10 Minute Freestyle

10 Minute Freestyle

Part I: Your Mom

I’m no player or heartbreaker but that doesn’t mean I won’t take out your mother and remake her. In every caper grown, showing layers blown, wagering from the palatial state of our warm zone. Not crowing in this tome but knowing what escapes from her in every moan even while giving me dome. Lingering fingertips, bringing bliss, collecting sweat and clinging at the pads … to rub and bring electric zaps from toe stubs to a neck stretched as she leans back. My hands get bolder, dancing where her neck meets the shoulders as a moan escapes from a full mouth, not pulling out but mulling proud like a full house…   But without doubt there is no holding to what sprouts. So when kundalini heat grows, a scene that flows for miles like the gleam of her smile as she leans forward, a scream of ardor from me where her teeth tore…    but I concur…    for the allure…    of immeasurable pleasure stirred…    for the core of an experience that’s far more…    clearing a range and fearing no stain from being so near…    a reign of pleasure tethered to pain…    By God’s Meat, that’s what your Mom’s Teeth do to a cunning linguist’s Rod Complete!

Rocking this beat, an indiscrete technique geek, peerless when I’m this near my peak! Like a fearless freak’s appearance between black satin sheets! It’s a habit so magical. So I’m erupting at the disrupting upwards lore-gasm. I’m up for ruckus so there’s no bleat like a sheep when I peak…    no early spending it at the burly zenith. No zen master would end it sir! For that matter…     it’s not just patter I’ve mastered. Matching after, blasting habits so magical, riding the rounds back down from the top to the sound …    fingertips still lingering with bliss and this is your mother sir, graphic and actual so those tips are under her clavicles. Keep up with this wish, follow this and when I’m done call your mom ask if she’d like it for sure. I’m working in circles to bless her…     neck so near, to follow a track to the back of her ears. Imagination appears in thought-bubbles we can share, and stroll the whole map when I call like travelling astral. So for this optical reason, it’s your mom’s occopital region that I mob in her massage. Rocking the cooperation of neurology to share all of we, and get ready to spare a reverie, to get ahead of me and bare some harmony. No way to resolve your mom getting robbed from a blowjob. You know that’s not my object. I’m infinite and on to rock like Spock getting honest, a drunken Vulcan!

Rhyme never held back, from a mind-meld track but wily flying for 3 miles on freestyle. Like a wee child on a tricycle mission and a tri-cylinder of Ritalin, not hiding any vision. Inwards trusting, never bluffing, clever gushing, today I’m editing nothing! Head awakens the head, and this one gets baked to create, runs past the red. Others must part with control, lose their soul and be departed but instead? Your sharp as carp-teeth of a partner mom gets it on and her reckless moves and feckless abuse loosens my screws for an entire song like a horny angel delighting in rewriting the Psalms!

So coming back down means preening her some, down kundalini rungs, not demeaning what I sung down to state of vanity… keep up with me, this fate is handled see… zen like water calms but fire turns it on, lending all of me, fingers relaxing the back of her head. Like phrenology! (btw: THAT “Science” should NEVER be!)

Above me for the win, loving being within, ‘cuz every touch spot must pop and blend…   her some, down kundalini rungs, expecting to bless her as sweat runs, following the stream down her back. Fluids groove to a mixture forming new pictures, handling her flesh like a canvas to bless with hands that speak for themselves. At the helm and off the shelf with overwhelming experience dealt. Tines of her ribs sway and give. With every gasp as the heat drops, blood rushes, sheets can hardly mop the gushes, so muscles can find their way to twist away from her spine. Your mom found my palms to knuckle roll, on to chuckle as chakras unfold, pricklish bits of skin, ticklish within, nerves itching from neuron spins…     This pirate rake knows where’s he’s been. So the mileage to stake of following the zooming and gleaming kundalini snake back down as her hips roll and grind and pound?

Oh the swells as she holds back a yell to top the world but the smell of copper rush makes me never want to stop the push. It’s a bolder play when that energy displayed is turned back to stay the track under her shoulder blades. “Mistress twist with me this way. A kiss to each of your ribs, to bless and invite a bite following what lips bid. Oh, the running wisp your tongue’s tip did!”

This scat is true so I tattooed the heat tracks to follow through and quake the forgotten spots to awaken what was popping off in the pulse points behind each of her joints. Cloistered close to express and moisture from every breath brings poise to isolate body parts others forget. Your mother would never expect every inch of flesh to be individually found by the end of that round…      yet such is what unwound by following the wet lines of every drop of sweat as we climbed back up for a second time. Entailing a missive to set sail a wish-list, nails and kisses left a picture on the Mistress.

Early mornings get me squirrelly forming and unfurling is the norm so there’s no concealing a wish to share back the feeling of blasted reeling… and if I can give back the pleasure beyond measure like an empath on a direct-current attach and give a turn to match? Some things just cling and are easy to bring and understand like tantra practiced vast. Every gasp and laugh has shown to last. I’m no player or heartbreaker but that doesn’t mean I won’t take out your mother and remake her. In every caper grown, showing layers blown, wagering from the palatial state of our warm zone.


Part II: Fuck Your Threats

I’m no thug or gangster but that doesn’t mean I won’t pull a Bugs Bunny Wankster move, remove your weapon by the time you’re done threatening! Spank you with your own hand after lining it with glue! Just busting a groove here dude, but I paid my dues so step up and find out if I’m bluffing or true. Cut me up and I’ll slip a rusty paperclip into your nuts. Undone, what’s up? Straighten up the metal and get a headful of quick-twist engineering to turn that clip into the real thing… a ring around a finger with two tips unhiding like a trident. Rust not enough? No fumble, in subtropic jungles I’m never far away from curare. I’ll skip the chemical analysis and just lend you the quick-list consequence: Paralysis!

My crew will do their part, make sure your car won’t start. It’s all logic projects to rock it and mob like Spock getting off as a drunken Vulcan, when imagination has its creation and idle entertainment is hiding realizations of War as Art. So I’m riding the vibration. The lore isn’t hard but the liquid core trips my notions like slipping into an ocean of possibility! Like the explosions of quarks! I’m always moving and using my energy like a shark. Never losing a minute of rest to part.

Like the most credible of predators I flow far better than ring-tone rappers. Clinging to the tomes of crap they blast because those simple traps were paid for….     Magazines see a gleam of artists gnarled and taking a chance on being a boor and slaking the stance someone ELSE entranced them with--   a marionette on the dance floor! So they carry bling and expect THAT to resolve their fray, with no cause celebre for other ears to hear and adore. Gangster, man as cancer scans. Be thankful that’s not my plan. Cutting a rug and hanging disturbed, I roll true. I’m no thug or gangster but that doesn’t mean I won’t pull a Bugs Bunny Wankster move, remove your weapon by the time you’re done threatening, get sore and start pelting you precise and crude like raining acid ice cubes!


Part III: What Drives Me

I’m burning red upstairs and have a head to show, but don’t expect me to rap about Death Row. Unless it’s to show a vision of showing up from a Looney Tunes Hole, pulling you out, not to console…      ahead of the curve, dragging you out to the desert and leaving you!

Not spared but buried there, up to the head in the warming morning air. Just try to catch a breeze. It’ll help carry so’s you hear the laughter trailing after me! Setting you free for a trap like an Apache!

But don’t figure this song wrong. I’m no Native American when I’m spreading my terror son. I’m the original hijo de Santa Ana so I’ll smoke marijuana when I wanna, no conditions for the flaring of my ganja.

And if you wanna’ hassle me over my habits? Here’s a warning for free: We can have at it in a thorny, scorning way like horny rabbits. Go ahead and haggle rabidly and rapidly lose your head to me. Try and trip me up with the 3rd degree. I’m cool under the collar while tying you up, dying to disrupt and leaving you stuck hanging from a tree like a mangled martyr from Sparta In the breeze. Spinning with ease, red drops dripping, sprinkling over a ravenous, scandalous dancing Elizabeth of Bathory! Some frets never slip past me. Fun to bet I’m getting sick and turning it to a habit to spree. Horror isn’t just a seasoning for me:

Pleasing instead of reasoning is pure appeasement. At least in dreams I melt your mind, schisms unwind. I ignore doors; I climb windows, clip the vines. What could’ve grown dies! Every rose that might blind combines, groundward bounding, confounding what’s left of the set my feet pressed. Slip into the palace Pandora confined! I flip off walls with gravity by the balls, bouncing through hallowed halls if I like what I find.

So these crimes of the mind keep unwinding and I can’t discern for naught how to turn them off, ‘cause I’m burning hot. It’s not just rhyming noise. It’s not a crime I can avoid. It’s a dying thyroid. If you’re listening close and spying on my poise, you’ll know like Highlander’s Quickening…     this shit will flip me into the final void. Plucky and free and lucky for me if I have another decade or three: Magic 8 Ball what’s your call for me? Unlikely! But I play my fray into the breeze before Grave’s Disease catches up with me.

Static has riddles hidden and no sense can fit in what magic does for a child’s practical intuition but tactical prisms open up kaleidoscopic vision. Subliminal rhymes and unlimited climbs up heaven’s gate, leaving this world to its fate… not my infinite decision! I’ve got too much to be giving and not enough time to be living!

So a crime of overturning the entire catechism re-envisioned after the splattering schism of the Vatican? I’m fast so I can tell, as well with exposing historical editorialism. Born hungry and nothing’s under me so I’m earning my tourney on this journey by also turning Haliburton’s missions into a cataclysm. A few missions to release the steam, please the beast with my means and by riddled bits of derision be burning away my devil-adored, high levels of T-4 metabolism condition! There’s a start. If I fill my part from the heart my art will never disappoint when I cleverly anoint every map of the idea-seas into one tapestry because a precision point like my subliminal rhyming after one joint …    every pound will have to outlast my rounds, when I’m gone this will be what counts.

Wily I stand, turning in smoke like the library of Alexandria, discerning among its ghosts. A cunning linguist, running distinct riffs of kinky English. I’m spilling this because I’m hot-gunning, ill and still seeing what’s coming. The clawmark scrawl is on the barricade walls, an image of primitives like the wicked bitch of the picture in Hitler’s bitter misery considered… a divine romp through Mein Kampf. Just one wealthy realization of the self-education from the agony wagon left on the shelf to have at again. Zen crimes and fine rhymes continue past my blues and sore disorderly issues. I won’t stop the pursuit, creative knowledge and earning money made me call it a turn out of college at discerning the journey. But for sure, spare me from a world where others don’t concur to secure their own library of pearls.

I stay outspoken because the world is broken! Everything I’ve been evoking comes from realization after meditation and evocation. No intuition choking from invocation or séance-station. Saying it once, not faking… what I’ve been slaying is only a tenth of a percent of the sense of repent in the stench of the land lent when this world is spent.

I lay my tracks to show what can’t be taken back and suture the unease I have in a diseased future. Slaying shit without fear of the take-it-back-the-50’s-or-be raped pact! Say it 3 times fast and invoke the ghost of the Patriot Act! I’m hating that but it’s always near when I jeer. So I’m spraying riffs to make clear I’m not a patriot, I just live here! I am a self-made man of a stealthily played land and no utterance will be muddled by a befuddled government. Chosen like a soldier of suicide to ride through disguises and set fire to frozen over truth, set loose, bolder and too cold to hide behind lies.