Thousand Words

Thousand Words

The word of the day is right before you

Every word will sell every sentence and tissue

Every paragraph and organ the systems are chapters

That compose of body. (The body)

The body of writing like a body of water vast in deep

You’ll a quill your anchor for your oil tankers no longer sea worthy

I’d rather water walk

Who's the first nigga to sea walk to the moon?

What is sound system as is place of worship?

I make more noise when I sneeze, cough and croon

But I don’t expect 'em to attend my peace talks in June

Where I’ll read off the tomb of the head stones

Etch a sketch, epitaph wearing the head phones

And become a head rest for the steadfast

Who could never mesh or wear a flesh mask

Let alone be good better best to meet death last

The word of the day is

I give black flowers to my indie releases

And the people sitting for a half hour miniseries

With a good book Jesus on the TV guide

In light of this is a stern eagerness to take Nietzsche’s side

As an ongoing Easter egg hunt for the screen play of the month

Sucking the flesh sculpted rubber duckies screaming mother fuck me

Till they gut a monkey and get dead beneath our mother country

The word of the day is normal

You look rather peppy chum

Have you not been implanted with a personality Pentiums

The circles can be scrambled but the end beat drums

And the after life requiems

The drum pads are punching bags

Full of hourglass sand which one struck

And expostulates the past and future

You use to play patty cake with your math tutor

But now you jab the ruler in the power cord of the master computer

Saying the voices told you it was our last stand

And make the absolute power crash land

Oh no, Johnny's cracking up

Oh no, Johnny needs a head shrink

Oh no, its 'cause Johnny's a pervert who has wet dreams

But fear not we can get help jet streamed to him through the internet on the screen

We’ll make an upstanding citizen of him yet

The word of the day is

This record will not be played in this world, but when the world is dead

It's played in the astral plane where these flagpoles inflamed

And lays in a pearl bed

Where it's worshiped

By MC nude peasants

Acting prepubescent

Under a bleeding moon crescent

I’m often asked what instrument do I play

I play the gaps between thought, thought that evacuates space

But it’s a fully orchestrated concert hall

And I'm never going back to touch base

To the four corners, four walls, four by four, free for all

Feeding frenzy

The word of the day is mind

You can't map the psyche on the mathematicians scratch paper

In me there's a Tarzan in a loin cloth and a taxpayer, tearing each other apart

Who overthrows who depends on a coin toss

Say your last prayer while you're alive and kicking the next minute you're fried chicken

Gross, overexposed mutated cell division

Do into a television sec

Given by the hell risen sex, ruling class

And you’ve heard of those who’ve held dinner with execs

But you’ve never get to smell the vinaigrettes

'Cause you haven’t accepted shmoozing as a craft

And opportunities are moving fast (where’d you go?)

You don’t mind do you (no)

To mine would be to take responsibility

But I'm sure I can borrow some of your integral traits

And throw them to the federal state

But is this his or her's? is this mine or yours or

It must not be hers 'cause her's you can buy in stores

And he keeps his behind doors, but this

This is some kind of Neolithic minosaur

Gazed upon by the minefield, field hands who prefer

And more inclined to kneel than stand

The word of the day is right before you

Silence

Is my dial-tone I collect call who you call god

With that freestyle that can redial all the smiles from home

Just play phone tag, trying to hear a song from me, and wrongfully immortalize stone slabs

I wrote this in a little room lined with white foam pads

Memorizing each line to a particular chord in the room

Or join in and eat away your depression with a fork and a spoon

I did it, barfed it up packaged it, gave it a marketing scheme

And now then titled it's own record company and insurance plan, separate from me

The world?

I mean the word of the day is lawful

My parents consider me a disappointment a complete failure

'Cause I fled from med school to be a drum-beat tailor

Hmm my sixth sense tells me the average clean cut ivy league pious family man feeds on the young behind the picket fence

Me I bellow songs till I'm tired and my tongues purple

And office spaces that have been turned into bonfires and drum circles

Doing interpretative dances on a mouse pad

And get reprimanded by the supervisor and his mode of pimp strolls

Infuriated at this cursor blimp

Extracting truth from the swollen lymph nodes

On a loathing minstrels

Wearing Jesus Christ sneakers, air JC’s with holes in the insoles

Holes in the insoles!

As we speak there’s a nigga doing kapha wear Angola

With a cool grin besides a can of soda

Meeting all demands and quotas from a studio audience

As of right now I know that I’m one of god’s fresh bookers

On a job hunt to win the hand of a soft fresh hooker

And seek happiness in processed sugars

The word of the day is

I suppress anger then appear on stage and dress for strangers

Flashing my naked drum from my trench coat

Burn shit out of my native tongue drenched and soaked in cow blood

Hecklers snicker and joke with their pals and buds

Well, make yourself known

All you’ll see is dead smoke then hear a loud thud

Your style sucks

Yeah sure this style’s crud

But at least I know how to love

At least I know that in aiding my melancholy rhyming’s just a mild jug

A pain reliever, a brain teaser, a fake hint to a brand new scheme

This whole time you’ve been listening to an answering machine

At the sound of the beep you won’t know whether to laugh or scream

But you’ll know that you’re afraid of the deep end of the pool

And nigga I skinny dip then put it on MiniDisc and there’s no cancer in the stream

Yes, but the word of the day is happy

I'm so happy right now

I'm so happy to be recording this song

And you’re very happy and this is the end of the song

Yes we are approaching the near end

And don’t you even fear of your rear end for it will not be saved in the afterlife

Be very happy, the word of the day is happy

The word of the day is rejoice

The word of the day is 99 cents off any afterlife purchase made after this point

The word of the day is, the word of the day is—is, uh, melancholy

The word of the day is Al Gore

The word of the day is style galore

The word of the day is you