The Hood Chants of Maldoror (AAVE Street Vibes)
Bar 4: The Homie’s Back Cry
Drop 1
That old Denderah temple’s sittin’ an hour — half from Nile’s left bank — now wasp crews — thick as fuck — own them gutters and ledges. They buzz ‘round pillars — like heavy black locks wavin’. Only cats holdin’ that cold porch — guardin’ them halls like it’s blood — born. I’m matchin’ they metal — wing hum to ice blocks bashin’ non — stop when polar seas crack — pure mental racket. But clock the moves of that cat providence plonked on this rock’s throne — my three pain — fins kick up a louder roar, ye ken! When a comet flares up night — sky after eighty years ghostin’ — flexin’ its shiny — ass misty tail to earth — cats and crickets — bet it don’t clock that long haul — not me tho: propped on my bed — edge — while a bleak — jagged skyline climbs tough on my soul’s backdrop — I’m lost in pity — vibes — blushin’ for man, pure staunch shame!
Cut in half by the breeze — sailor — post — night shift — bolts for his hammock — why ain’t that chill mine, eh? Thought I dropped — my choice — low as my crew — got less claim than any to moan ‘bout our lot — chained to this rock’s crust — our twisted — ass soul’s core — stabs me like a forge — nail, pure glaikit feelin’. Seen gas — fire blasts wipe whole clans — but they agony’s quick — death hittin’ fast ‘mid rubble and poison fumes — me — I’m still kickin’ like basalt, rock — hard! Mid — grind — like day one — angels stay true to they game — ain’t it been yonks since I last vibed me?
Man and me — boxed in our head’s fence — like a loch hemmed by coral isles — ‘stead of linkin’ our juice to scrap chance and dirt — we peel off — shakin’ with hate — takin’ opposite tracks — like we shank each other with a blade — tip, bruv! Like each clocks the shade he throws the other — ridin’ some half — arse pride — we rush to not trip our foe — each holds his patch — knows a truce’d never stick, ye ken? Aight then — let my beef with man stretch forever — ‘cause each peeps his own rot in the other — both mortal foes, mate! I nab a wrecked — ass win or drop — fight’s gonna bang — me — solo — ‘gainst all cats. Ain’t grabbin’ wood or iron gear — kickin’ off earth’s dug — up layers — my harp’s loud — angel — vibe strings turnin’ under my grip — a grim — ass charm, reckon. Man — that fly — boy ape — already stabbed my chest with his porphyry shank in plenty traps — soldier don’t flash his cuts — even if they shine. This war’s gonna drop hurt both ways — two homies hell — bent on smashin’ each other — what a fuckin’ play!
Drop 2
Man, two pillars — ain’t no biggie nor fuckin’ impossible to clock as baobabs — poppin’ up in the valley, taller than a couple pins, fam. Real talk — they’re two massive towers, bruv. And yeah — at first peep, baobabs ain’t vibin’ like pins or towers — but if you play it smart with caution’s strings — you can spit without sweatin’ a slip (cos if this claim’s got even a speck of shook — it ain’t a claim no more, ye ken; same tag hits these soul — twists — sharp enough not to get mashed up easy) that a baobab ain’t that far off a pillar — no ban on matchin’ them build — vibes… or geo — shapes… or both — or neither — or just big — ass, solid forms, reckon. Just nabbed — no cap on frontin’ otherwise — the right tags for pillar and baobab — let cats know I’m clockin’ this with some glee and a fat dose of pride for them who flipped they lids and took the pure gallus call to roll these pages — candle burnin’ if it’s night — sun blazin’ if it’s day, mate.
Even if some top — dog power hits us with the clearest order to chuck this slick match — cats prolly vibed safe — into chaos’s pit — even then — ‘specially then — don’t blank this main rule: years — books — crew — touch — and your own quick — bloom bent slap a grim — ass comeback scar on man’s head for usin’ (crimin’ — if you flip quick to that power’s eye) a word — trick plenty shade but loads big up. Reader reckons this line’s too long — my bad, fam — but don’t hold your breath for me to grovel, nah. I’ll cop my slips — ain’t makin’ ‘em uglier with no weak — ass crawl.
My chat’s gonna clang ‘gainst madness’s bells and that straight — face mask of what’s just pure daft (tho some head — cats say it’s a bawhair split ‘tween clown and gloom — life’s a funny weepie or a weepy gag) — still — any cat can off flies — even rhinos — to chill from a grind too steep, ye ken. For flies — quickest way — not the dopest — mash ‘em ‘tween your first two fingers. Most scribes who dug this deep reckon — fair odds — choppin’ they heads beats it some days. Cat hits me for yappin’ pins like it’s pure glaikit fluff — clock this straight — no lean — big — ass moves come from tiny sparks, mate. Not strayin’ too far from this sheet’s edge — ain’t it clear this heavy — ass word — slab I’m spinnin’ since this drop kicked off might flop if it leaned on some prickly chem or gut — rot puzzle? Anyhow — all vibes roam nature — when I first matched pillars to pins with mad flair (didn’t reckon I’d catch flak for it one day) — I rolled on optics’ rules — the further your peep — line stretches — the tinier that pic shrinks on your eye — back, bruv.
So what our head’s itch for a laugh tags a cheap shot — most times — in my spit — it’s a fat truth dropped with king — vibe weight! Oh — that nutty head who cracked up seein’ a donkey munch a fig! Ain’t makin’ this up — old tomes laid it out — thick — that wilful — skanky shed of man’s high game. Me — I can’t laugh, fam — never pulled it off — tried heaps — it’s pure murder to cop. Or reckon this gut — hate for that freak — show’s my core stamp. Well — I clocked heavier — saw a fig chow a donkey! Still — no chuckle — real talk — lips didn’t twitch. Cry — need hit me so hard my peepers dropped a tear, ye ken.
“Nature! Nature!” I bawled — sobbin’ — “hawk rips sparrow — fig munches donkey — tapeworm guts man!”
Ain’t settlin’ to dig deeper — wonderin’ if I spit how you off flies. Yeah — didn’t I? Still — truth holds — ain’t touched toppin’ rhinos! If some mates swear I did — I ain’t hearin’ — clockin’ props and sweet — talk as twin trip — ups, mate. Still — to square my head best I can — gotta flag — this rhino rant’d drag me past chill and cool — prolly (balls to say sure) turn off today’s crews, reckon. Skippin’ rhino after fly! Least — decent dodge — should’ve quick — spit (and didn’t!) that slip wasn’t planned — won’t shock cats who’ve deep — dug the real — wild — ass clashes crashin’ man’s brain lobes, bruv.
Nothin’s too low for a big — simple head — smallest nature — tick — if it’s got mystery — turns endless grind for the sharp cat. Some cat clocks a donkey eat a fig — or fig eat a donkey (ain’t poppin’ daily — ‘less it’s verse) — bet — after two — three ticks ponderin’ what’s next — they ditch the good path and cackle like a rooster! Still — ain’t solid they crack they beak to ape man and pull a twisty grimace — I tag it grimace in birds like cats, ye ken! Rooster sticks its lane — less can’t — more pride — school ‘em to read — they flip. Ain’t no parrot — swoonin’ over its weak — ass — unforgivable flaw! Oh — rank — ass shame — laughin’ makes you goat — vibe! Brow’s peace jets — two fat fish — eyes pop (ain’t it a pure greet?) … glowin’ like damn beacons!
Plenty times I’ll drop — all grand — the daftest claims… ain’t seein’ that as cause to gape wide, fam! You’ll hit — can’t stop laughin’ — I’ll take that daft cop — but make it a sad — ass cackle then. Laugh — but bawl too. Can’t weep eyes — weep mouth. That flops — piss — warnin’ tho — need some wet to cut that dry — ass edge laughin’ cracks back. Me — I ain’t fazed by them quirky clucks and odd roars from cats always nit — pickin’ a vibe not matchin’ theirs — it bein’ one of God’s endless head — flips — no strayin’ from the first cut — to steer bone — rigs, mate.
‘Til now — poetry’s been on a dodgy track — sky — high or dirt — low — missin’ its roots — catchin’ fair shade from straight cats. Ain’t been humble — flyest trait for a broke — ass bein’! Me — I’m flexin’ my shine — ain’t sly enough to stash my dirt tho! Laugh — bad — pride — wild — gonna pop — one by one — ‘mid soft — vibes and justice — love — mirrorin’ man’s shook — ass daze — each cat’ll clock they self — not how they should roll — but how they do. Maybe this plain — ass dream — my head cooked — still tops all poetry’s big — holy grabs so far, reckon. If I let my dirt bleed these sheets — cats’ll vibe harder the good I blaze here — halo jacked so high — future sharp — heads’ll owe me real props, bruv. So — fake — ass mask’s booted square from my spot — my jams’ll pack raw juice — spittin’ on set views like this. He spits for him — not his crew — weighs his flow on no man — scale — free as a storm — washed up one day on his dread — ass will’s wild shores! Ain’t shook but of himself! In his next — level scraps — he’ll hit man and Creator with edge — like a swordfish shankin’ a whale’s gut — curse him — his spawn — my gaunt grip — if he still don’t clock laugh’s hard — arse roos and cartoon’s bold lice, ye ken!
Two fat towers clocked in the valley — spit that at the jump. Double ‘em — four’s the count… but I ain’t clockin’ why that math’s gotta roll — kept trekkin’ — fever flushin’ my mug — yellin’ non — stop:
“Nah… nah… ain’t clockin’ why that math’s gotta roll!”
Heard chains clank — hurt moans — no cat passin’ that spot reckon it’s cool to double them towers for four, mate! Some suss I love man — kind like its own ma — carried it nine months in my sweet — ass gut — that’s why I ain’t doublin’ back to that valley where them two units stack, fam!
Drop 3
Man, a gallows juts up from the dirt — ‘bout a meter off — cat’s danglin’ by his locks — arms roped back tight, fam. Legs left loose — crankin’ his hurt — makin’ him crave anythin’ but that arm — lock skank, pure gallus twist. Skin on his brow stretched so tight from the drop — his mug — stuck with no vibe — lookin’ like some stalactite rock — hard crust, bruv. Three days he’s been takin’ this grind — screamin’:
“Who’s cuttin’ my arms free? Who’s snippin’ my hair? I’m twistin’ — pullin’ my scalp roots further off — thirst and hunger ain’t the big hit keepin’ me woke, ye ken. Ain’t no way my ticker drags past an hour’s edge — some cat slit my throat with a sharp — ass rock!”
Every word’s got mad yells front and back — I bolt from the bush I’m ducked behind — rushin’ that puppet — slab o’ meat strung ceiling — high. Then — bam — two pissed — up chicks roll in dancin’ from the flip side, mate. One’s clutchin’ a sack — two lead — whip nasties — other’s got a tar barrel and a couple brushes. Old hag’s gray hair flappin’ in the wind — shredded sail vibes — young’un’s ankles clackin’ like a tuna tail smackin’ a ship deck, pure mental. They peepers blazin’ — black and fierce — ain’t buyin’ these two’s my breed at first. They cackle — selfish as fuck — mugs oozin’ rank shade — no doubt in my head I’m clockin’ the two nastiest cats of the pack, reckon. I dip back bush — side — holdin’ still as that acantophorus serraticornis — just head pokin’ nest — out.
They closin’ in — tide — quick — ear to dirt — I catch they march hittin’ sharp — ass beats, bruv. When them orangutan chicks hit the gallows — they sniff air a few ticks — they wild — blood moves spillin’ pure shook — seein’ nothin’s flipped here — death’s end — they wish — ain’t dropped yet. Ain’t even tiltin’ they domes to peep if the meat’s still posted. One spits:
“Still breathin’, fam? You got a tough hide — my sweet man.”
Like cathedral chanters tradin’ psalm bars — second hits:
“No dyin’ yet — my fine lad? Spill how you (prolly some hex) spooked them vultures off — your frame’s pure skinnymalinky now! Breeze swingin’ it like a lamp, ye ken.”
Each grabs a brush — tars the hanged cat’s frame — each snags a whip — arms up. I’m clockin’ (no dodgin’ this vibe) how them metal strips — ‘stead o’ skippin’ off like some glaikit scrap with a bredda — dig deep — tar stickin’ ‘em — rippin’ flesh with cuts hollow as them bones let, pure staunch. Held off vibin’ thrill in this wild — ass show — less funny — deep than you’d reckon. Still — ‘spite my solid plan — how you not rate them chicks’ juice — arm sinew bangin’? They knack hittin’ soft spots — mug and guts — only spillin’ if I’m chasin’ full — on truth, mate! ‘Less I mash my lips — side — tight (every cat clocks that’s the usual squeeze) — I’d rather choke a tear — fat hush — mysteries bustin’ — too weak to stash — not just good as my spit — better (ain’t off, tho don’t front — gotta cop slip — chances or you’re missin’ basic smarts) — them grim hits from fury flexin’ dry knuckles — tough joints — even sidin’ off the cool — eye watcher or old — head moralist (near big I ain’t full — on buyin’ that shaky line) — doubt ain’t rootin’ here — ain’t handin’ it to some sky — boss yet — it’d flop — maybe not quick — no juice fit for feedin’ and clean o’ poison, ye ken.
Get this — or skip me — I’m just rollin’ my shy — ass take — ain’t ditchin’ rights you can’t argue tho! Sure — ain’t tryna scrap this claim — glowin’ with dead — cert — there’s a slicker way to link: boils down — few bars worth stacks — don’t beef — trickier to pull than most cats reckon, bruv. Beef’s the word — grammar — style — plenty’d say don’t buck what I dropped ‘less you got a fat proof — stack — but it’s a whole ‘nother game if your gut’s rare smarts back your cool — spittin’ calls that’d look — trust me — bold — ass close to braggin’ otherwise, mate.
To cap this sidestep — peeled its shell with a light — ass vibe — grim as it’s grippin’ (no cat missin’ that — if they dug they fresh recall) — it’s sharp — if your head’s balancin’ true — or better — if daft don’t tip too heavy ‘gainst reason’s fly — grand traits — sayin’ — to clear it (been tight — some won’t vibe — gripin’ my lengths — ghost vibes since they hunt truth’s quick — ass flashes with word — knives to they last dens) — if smarts outweigh dirt — half — choked by grind — nature — schoolin’ — it’s sharp — sayin’ twice — last time (yammer too much — you’re fucked hearin’ — ain’t wrong) — slink back — tail low (if I even got one) — to this drop’s heavy core, reckon.
Good to sip water ‘fore hittin’ my next grind — rather knock back two than skip, fam. Like chasin’ a runaway bredda through bush — set tick — each cat slings they piece on vines — link in a thicket’s shade — wet throats — kill hunger — but halt’s a blink — chase kicks back fierce — kill — cry rings quick, bruv. Like oxygen’s clocked — no flex — relightin’ a match with a few hot specks — my duty shines in rushin’ back to the point, ye ken.
When them chicks clocked they can’t grip them whips — wear droppin’ ‘em — they smart — capped that two — hour whip — dance — peeled out with glee packin’ future shade. I roll to that cat hollerin’ help — ice — eye stare (blood’s gushin’ so wild — weak’s shut his yap — ain’t no doc but reckon bleedin’ hit face and guts) — snip his locks with scissors — free his arms. He spits — his ma called him to her room one night — told him strip for a bed — share — no waitin’ reply — she peeled all gear — flexin’ rank moves ‘fore him — he bounced. Plus — keepin’ sayin’ nah — pissed his chick — dreamin’ payoff if she’d nudge her man to loan his frame to the old hag’s heat — they plot — sling him on a gallows — rigged early in some dead spot — let him waste slow — bare to all dirt and risk. Took mad — deep — knotty chats — near — unbeatable snags — to pick this slick grind — only cut by my shock — ass save. Fat props lit every word — givin’ his tale no small juice, mate.
I haul him to the closest shack — he’s out cold — ain’t ditchin’ them field — cats ‘til I drop my coin for his fix — make ‘em swear they’ll vibe him like they own lad with steady heart. My turn — spit the tale — hit the door to step trail — but hundo meters out — bounce back — gut — pull — roll in again — yell at them straight — up owners:
“Nah — nah — don’t reckon that shocks me!”
This time — I’m gone for real — but my soles ain’t plantin’ solid — ‘nother cat might’ve blanked it, bruv! Wolf ain’t skulkin’ ‘round that gallows no more — raised one spring day by a chick and ma’s locked hands — like when it tricked his hyped — up head toward a fake feast, ye ken. Clocks that black hair swingin’ wind — wise on the skyline — ain’t pushin’ his chill — ass drag — bolts with mad — ass speed, reckon! We seein’ some next — level head — game in that — sharper than beast — gut usual? Ain’t swearin’ or guessin’ — feels like that critter clocked what crime’s ‘bout, mate! How’s it not — when cats — flesh — ‘n’ — blood — ditched reason’s throne this far — wild — leavin’ just raw payback where that queen got smashed, fam!
Drop 4
Man, I’m rank — lice chewin’ me up, fam. Pigs clock me and spew — pure skank vibes. Leprosy crusts and sores peeled my skin — oozin’ yellow muck. Ain’t met river water or cloud dew, bruv. On my neck — like some dung — pile — a fat — ass mushroom’s sproutin’ — umbrella — stalk style. Posted on some busted — up seat — ain’t twitched my limbs in four fuckin’ centuries, ye ken. Feet rooted dirt — deep — twistin’ up to my gut — some live — ass weed — crawlin’ with nasty bugs — ain’t plant yet — ain’t flesh no more. Still — my ticker’s thumpin’. How’s it kickin’ tho — if my rot — stinkin’ corpse (can’t call it a body) ain’t feedin’ it fat? Left pit’s got a toad crew crashin’ — one twitches — tickles me daft, mate. Watch out one don’t slip — scrape your ear — hole with its gob — could crawl your brain next. Right pit — chameleon’s on a non — stop hunt — keepin’ hunger off — every cat’s gotta eat, reckon. When one side clocks the other’s play — they drop shame — suck that soft fat off my ribs — I’m used to it, aye.
Some mean — ass snake chowed my dick — took its spot — that filth made me a cut — cock. Oh — if I could’ve swung back with these dead — ass arms — reckon they’re logs now tho. Anyhow — clock this — blood ain’t warm in ‘em no more. Two lil’ hedgehogs — stunted — tossed my ball — guts to a mutt — didn’t say nah — scrubbed the skin clean — bunked inside. Crab nabbed my arse — ridin’ my still — vibe — guards the gate with claws — hurts me heaps, bruv! Two jellyfish crossed seas — hyped on a hunch that didn’t flop — scoped them meaty cheeks on man’s back — latched they curve — smashed ‘em so hard — steady grip — both chunks ghosted — left two slime — realm freaks — matchin’ shade — shape — wild — ass bite, ye ken.
Don’t chat my spine — it’s a blade, mate. Aye — aye — wasn’t clockin’ — your ask’s fair. Wanna know — yeah — how it’s jammed straight in my loins? Ain’t clear in my head — but if I roll a dream as memory — get this: cat — hearin’ I swore to grind with sickness and no — move ‘til I smashed the Creator — crept behind — tiptoe — not sly enough — I clocked him. Nothin’ hit me — quick tick — then that sharp — ass shank sank hilt — deep ‘tween this party — bull’s shoulders — frame shook — quake — style. Blade’s glued so tight to flesh — no cat’s yanked it yet — muscle — heads — gear — cats — deep — thinkers — docs — tried all tricks — didn’t clock man’s dirt don’t peel back, reckon! Forgave they thick — ass blank — waved ‘em off with my lid — flicks, bruv.
Road — cat — you roll past — don’t drop — I’m beggin’ — one soft word — you’d fuck my grit. Let me heat my tough — ass core in this self — chose martyr flame, fam. Bounce — don’t let pity spark for me. Hate’s wilder than you reckon — moves all fucked — like a stick snapped in water vibes. How you clock me — I can still trek sky — walls — leadin’ a kill — crew legion — slump back here — vibe vengeance’s big plays again, mate. Peace — ain’t holdin’ you more — for your head and guard — chew on the grim fate that flipped me rebel — tho maybe I came out good, ye ken!
You’ll spit to your lad what you peeped — grab his mitt — flex them stars’ shine — universe’s dope — robin’s crib — Big Man’s spots. You’ll be shook — him takin’ pa’s words so chill — hit him with a grin — props. But when he reckons no one’s scopin’ — flick your peepers — catch him spittin’ venom on good — vibe — fooled you — that man — spawn — won’t trick again — now you’ll clock what he’ll turn, bruv. Poor — ass pa — rig up for your old — walk a gallows that don’t fade — choppin’ a young crook’s dome — grief guidin’ you tomb — way, reckon.
Drop 5
Man, what shadow’s scratchin’ — pure mad — ass juice — that shriveled — up ghost — vibe on my room’s wall, fam? When I slam this wild — ass, hush — vibe question on my chest — ain’t ‘bout the shape’s big — ness — more the real — deal pic — keepin’ my spit tight — nuff, bruv. Who you be — guard up — I’m slingin’ a grim — ass charge your way: them peepers ain’t yours — where’d you nab ‘em, mate? One day — blond chick rolls past — hers match yours — you ripped ‘em clean out, ye ken. Clock you tryna flex beauty — ain’t foolin’ no cat — me least — spillin’ this so you don’t peg me glaikit. Whole squad o’ flesh — hawks — lovin’ man — meat — backin’ the chase’s worth — fly as skeletons strippin’ Arkansas corn — buzz ‘round your brow like tame — ass hands. But that a brow? Hard to buy without mad doubt — so low — proof’s skint — can’t square its shady — ass bein’. Ain’t jokin’ here — maybe you got no brow — flexin’ on that wall — like some half — baked dance — sign — fever — shake o’ them back — bones, reckon.
Who scalped you then, fam? If it’s a cat — locked twenty years in your cage — bust out for payback fit to match — they did right — big up ‘em — only — hitch — not harsh enough, bruv. Now you vibe like a nabbed Redskin — least (clock this first) by that hair — blank look. Not sayin’ it won’t sprout — head — cats clocked even ripped — out brains creep back in beasts over time — but my head’s stuck — just peepin’ — ain’t bare o’ mad thrill from what I catch — ain’t stretchin’ — even wildest — to wish you fixed — stays rooted — dodgy — ass chill at play — scopin’ (or wantin’) — like a sign o’ worse dirt — what’s for you just a quick skin — top dip, mate. Hope you clock me, ye ken.
Even if luck — some daft — ass miracle — not always mad tho — lets you snag back that precious hide your foe’s nun — tight watch holds — victory’s buzz — near damn likely — even if odds — law’s just math (we know it flips easy to other head — games) — your fair — but over — hyped shook o’ catchin’ cold — part or full — wouldn’t duck that rare — ass — one — shot — poppin’ so slick — tho sharp — to shield your brain — bits from winter’s bite with a lid that’s yours — legit — natural too — you’d roll free (mad to front) — keep it glued on — no risk o’ pissin’ off basic — ass manners, reckon.
Ain’t it real you’re earin’ me sharp, bruv? Lean harder — your gloom ain’t shiftin’ from them red — ass nose — holes. But I’m straight — ain’t hatin’ you like I should (call me out if I’m off) — you clock my chat — can’t help it — some top — vibe pullin’ you. Ain’t as rank as you — that’s why your juice bows to mine — no cap — I ain’t that rank! You flicked a look at that city stacked on the mountain’s side — now what I clock? Every cat’s ghosted! Got pride like any bredda — maybe extra — that’s a dirt — mark too. Aight — ear this — ear it — if a cat spillin’ — half — century as a shark in Africa’s deep flows — grips you enough to catch your peep — not bitter — least not skippin’ the sin o’ flashin’ the skank I spark, mate.
Ain’t droppin’ virtue’s mask at your kicks to bare me raw — never rocked it (if that’s a dodge) — and from jump — you scope my mug close — you’ll clock me your loyal dirt — disciple — not your grim — ass foe, fam. Ain’t snatchin’ evil’s crown — doubt ‘nother cat will — gotta match me first — no walk — up, ye ken. Ear this — ‘less you’re some weak — ass fog — hidin’ your frame somewhere — can’t find it: one morn — lil’ chick leanin’ over a lake — pluckin’ a pink lotus — steadies her step — kid — sharp — bends to water — her peepers hit mine (real talk — I set that play). Quick — she reels — tide — swirl ‘round a rock — legs buckle — and — pure braw sight — real as me chattin’ you — she drops lake — deep — weird kick — no more flower — pickin’. What’s she doin’ down there? Ain’t checked — reckon her will — flyin’ freedom’s flag — scrappin’ rot fierce, bruv!
But you — my gaffer — one glare — you wipe city crews like ants mashed under an elephant’s stomp — didn’t I just clock proof? Peep — mountain’s joy’s ghosted — stands lone like an old — head, mate. True — cribs hold — but ain’t no twist whisperin’ you can’t say same for them cats gone — fumes o’ stiffs hittin’ me already — you not smellin’ ‘em? Scope them flesh — birds — waitin’ us to bounce ‘fore that fat — ass feast — endless cloud rollin’ from horizon’s four cuts, reckon. Fuck — they’d been ‘round — saw they greedy wings carve spiral — vibes over you — pushin’ your dirt — rush, ye ken. Your nose ain’t catchin’ a whiff? Fraud’s you — pure — sniff — nerves finally shook by them scent — bits — risin’ from that smashed city — tho I ain’t gotta school you, fam.
Wanna kiss your kicks — arms just clutchin’ thin — ass mist tho. Let’s hunt that sly frame my peepers still clock — deserves my fullest — real props from me, bruv. Ghost’s clownin’ — helpin’ me scope its own flesh — I wave it stay put — it flips me same — secret’s cracked — but — straight — ain’t hyped ‘bout it, mate. All’s clear — big — lil’ — lil’ bits bore draggin’ up — like nabbin’ that blond chick’s eyes — near nothin’! Didn’t I clock I’d been scalped too — tho just five years (exact count slipped me) — locked a cat in a cage to watch his hurt — ‘cause he — fair — shut down a bond too rank for my kind? Since I play dumb — my glare can off even planets spinnin’ space — ain’t wrong who’d spit my memory’s ghosted — all left’s smashin’ this mirror to bits with a rock — ain’t first time memory’s quick — ass blank pitched camp in my head — optics’ hard rules blindin’ me to my own mug, reckon!
Drop 6
Man, I crashed out on the cliff, fam. Cat chasin’ an ostrich ‘cross the desert all day — no catch — ain’t got ticks for grub or shut — eye, bruv. If that’s who’s scopin’ me — he might clock — rough — ass guess — what sleep slammed me down, ye ken. But when a storm smacks a ship straight to sea — bed with its fist — raft’s got one cat left from the squad — beat by every grind and lack — waves tossin’ him like junk for hours past a man’s stretch — then a frigate — cruisin’ them bleak — ass wastes later with a cracked hull — clocks the poor sod draggin’ his skinnymalinky frame ‘cross the ocean — pulls him up damn near too late — reckon that washed — up bredda’d peg how deep my senses tanked, mate. Magnetism and chloroform — when they flex — can cook up this knocked — out daze shit — ain’t like death tho — spittin’ that’d be pure glaikit lies.
But let’s jump to the dream quick — ‘fore them antsy cats — starvin’ for this vibe — start roarin’ like a crew o’ big — head whales scrappin’ over a knocked — up chick, fam. Dreamt I slipped in a hog’s skin — gettin’ out ain’t easy — wallowin’ my bristles in the rankest swamp — muck, bruv. Was that props? My wish — bang — I’m out man — kind’s squad! Took it that way — felt a joy deeper than deep, ye ken. Still — I’m diggin’ hard — what good — ass move I pulled to cop this rare nod from Providence, reckon.
Now I’ve rewound them phases o’ that grim — ass flatt’nin’ ‘gainst granite’s gut — tide crashin’ twice over this tough — mix o’ dead shit and live meat — me not clockin’ — mightn’t be whack to spit this drop was prolly just a slap — down from sky — justice, mate. But who knows they own dark — ass wants or what sparks them stank thrills? That switch — up never hit my peepers as less than the loud — ass, fly echo o’ pure bliss I’d been waitin’ on — day finally rolled — I’m a hog! Testin’ my teeth on tree — bark — scopin’ my snout with pure glee — not a crumb o’ god — vibe left — I jacked my soul to the wild — ass peak o’ that untouchable buzz, bruv.
So clock me — don’t blush — you endless skanks o’ beauty — takin’ your soul’s daft brayin’ all serious — rank — ass kings — not clockin’ why the Big Man — in a rare fit o’ top — notch clownin’ that don’t bust grotesque’s big rules — took a mad — ass kick one day stuffin’ a planet with tiny — weird cats tagged humans — they flesh like red coral vibes, fam. Sure — you got cause to flush — bone and grease — but ear me out. Ain’t callin’ your smarts — they’d spew blood at the dread you kick — ditch ‘em — stay real with your own, ye ken.
There — no chains. Wanna kill — I killed — hit that plenty — even — no cat stopped me, bruv. Man — laws still hunted me with they payback — tho I ain’t hittin’ the crew I ditched so chill — my head ain’t throwin’ shade tho. Daytime — I’m scrappin’ my new kin — dirt’s thick with clotted blood — layers — I’m the hardest — nabbin’ every win, mate. Stingin’ cuts laced my frame — playin’ like I don’t clock ‘em. Land beasts peeled from me — I’m solo in my blazin’ shine, reckon.
What shook me — after swimmin’ a river to jet them spots my rage emptied — hit fresh turf to seed my kill — and — wreck ways — tried steppin’ on that flower — deck bank, fam. Feet froze — no twitch spillin’ that forced — still truth — mid mad — ass pushes to roll on — that’s when I snapped up — felt me flip man again, bruv. Providence hittin’ me straight — not wild to catch — it ain’t lettin’ my fly — ass plans pop — even dreams, ye ken. Slippin’ back to my old skin cut me so raw — nights — I’m still bawlin’ — sheets soaked — like dunked in water — swap ‘em daily, mate. Doubt it? Roll through — peep it your own — not just vibes — stone — cold truth o’ my spit, reckon.
How many ticks since that star — lit cliff — night I’ve mixed with hog crews — tryna nab back — like my right — that smashed switch — up, fam! Time to ditch them proud — ass flashbacks — leavin’ just the pale — ass Milky Way o’ forever — regrets, bruv.
Drop 7
Man, ain’t out the realm to clock some wild — ass kink in nature’s hush — hush or loud — ass rules, fam. Real talk — if any cat puts in the sharp graft to sift they life’s beats — no skippin’, ‘cause that one you dodge might be the juice I’m spillin’ — they’ll clock, with a jolt that’d be pure gallus giggles elsewhere, how one day — talkin’ straight — up shit first — they peeped somethin’ off the chain, bustin’ past what eyes and grind teach — like them toad rains, bruv, them freaky drops must’ve had the brain — cats shook at jump. Then — next and last — day two — talkin’ head — shit — they soul laid bare for mind — diggers to scope — ain’t sayin’ a full — on reason — flip (tho that’d be mad — ass curious — more so even) — but least — not tryna flex hard for them cold cats who’d never let my wild — ass rants slide — some odd — vibe state, heavy plenty times, showin’ good — sense’s leash on dreamin’ snaps — ‘spite that quick — deal truce ‘tween ‘em — under will’s fierce shove — or — more — its no — show juice. Back it with cases — easy to weigh if you roll with chill — ass care, ye ken. Droppin’ two: rage’s blow — outs and pride’s rot — fits, reckon.
Warnin’ my reader — watch you don’t cook some hazy — ass — worse — wrong — take on the lit — gems I’m strippin’ in my quick — ass line — rush, mate. Man — I’d kill to roll my chats and match — ups slow and fly as fuck (who’s got the ticks tho?) — so every cat clocks more — not my dread — least my shook — ass awe — when one summer eve — sun lookin’ like it’s droppin’ horizon — side — I clocked a cat swimmin’ sea — top — big — ass duck paddles where arms and legs should be — rockin’ a dorsal fin — long and sleek like a dolphin’s — muscles stacked — and fish squads (spied in that crew — torpedo — Greenland shark — nasty — ass scorpion — fish) tailin’ him with loud — ass props, bruv.
Sometimes he’d dip — slimy frame poppin’ back — tick — two hundo meters off, fam. Porpoises — no cap — dope swimmers my call — barely keepin’ pace with this new — breed water — cat from way back, ye ken. Ain’t reckonin’ you’d rue givin’ my spit — not some daft — ass blind — trust snag — but the top — shelf gift o’ deep faith that scopes them rare — ass poetic riddles — too few you’d say — I’m unpackin’ when chances hit — like now — soaked in them sharp — ass water — plant whiffs the coolin’ breeze hauls this drop — packin’ a freak rockin’ webbed — clan tags, mate.
Who’s chattin’ nabbin’ here? Clock this — man’s tangled — ass nature ain’t blind to stretchin’ its turf — water — livin’ like a seahorse — sky — cuttin’ like an osprey — dirt — diggin’ like a mole — woodlouse — worm’s fly — ass thread, bruv. That’s — tight or loose (more tight) — the straight — up yardstick o’ the big — ass balm I’m tryna spark in my head — clockin’ that cat paddlin’ all four — wave — top — outshinin’ the slickest cormorant — maybe nabbin’ them new limb — ends as a pay — back lick for some dark dirt, reckon.
Ain’t need to twist my dome cookin’ pity’s grim — ass pills early — didn’t clock that cat — arms smackin’ bitter tide — legs with narwhal — spiral juice pushin’ water back — ain’t snatched them wild shapes willing — nor got ‘em slapped as a grind, ye ken. Later — copped the straight dope: long — haul in that wet world slow — flipped that self — ditched cat from rock — lands — big shifts — not core tho — I’d peeped — hazy — ass first take peggin’ him — wild — ass slip breedin’ that sharp pang head — diggers and chill — cats clock — for some odd fish — uncharted by nature — cats — maybe in they dead — man scribbles — tho ain’t leanin’ hard on that shaky — ass guess, mate.
Real — this water — freak (amphibian he is — can’t buck that) — me — only — eyes — fish and whales ‘side, fam — ‘cause I clocked some field — cats stop — scope my mug — shook by this next — level shit — tryna figure why my peepers locked — tough — ass grip that ain’t real — tough — on a sea — patch they just saw fat — ass fish — crews — mouths gapin’ grand — maybe whale — wide, bruv.
“Made ‘em grin — not bleach like me — they spit in they raw — ass tongue — ain’t daft enough to miss I’m not clockin’ fish — flips — my sight’s way past, ye ken.”
So — me — flickin’ eyes to them big — ass gobs — I’m thinkin’ — ‘less the whole game’s got a pelican — mountain — fat — or least a cliff — edge (clock that sly — ass trim — no inch lost, mate) — no raptor beak or beast jaw’s toppin’ — or matchin’ — them grim — ass pits, reckon. Still — savin’ a fat chunk for metaphor’s cool — ass craft (that trick lifts man’s infinite grab more than bias — soaked or off — vibe cats figure — same shit) — them peasants’ laugh — holes still wide — ass enough to gulp three whales — nah — trim tighter — stay straight — settle for three fresh — pop elephants, bruv.
One swing — amphibian’s leavin’ a kilo o’ frothy wake, fam. That quick tick — arm stretched — hangin’ air ‘fore divin’ — webbed — up fingers spread — lookin’ like they’re snatchin’ sky — stars, ye ken. Posted rock — top — I cup my mitts — loud — hailer — yell while crabs and crawlers jet to dark — ass cracks:
“O you — swim outflyin’ frigate’s long wings — if you still catch them big — ass shouts man’s flingin’ as straight — up echoes o’ his deep — head — spare a tick in your quick — ass roll — spit your tale’s true beats short, mate. But heads — up — no need to chat if your wild — ass plan’s sparkin’ me that mate — vibe and props I clocked first peep — you glidin’ — shark — slick and tough — on your straight — ass — no — quit trek, bruv.”
A sigh — bone — chillin’ — shook the rock my soles gripped (or me wobblin’ — them sound — waves haulin’ that grim — ass wail to my ear) rang earth — deep — fish dived under waves — avalanche — roar, fam. Amphibian ain’t darin’ too close shore — side — but once he’s sure his spit hits my drum clear — slows them webbed limbs — props his seaweed — draped chest over roarin’ swells, reckon. Saw him dip his brow — like callin’ — grave — style — that stray memory — pack — ain’t breakin’ that pure — ass dig — past — vibe — he’s reef — solid, mate. Finally — spits:
“Centipede ain’t short o’ foes — wild — ass shine o’ its leg — swarm — ‘stead o’ pullin’ beast — love — might just kick they jealous heat, ye ken. Wouldn’t blink hearin’ that bug’s catchin’ top — tier hate — I’m hidin’ my birth — spot — don’t weigh my spit — but fam shame hits my duty hard, bruv. Pa and ma (God cut ‘em slack!) — year waitin’ — sky drops they wish — twins — me and my bro — light — bound — more cause to link tight — ain’t how it rolled tho I’m spillin’. ‘Cause I’m the fly — ass — sharp one — bro loathed me — no maskin’ that dirt — so pa and ma slung most love my way — me tryna cool his soul with real — steady mate — vibes — no right buckin’ same — flesh kin, fam. Then bro’s rage lost all leash — fucked me in our folks’ hearts with wild — ass lies — fifteen years — cell — locked — larvae and muck — water my grub — ain’t spillin’ every twist o’ that long — ass — wrong cage grind, mate. Some ticks — one o’ three hittin’ — turn — style — busts in — packin’ pincers — tongs — torture — gear — my yells ain’t swayin’ ‘em — blood gushin’ got ‘em grinnin’. O bro — I let you slide — root o’ all my dirt! Blind — ass fury can’t peep itself? Clocked heaps in that forever — cell — guess my hate swelled ‘gainst man — kind — wastin’ slow — body — soul lone — ain’t lost all head yet to hold beef for them I kept lovin’ — triple — ass chain I slaved, reckon. Snagged freedom by slick — ass play — sick o’ land — cats callin’ ‘em kin — tho they ain’t vibed me none (if they clocked me same — why fuck me?) — bolted beach — stones — set to off me if sea’s throwin’ back old — life ghosts — you buyin’ your own peepers? Since ditchin’ pa’s crib — ain’t moanin’ sea — life and crystal caves like you’d reckon — Providence — peep this — hooked me swan — style part — way — livin’ chill with fish — they fetch my grub like I’m they king, bruv. I’ll whistle — sharp — if it ain’t twistin’ you — watch ‘em swarm back, mate.”
Went like he spat — back to king — ass swimmin’ — squad ringin’ him — tho he ghosted my peepers in ticks — spyglass tracked him horizon — edge — one mitt paddlin’ — other wipin’ blood — shot eyes — strain o’ nearin’ dry turf hit hard — did it for me, fam. Flung that truth — lens ‘gainst the drop — bounced rock to rock — waves nabbed its bits — last flex — big — ass peace — out — bowin’ dream — style to a fly — broke mind! Still — all that summer eve shit was real, ye ken.
Drop 8
Man, every night — wings deep in my dyin’ head — I’m pullin’ up Falmer’s ghost, fam — every damn night, bruv. Them blond locks — oval mug — king — vibe features still glued in my brain — solid as fuck — ‘specially them blond locks, ye ken. Bounce — bounce that bald — ass dome — slick like a turtle shell, mate. He’s fourteen — me just a year up — hush that grim — ass yap. Why’s it snitchin’ me out? But it’s me spittin’ — usin’ my own tongue to drop my thoughts — clock my lips twitchin’ — it’s me talkin’, reckon. Me — spillin’ a young — days tale — guilt stabbin’ my chest — me — ‘less I’m off — me talkin’, fam.
Just a year up, bruv. Who’s this I’m hittin’ at? Homie I had back in the day — think so, aye. Yeah — yeah — dropped his tag already — ain’t spellin’ them six letters again — nah — nah. No need repeatin’ I’m a year up neither — who’s clockin’? Still — whisper it rough — just a year up, ye ken. Even then — my muscle — edge ain’t for smashin’ a weaker cat — more holdin’ him up life’s gnarly track — him who rolled with me — not fuckin’ over some frail — ass soul, mate. Think he was weaker — real talk — even then — homie from back, reckon.
My muscle — edge — every night — ‘specially them blond locks, fam. Plenty cats clocked bald domes — old — age — sickness — hurt (all three or solo) square that blank — ass glitch clean — least that’s what a brain — cat’d spit if I hit him up, bruv. Old — age — sickness — hurt — but me — I ain’t blind (brain — cat too) — one day he grabs my hand — me liftin’ my blade to shank a chick’s chest — I snatch his locks with an iron grip — spin him air — fast — hair sticks in my fist — body flies — centrifugal kick — smashes an oak trunk, ye ken. Ain’t blind — that day his locks stayed mine — me — brain — cat too — yeah — yeah — dropped his tag — ain’t blind — pulled a rank — ass move while his frame shot out — fourteen, mate.
When I’m losin’ it — dashin’ fields — clutchin’ this bloody — ass relic tight to my chest — kept long like some holy — ass charm — kids and old hags chasin’ — slingin’ rocks — wailin’ this grim — ass cry:
“There’s Falmer’s locks.”
Bounce — bounce that bald dome — slick like a turtle shell — bloody — ass thing, fam — but it’s me spittin’ — his oval mug — king — vibe lines — think he was weaker — real talk — old hags and kids — think — what’s my spit? — think he was weaker, bruv — iron grip — that crash — did it off him? Bones smashed ‘gainst the tree — fucked for good? That crash — athlete’s juice — kill him? He hang on — bones fucked for good — fucked for good? Crash kill him? Dread knowin’ what my shut peepers missed, ye ken.
Real talk — ‘specially them blond locks — real talk — I jet far — conscience now a cold — ass blade — fourteen — conscience now cold — ass — every night, mate. Young cat — fame — hungry — fifth — floor grind — midnight hush — clocks a rustle — no peg — spins his dome — heavy with deep — ass thoughts and dusty scripts — nothin’ — no snag spillin’ why he’s hearin’ faint — tho he’s hearin’ — finally clocks candle smoke risin’ ceiling — way — nudgin’ air — twitchin’ a pinned sheet on a wall — nail — fifth — floor, reckon.
Like that fame — chaser clocks a rustle — no clue — I clock a sweet — ass voice hittin’ my ear:
“Maldoror!”
But ‘fore he shook that mix — up — thought it’s a skeeter’s wings — desk — hunched — me — ain’t dreamin’ tho — what’s satin sheets matter? Cool — ass note — eyes wide — tho it’s pink — domino — mask — ball hour, bruv — never — nah — never — mortal pipes sang them angel — ass notes — shapin’ my tag with such raw — ass grace, fam! Skeeter’s wings — voice so soft — he let me slide? His frame smashed that oak…
“Maldoror!”