Give Her Back To Me. A Voice Calling Out from the Wilderness. A Cry for Hip Hop.
I arrange deranged voice chords to sound board samples with ample time to make symphonies out of prerecorded echoes that let go of time in eternity past, waving into the future, leaving me in the now, present, so I present presents as gifts of hope to get through today, riding on those waves into the tomorrow. Forgetting to check in their sorrow they have carry on luggage only, “excuse me, may I borrow your headphones?” trying to listen to ink scream out of paper like Abel’s blood from the earth, plugged into ancient rhymes from independent ancient times of boom bap raps that are plagued with martyrs of coke, smoke and crack. And now I’m choked from the smoke that rises from a ruined state of hip hop, burning like Rome. Babylon. And two twin towers, two lost powers, Biggie and Pac. Now we just make it rain and it feels like acid showers. And it turns me green like lady liberty where as I once stood for liberty but now just for green, a need to be seen, the state of my hip hop is a rap running towards greed, and still none of this matters except for the blood of the seed, Daweed(david). And so still I proclaim in rhythmic cadence through jaded statements. Get it? I preach to crowds of nodding heads using bass and snare to fixate in their souls a unified sole agreement that the message is true, yup the message is true! “You’ve Pushed Me So Far That I Fell Off The Edge – On My Way Down I Scream Hip Hop Is Dead!” And with arms wide open and eyes wide shut, praying hymns of hums, using one mic to mouth as an accompanying drum, and I’ve sung to Him, Please Lord forgive our sin, making your gift of music, taking your gift to use it as an Idol to be Idle! Actually falling backwards….while trying to run forward I make noises that scratch due to dirty needles injecting wax that hit grooves and soothes in one instance my moves from some distance, far off the recorded track, from the source of my high. It’s these rotations of boombastic sensations that get me through the depression of now. I am a monk of melodies after the order of Thelonious the Monk. Studying scripture of divine revelation through the constant elevation of Aly-us who call like prophets from the past singing, “Follow me, why don’t you follow me, to a place where we can be free.” Yearning with burning like dances for a rapture that takes me higher and higher, being baptized through phrases like “Yo, That’s Fiya!” making me, changing me to be funky fresh and giving me the status of a supa-fly B-boy. And false converts sneak in like D-boys giving false gospels of Dope Boy Magic, yet the Lord is Just and Light, and He can’t have it. There’s no darkness in Him, so the Dope Boys ‘ve had it. Wrath is coming, repent, believe, and begin to demand it. The radio’s not moving, it’s Babylon, Babel, tongues that Babble, building towers as idols that emit frequencies of mega-hertz of this false gospel that our women are only out for the la la la lollipop, and our men are only out for the Lola. Stop. The mula. Stop. We need to Stop. We need to have a new heart so that this can Stop. Give me back my music so that I can Stop. I can’t Stop. Nope, I won’t Stop. Give me back my music, I am Hip Hop. Yup, I am Hip Hop. I am a prophet of this movement that we’ve all forgot.…
Eh…just forget it…
