I’m gonna breathe into you some second hand rap, sleaze my way into your heart, ease it soft into dreams of evergreen trees and ocean scenes. I’m gonna move – soothe your mood and prove to you the metaphorical groove still exists. Let’s mind-kiss, fists held high, deny them by simply trying not to die. Cry me your sorrows, tomorrow the bone marrow harrows its song too long, but we’ll shine on, hide on cruise liner ship morgues, amidst midlist kinships, technological euphoria with pathological trends or the music scores of romance movies – can you see what we’re doing here?
I’m feeding you second hand rap, the laugh track crapping out, but lacking in acoustics we might use it to ideologically freeze in time, and as I said I’d sleaze into your heart, I’m going to break it apart best I can, start barking up medical charts to muse the ruse that much longer. Stronger and stronger I feed you lyrics, both lover and fear monger. Over yonder grows tulips in flower fields, but yield when I feel out the rose thorns first, devour torn up cloud bursts, echoes of hearses in dirge of searchlight frights.
So when I breathe you some second hand rap, what I trap in your lungs is mere fun in the macabre, not myself a stalker or stabber but grabber of memories – pleasing the self by seeing you relax, basking in word tracks, stacking the odds in your favour, simply: to get what you pay for, stay true to the core, and what’s more? Still breathing deep, but almost out of Vespene gas, masks full of smoke, needed, heed the seed to feed on mineral greed, shining blue crystals enduring missile hits and subliminal grits messages, turnstile cycles of bible ciphers.
I’m gonna spit you out. Eat you up, bang tin cups on bars, conquer yards of spare auto parts, carts full of refried beans, you ghetto, to make you lean and chunky, clunky in athletics but toned, so you can moan of overblown ripped tones long after they disconnect your telephone, as you’re not alone, because I’m in that lack of communication zone, train station blues without a harmonica, a song and sense of bliss, to this or that and keeping tacks on doormats or chairs for unsuspecting fat cats.
I’m kissing you some second hand rap, even acting addicts sometimes agree, it’s a freedom to see some inspiration, on occasion that masonry collapses in instantaneous wind drafts, grafts of skin from liposuction bins to save burn victims within tin and gauze cages, gaged wages of hospital orderlies checking gauges far too low. But the victims know, the blown off lives amidst the slow groans.
So I’m breathing into you some second hand rap. Because even without any laugh track, it’s the act that justifies my means, so congrats, your mind is open – don’t wind up choking on the dust. Ignore the rust, the busts of long dead emperors and the empty torn gore of argument, and thy empty apartment could start it all.
Now breathe it back.
