Yo! Peace to all radio free Fakiegrinders on all frequencies, in all known dimensions, beset with apprehensions, and secrets too furtive to mention, but keeping it real like a verb in declension. It's hot on the streets, pavement radiating heat, buildings wavering through ethereal sheets, and I'm rocking in the lab to counterfeit beats. But this is the way we deal in the town of steel, with air you can feel on your skin like a seal of disapproval. Tattoo removal: cost an arm and a leg, so pass me the strudel.
It's a rolling revival, curl my lip like Billy Idol, got a friend named Fivel with alliances tribal. I'm talking in jive to the hive, happy to be alive, got rhymes to contrive, an order of fries on the side. Rotating my hand-me-down wheels. This is how homelessness feels, roll me a stone, pass me a bone, guttural groan from the porcelain throne. But I'm no worker drone. Life in the shirker zone. Just a berzerker clone rocking the microphone.
In a trance to make you dance. Tapping keys on the breeze of chance. It's a bitmap romance, smashing up circumstance and disco tracks. Snippets of jigsaw jazz. Crickets spit rivets and chirp in the grass. Put the hear back in your ear, playing digital didgeridoos, sporting Spiderman Underoos. Riding trains keeping my brains in the caboose. It's the summer of no more stuff, wearing my heart on my cuff, flush in the underbrush--enough is enough!
Just rockit like a pocket full of poesy. Lips red and rosy. Girls getting cozy. Clock the record with my bionic eye socket--when the beat's ripe I drop it. Like fresh berries from the garden, gave the slip to the Warden. No longer seeking pardon just because I had a hard onomatopoeia. Verbal diarrhea. 808 made in Korea. Chilling out like Chester Cheetah. Peace! from the west unto the east until all souls shall be released. Rebel art marked with the sparks of the beast, still you know we'll never cease.
3 comments:
This really ought to be made into a record. I don't really like that kind of music but when I hear your words alone the whole thing is a great poem.
Shout out to anonymous1! purring like a cat in the sun, putting the fakie back in fun, clandestine like a runner of rum,
Your ears have likely been spoiled by the gangsta rap braggadocios who have commandeered the airwaves for the past decade.
Never to fear! Fakiegrind will be taking it back to the old school when we get our equiptment together in a basement that doesn't leak.
I must agree with Anonymous 1. It's an epopee of euphonious fun. Except for the invention of a friend named "Fivel". An incredulous pretention; probably libel.
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