B’Gosh. I
Got, but I ain’t got spots to show it off
Except for in the aisles of my local Shaws. I got a

Box of grape Shiraz and gobs of gauze, and I
Picked a pot shot to pop the Raj. It’s solved:
The gall is balls when my plaque’s
Appalled that the small question my resolve. I’ll
Poke into all with an awl and account for the
Counts of assault on the pall of the jarl. I’m
All battery pack, still in the Charles until it’s a
Malted hot spot of molten lava.


BRIDGE

You’ve got to be kidding me, man. Damn. I
Erase pages amped like perfect plans and sand
Names in my desk to nan, leave plates with the
Fam, so I can hand plates to the fam, lay
Flame to the tapes with a match and a fan so the
Traces escape from the face of the man…

You’ve got to be kidding me, man. Damn. It ain’t
Safe shaking hands with walking dead: you get
Left with the life you led, lest grace be the
Debt and debt be the fate that you met with—
Doubtful at best—lest text be the testament
Rescued and aged for the youth in the next…

You’ve got to be kidding me, man. Damn. To
Create ache in hands then break and pant, just to
Aim for the grandest of answers and age for as
Long as the age is a chance and the aegis a
Stamp, and a ham “Can Do” ain’t camp—I’m a
Shot in the dark with a harp and a lamp, the

Candle that chases the cold from the damp, the
Answer advanced in the sands, the sentiment
Etched in the very last breath at the end:
You’ve got to be kidding me, man. Damn.

CHORUS

Yo, if the polls don’t get it, I don’t suppose folks that’s in the
Cold gon’ accept it. I don’t suppose roaches in the
Rooms gon’ let ya forget: it don’t matter a bit.
It don’t matter a bit. It don’t matter a bit.
It won’t wait till it quits, still stings when it
Hits: “This Ripper’s all Sickert as a has-been.”
This Ripper’s all Sickert as a has-been.
And sick to happen upon. Come on.
Track Name: T.R.O.B.
‘09. T.R.O.B. (we quit)

I used to near cone casements, tasting the air in a
Sub-woof, shaking, taking the ears into
Club basements and large rooms where the dub matrix Could fold space on itself and traverse mazes.
Discrete places shape-shift, ageless:
Days when the famous engraved in the tape-hiss.
Days when the aces defaced with the bass-kicks
Clips from the music of ages. Face it.

2 to the 0 to the 0 to the 8 don’t
Ring like phones with a touchtone. Bones put a
Twenty on the tag but they sell it in the lines like
“1-9-9-9”. Fuck it, I
Love it when the singers cite past years. In the raps
It’s a stamp certified on the fact of careers
Spent with an eye on the prize and an ear on the
Pulse of millennia reflected in mirrors.

Don’t mistake this counting the ways for elderly
Man rants on back in the days. I’m meaning to say
I simply haven’t had a heart in the form, except to
Quarantine my art until the time’s right for it, type
Toward heights soaring flight, forward eyes open like
Omens ripe, portents’ sight-forcing light showing to the
Road and a hand that demands “All in”, and
Still bluffing up fathoms enough to fall in. My

Calling’s a test of persistence. I want to finish
All with a masterful use of your 40 minutes,
Crafted in 36 months with an intimate
Attention to text and terrain for experiment.
I spurned merriment all to attempt rap
Chariots’ laps on a path hell-bent with a
Battleaxe slashing, fashioned to flint
Wildfires in the harvests of simpletons. So I’m a

Write last acts and pack and that’s that, lay
Tracks back to back, check off tasks, and then
Muse through how the few far between fans feel
When they reminisce over Boo. For real…

CHORUS

We quit. Throw a towel into the mix. Flip a
Cap full of chips in for cash and split. Sit and
Petrify hands into rusty-ass vice grips.
Never hold nan but a fist. That's
It. Stick another fork in the spit. Sew a
Zipper on the tips of my ridiculous lips. Settle
Every animus in silence. Submit.
Never hold nan but a tongue.
We quit.