Saying It

Artists clays framing nay's.

Join around the internet sponge.

Dont get to close, baby

Or your mother will cum in my face.

Trace me into the ray.

I say, nay again to the war,

The whore, the bore,

Intractable heathcare reform and common selfcare.

Artistically arrange my atoms,

In final chaos for time itself is to abandon.

My own future uncertain -- so what,

I stay on this prison at the wardens pleasure.

It intended me into the flaming yes,

The water of life drunk from the skies of Volcano,

Blue in their leavings and cloudly comings.

Fragrant green nothingness of complexity, roam with care.

I’m a stoner, im a boner im a Homer, 

Curtail my ways but then let me randomize her panties.

Sir hungwell does not fancy skanking outside of Kansas.

Ive never been so offended by barroom whores.

I don’t want to keep typing it,

I want to keep saying it.

Five Hundred Days

Five hundred days my love,

Since I knew you.

Five hundred sunsets,

Have I cried for you.

Five hundred mornings,

I have awoken alone

And realized that you are gone

Forever.

After School

Once a wet fog,

Slid around a bent man,

Who picked smelly paper

And cleaned broken toliets

By the sandy shore.

Far, in my warm car,

Of blue dashboard, trinkets and dope,

Through the fog's smear.

It seemed ...

Something frowned.

It Was Known to Be a Morning

It was known to be a morning, 

That was freeing.

The English rain pounded by the fences,

The farms

And the water cups.

Life is cool

Out of the swamp.

Now I sit and wonder

What will be of reading eyes in 100 years?

Obviously, nuclear particles terrify me.

New York City

Feeling the airy fear,

The silence -- ours

From the stoic spring,

City September-less,

Not in the Los Angeles

Of neon-facsist oligopoly orgies,

The denial of desert peasant mysticsm.

No, here she is obese:

New York City.

Town,

Rectangular high,

As high as dope in a Park Avenue Y.

This is the game the dharma cards play,

As they sway through our 3D illogic.

The scholars, the sci-fi's,

And Marxists alike,

Strut in little canyons,

Where matter is dumb, senseless, frigid,

In this city of romantic MTV

Of the techno-empire West.

I'd rather be in the Himalayas or Harlem,

On a midnight trian to now.

Well no, but everything goes

And nothing is 

In this midnight dream of the city.

The Return of Thursday

Yea, it be Thursday

And I be a crushin' whitey's skull

Until it be bleedin'

All da way to Nirvanny.

You aint' no Buddha til' dat white skull be crushed,

You gotta walk on dem honkey brains

Like dey be grapes 

Crushed in France by dem faggot Frenchies,

Who sell dat red wine

To dose pigs at dem powicemen bawls,

You know, doz nigga-hattin' cop dances,

Where dem big-tit white bitches come

And suck dat pig pistol

While the man raises all dat pig doe,

For pensions and shit

By talkin' all nice and purdy to those scared white folk,

Who tink dey been bustin' too much black head.

Shit dey best be scared,

Dose' proud ole' white folk,

Cause now tings is different.

I be Thursday and a crushin' whitey,

For I been a meditatin'

And a glowin'

And now I be a bad-assed black Buddha

Just waitin' to free my people,

Like dat Moses motherfucker off in Egypt done.

Shit dat' Moses,

He be killin' off dem first born,

Turnin' that there Nile river as red as pussy,

man his goofy ole' walkin stick

Turned into a bad-assed snake,

And shit 

He wasn't half as bad as me.

It be Thursday bro!

And dem white motherfuckers are gonna be shittn'

When dey find out dis black-assed little ghetto man,

Be a Buddha an shit.

Now don' you give me any-a-dat non-violence shit!

You dont tink' Thursday be meditatin'

In dat burnt out crackhouse for nuttin?

Shit all dem Buddha folk come to me in visions and shit

And dey let me join up we'd em'

Since I be enlightened

And dey be some rightously mean dudes dem Buddhas.

Non Violence, shit ... what you be talkin' bout?

I seen dat Krishna dude

All glowin' blue and shit, you know,

The cat those skinhead white-ass motherfuckers go a yellin:

Hari Krishna! Hari Krishna!

Like he gives a shit for dem goofy hippy mo-fuckers.

Dey never really seen him like I done,

Ridin' his chariot in doze holy wars,
He and his main man Arjuna kickin' some righteous butt,

I seen all these magic arrows come on outta Arjuna's bow,

An dat Krishna dude throwin' his third eye

Like it be a frisbee,

And dese goofy Indian folk dyin' like flies,

Yellin' and beggin' 

Cause his magic be powerful and shit

And Krishna,

He don't give a listen none!

He be standin' straight and proud on dat' chariot

Like he bout' to go to Sunday church!

Ha, shit, non-violence!

Dem Buddhas dont pay no mind to dat,

when it be dere time to fight.

It be dat time I reckon.

I mean dem white-folk's time for gettin' shit-kicked.

I ain't no fool,

Whitey been on top to long,

An' we been bussin' dere parties too long.

Shit, I know the score.

I know dat time be right.

Dem Buddhas learn me good on time an' space n' shit,

Dey show me all da universes at once,

Shit, my big goofy head be spinnin',

Past, present and future,

All happin' so quick,

Shit I be suprised I don't have a righteous headache,

Just from goin' into dat Nirvikalpa Samadhi,

An' mergin' my goofy Buddha-ass wit everything.

Shit, I see how da worlds be formed

Outta just a glowin' cloud of dreams and shit,

Just waitin' to become manifest.

I see all dat,

And my past lives too.

I saw me doin' some poweful Zen 

Wit dem' slatty-eyes in Japan.

Before dat,

I be up on dose' pyramids with dem' pharoh's,

Dey tink I be a bad-assed mystic motherfucker,

And gimmie' all da women an' gold I want.

Shit, I saw my soul incarnatin' and dyin' everywhere.

I be on some bodacious worlds,

Dimensional planes an' shit,

Frequencies of bad-assed non-existence,

Before dis' here mudder Earth even been born!

Yep ole' Thursday been everywhere and everything,

Ha, I even bin'a honkey-ass motherfucker on dat' island Atlantis,

I aint' no fool born yesterday,

And now I come as Shiva to dance the World away.

Go Now Softly Into Those Stoned Days

Go now softly into those stoned days.

Peal that facade of ever-clear interests,

pentatonic notes of soothing complacency

That rise out of the US money media,

Selling Hitler as peanut butter,

Or the workers as cockroach plague.

Iraq, shit-faced into puppetry,

Who in their bourgeois mind could have gods

As bloody as our blood, white and blue,

Blue like the Midas class that runs the show,

Bored with mansions and wasted sons.

Continue to provide, divide.

Break the workers and the minimum wage.

The scathing sun and the churning sea,

How can they shine on this inebriated kingdom,

Of electronic football religion and beer,

Cloudy as the world outside is brutal.

The sickest technorave is a boot-camp.

Brass and drum on the confused hardtop dancing,

A battlefield of drinks will pour like blood,

Dying herds by the lacquered trough sipping poison,

Softening the masses 

From the love of pure rage.