String Song

The uninformed uniform placed about my waist, time wastes, haste to a taste of base bass; Bass-fishing, past wishing nature had the stature of divinity, captured by a picture, my mind contemplates infinity. Rapturous raptors feed upon my neurons, but from here on, I’m spurning urban lies that life is not a gift but a curse, try to burst through my rifted turf but what’s worse then seeing the earth feed upon droplets of white blood cells. Try and stop it, this flood of blighted hell and depression but sometimes expression is repression, and the recession is hitting my papa’s pocket book; I sold my mama’s locket look, a family heirloom, and the air here looms in thick tricks of sick doom. Can I get a donor to my honour’s refurbishment? A loner lacking nourishment, this skirmish went very poorly, try and ignore me as I vent love spent into repentance. Each sentence is a sequence to try and maintain allegiance to an existence where resistance to the doubt remains a bout faced daily, laced with ailing vigor. I figure that this figure in the mirror is dearer than eerie flurries of memories suspending me in an unending struggle for a snuggle with the jury who’s fury can bury my only hope for acquittal, but each section of my reflection was rejected and belittled. from Undercover Cuts Vol. 2 Doc. 2 “String Song” (Undercover Mag, 2003). Re-released on Delegates of Culture Inacessible. (B sides & Bootlegs) (Rhymepad Records, 2015).