The mixed syringe of love and light
Dip it in candle wax, this is my memory
I can’t quite see right,
And what I can’t see is the emptiness inside
My heart and mind
While Marley sings it will be alright
I’m looking for a light, to torch my bridges
To refuse to listen, to all my critics
To refuse to listen to the lists of what this is
To rebuke the system that we all fall in,
I am a writer and with that I have my freedom
Even in prisons, as long as I have a pen in hand
This is my promised land.
I am the bounty hunter, and first in command
I write with fire and thunder, the man of sand
Slips through the cracks, never programmed
But back in step, and ready to slam.
Bah, Bah go the sheep, the niceties of something bland
Your dinner fork in on the left, slice and cut into that ham
Chew the fat, and spit it back,
Op Ivy Take Warning
Lyrical attack, let the comedians make you laugh
Leave you left in stitches,
Who watches the watchmen?
Wondering what this is?
This is Prometheus
This is Lazarus waking up,
This is fifty cities drenched in blood
This is the love we made,
And the loss we listen to,
This is a fight song, a unite the crowd song
For me and you and that dude.
And for those left in shackled chains
Who can’t seem to get out of their own way
Who doubt themselves in every sense of the word
This is for the fist to the grindstone cat, trying to do good.
This is for the people who sweat sewage
And listen to gutter music
This is for the princess on the freeway,
Driving Mitsubishi
This is for Svenpocalypse, and the shit that he say
This is for all the roaches and rats
In the city of decay
This is for the loner on the mat, pinned 3 times odd
This is for those quick cat lyricists who can’t hold down jobs
But grab the mic like it’s a life system
That unites the crowd, and keeps you thinking
See the word wet
And you think about your garden?
I’m thinking about the girl in the rain who can’t be forgotten
I’m thinking about the Boston accent that purses her lips
Lips that long to be kissed.
That sink out of memory, a chemical abyss
A misfits hit list.
That’s what this is, this is a poetry provider, your PPO
This is for the medicare crowd with no HMO
This is for the medicine in my cabinet,
And in my dresser drawer,
One prescribed to keep the demons intact
The other one to free ‘em, and let ’em go.
Brutal, and feudal, truthful, beautiful
The rhymes I see on the edge of a horizon
Jagged Thought 99, and I’m high again
Flying again, on a double headed dragon
Call me what you want, if you can’t hear me
Close caption.
“It’s Close captain,” shut up
“The icebergs coming”
Hold up, pull the horses away, full speed ahead
Titanic lyricist
With the lyrical swiftness,
You know what this is this is an assault on
All your senses,
Cause I got taste, and I can smell your shit
And hear and feel that your rhymes are ridiculous
So put one up, on the scoreboard
For me, and I guess Poet your next up at bat
And like that I drop the mic
Swing batter swing, you can’t do it like that
You can’t do it like this, poet misfit,
Poetry brat.
Remember me?

I Remember you
I remember the laugh track
When the train runs off the rails
Prepare for the crash
When you play with words
You can get burned
Remember that.

 

Jason Wright is the founder and Editor of Oddball Magazine. His column appears weekly.