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Language Arts Unit

by Rhys Langston

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  • Streaming + Download

    Includes unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.
    Purchasable with gift card

      $5 USD  or more

     

  • Cassette + Digital Album

    Featuring alternative artwork and analog fuzz to provide as much warmth as you need, come these rarities from the Estate of the Lord Chocolate in collaboration with P.O.W. Recordings: cassette tapes of Rhys Langston's album and multimedia project "Language Arts Unit."

    Includes unlimited streaming of Language Arts Unit via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.
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    Purchasable with gift card

      $11 USD or more 

     

  • Language Arts Unit: a Rap Textbook

    "Language Arts Unit: A Rap Textbook" is an exploration of rap as theory and praxis, race as form and content, music as social mobilizer and opiate. In a winding, discursive prefatory note Rhys Langston (Podell) utilizes a biting, absurdist humor to seriously appraise the power of words, music, and all manner of extra-lingual connotations in the age of rapid-transit information technologies. As the written half of a multimedia project, what follows are the lyrics from his long play album, written as poems with the clever enjambment of his characteristically idiosyncratic wordplay.

    [includes a URL to download full album]

    Length: 104 pages
    Publisher: Black Market Poetry
    Size: 6"x 9"
    ISBN: 978-0-578-22962-1

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about

a rap textbook of textbook raps coloring outside the lines. theory and praxis as theory as praxis. the erudite and the cool. the gradient of styles bearing colloquial wisdom.

[download includes full 104 page e-book]

~~~~~~~~~~~

credits

released February 26, 2020

All songs written, composed, produced and performed by Rhys Langston except:

"The Governor's Water Glasses"- Produced by alexanderrrowland

"Eyes Dyed In Saturated Retinas"- Featuring additional writing and vocals by Chester Watson

"Big Rhys"- Featuring scratches by IYASA, additional vocals by Aissa

"Thrust of the Memos (My Domestic Terrorism)"- Featuring additional writing and vocals by Moziah, additional vocals by Aissa

"Incredibly Black and Extremely Eccentric (in Oregon)"- Produced by kató

"I Could Rap Forever"- Produced by alexanderrrowland, featuring keys by The Roswell Universe, additional writing and vocals by Serengeti, additional vocals by Aissa

"Ignatius Speech"- Produced by LXMONGRAB

Recorded by Derek Sturman at the Swaglife Universe (Monterrey Park, CA), November-December 2017, and by Ch. Davis at the Black Market Poetry Bureau of Internal Affairs (Los Angeles, CA), January 2018-May 2019

Mixed by Rhys Langston
Mastered by Dave Cooley

Cover Painting and Design by Rhys Langston

© POW Recordings / Black Market Poetry / Rhys Langston Podell

license

all rights reserved

tags

Track Name: Poet-Swordsmith of B.H.C.M.
“after about an hour of this frightfully difficult literary labor, he fell to the floor exhausted. we saw him creep, feebly, into the nest of the poems which are always there. so that all this work had not been in vain, we made an examination”

it’s the poet-swordsmith [of] Baldwin Hills-Crenshaw Mall,
hits but with the shammgod,
dangles phrasing like car alarms

it’s the poet-swordsmith [of] Baldwin Hills-Crenshaw Mall,
spoken soloist,
three filled notebooks all ajar

it’s the poet-swordsmith[of] Baldwin Hills-Crenshaw Mall,
hits but with the shammgod,
dangles phrasing like car alarms

it’s the poet-swordsmith [of] Baldwin Hills-Crenshaw Mall,
spoken soloist,
three filled notebooks all ajar

I became a brown man in Los Angeles
on a magazine cover,
man-of-color-mumbled through an interview
then fumbled,

my line of scrimmage
down and out counting inches,
became a Black man downtown
with a u-turn
in the business district

between my verse
and spurned romantic interests
whereas certain phone numbers
now have become prison jumpsuit digits,

I’m on a cell reverse translating
my tweets in techno-yiddish,
while I lament solipsism
as a well-educated happy idiot

you never met a wordsmith more illiterate,
reclaimant of ride share privileges,
unemployment benefits,
and breadline manuscripts,
who makes a mean sautéed spinach,

that plate of wine-reduced predilections,
that visage akin
revisionist stone-faced grimace
(like what?)

of the strong silent typography,
apocryphal Olmec and circumspect
to get hemmed denim wet
spit the rawest paroxysms
to focus groupers in headphones

I’m in the gutter club
slanging clichés
the same way a dictionary
rents out ad space
to price human emotion
and contemporary art,

in the gallery as an attendant and
as a pedant I’m a synonym
to [sic] an off-camera Petrarchan rant,
like like like like fuck it, we’ll do it live

rewrite the verse from first stanza,
top to bottom,
right to left,
just to just to just to just to just to
get a rise

it’s the poet-swordsmith [of] Baldwin Hills-Crenshaw Mall,
hits but with the shammgod,
dangles phrasing like car alarms

it’s the poet-swordsmith [of] Baldwin Hills-Crenshaw Mall,
spoken soloist,
three filled notebooks all ajar
Track Name: The Governor's Water Glasses
shouts out to U.S.V.I. (what up)

full staffed,
knee taken was
drought tolerant

flag spread,
pole poking my bio-politick

left my theory at that pipeline,
school was prison discourse

niacin in vitamin
my breakfast choice

each morning woke up
spread eagle, yeah, beleaguered
each morning woke up
spread eagle, yeah, beleaguered

[CHORUS]
I spread eagle
for the governor’s water glasses
(spread eagle, yeah, beleaguered) [x3]

I spread eagle
for the governor’s water glasses
(water, water, water, water, water, water, water)

spread eagle, yeah, beleaguered,
each morning woke up,
check for FEMA

flood’s lines on the foyer,
X on the principal, door
directed deposit,
material benefit liminal

for four score and ye olde yore
posted no bills,
meddlesome weeks’ deals,
futures on meals
on wheels

local produce, a metaphor for irony still,
‘cause we were shipped in
to front the bill

[CHORUS]

I said my brother was a rolling stone,
I was a Standing Rock,
everyday pops came home
and popped that Rolling Rock

he Marshall Planned his Glock,
cleaned it with his TV dinner,
only Black cop to join the blocking line
that electoral winter

facing down the First Nation, all seconds,
safeties ready to empty the chambers,
aquifers languid and tepid

shrugs at state-sanctioned danger:
tears protest gas,
ICE, yeah, money anger

(spread eagle, yeah, beleaguered)

shouts out to that young god Chaac
that made them clouds pop,
condensed our percentage into droplets
to fall on our flock,
cut out the beating heart and
laid it in the pyramid top

yeah, do that to lawmakers
so we can reap crops,
harvest redlined agribusiness,
on subsidized blocks, hot

swiping cards for a single use plastic,
acronyms fail to mention
yo, this water ain’t elastic

[CHORUS]

I was lead to the content of these pipes
(spread eagle, yeah, beleaguered)

I was lead to the content of these pipes
(spread eagle)

I was lead to the content of these pipes
(spread eagle, yeah, beleaguered)

I was lead to the content of these pipes
(spread eagle, yeah, beleaguered)

I was lead to the content of these pipes
environment, our own terror site

I was lead to the content of these pipes
(spread eagle, yeah, beleaguered)

I was lead to the content of these pipes,
became a victim to my own rights
by their own right
Track Name: Eyes Dyed in Saturated Retinas feat. Chester Watson
[Rhys Langston]:
eyes dyed in saturated retinas
eyes dyed in saturated
eyes dyed in saturated retinas
eyes dyed in saturated
eyes dyed in saturated retinas
eyes dyed in saturated
eyes dyed in saturated retinas
eyes dyed in saturated
eyes dyed in saturated retinas
eyes dyed in saturated
eyes dyed in saturated retinas
eyes dyed in saturated

eyes dyed in saturated retinas,
blue light of instruments
came from Texas,
it’s said that great change to
spawn from the elections,
but sitting on electric fences
don’t feel much like a welcome—

head, shoulders, knees, toes
head, shoulders, knees, toes
head, shoulders, knees, toes
my brother’s colonists with a candid photo

wading in the water of the
soup of the metrics,
skin tone as an as-needed
hat trick,
family from the old and the new
world ghettos, oppression olympics
medaled in
mementos

my man Solar said we the splash on the canvas,
pilgrim in the freight car bellowing “so it goes,”
up on the pedestal with a brushstroke,
so I guess I’m the kosher Black gesso then—

(eyes dyed in saturated retinas
eyes dyed in saturated)

still to rise,
staid in waiting for the moment
that I blow,
etched a selfie on the front
of the claymore,
combust a musty gesture
of drawings of past pentimentos

I don’t see
how I should pay for
this wall that hinders me,
respectfully gone deep in their
non-binary pussy,
I was a drawbridge before
now nondisclosure to agree

still to rise,
staid in waiting for the moment to
hold all the smoke,
alone in two-way mirrors
to share and self-promote,
thinking in an outside voice,
a skinny hunk of flesh of
outside jokes

I don’t see
this prescription of ethics over
this lamb over rice,
rationalizing never done saying
the same thing twice,
piecing a detritus self back
for Jamal Khashogghi

I am not the Michael Jordan
of Delaware,

(eyes dyed in saturated retinas)

might be a partial jurist,

(eyes dyed in saturated retinas)

I am unenthused to be looking
laissez-faire in that vanity mirror,

(eyes dyed in saturated retinas)

when it comes to
miscegenating between art forms
(eyes dyed)
I’m a purist

[Chester Watson]:
Move like a genie in smoke,
Nipsey and Ras G in my toast,
and 2019 been a coaster,
think of my mortality as I coast

and lately been channeling ancestors
so forgive if you see me with ghosts

me and Rhys, LSD, and some doja,
all the times that I been to the ocean
and still haven't smoked weed on a boat

I need property with a moat
on some king shit,
never vibed with the mean kids,
OGs like "what you mean kid?"

guess I'm too far out towards the deep end,
but far enough where I'd sink in,
let it sink in,
your world could change as you're blinking—

[Rhys Langston]:
eyes dyed in saturated retinas
eyes dyed in saturated
eyes dyed in saturated retinas
eyes dyed in saturated
eyes dyed in saturated retinas
eyes dyed in saturated
eyes dyed in saturated retinas
eyes dyed in saturated

______________________

light-skinned n[]gg[] on the dark web,
GoPro on the pole arm,
megapixel minuscule,
refracting the side arm

in portrait mode
punch a crypto-fascist
in the throat,
esophageal armistice in silo,
bleach blonde endangered rhino

memes on the radio,
gruel in my cup,
double styrofoam half-life
of a video star
binged, upchucked

this that art rock with a
ransom note
through a corner office window

I want all the fire, and the brimstone,
and the fucking smoke
Track Name: Megabytes Per Second Cousin
“you soon will be a goddamn man,
now start learning what life is about now son”

[CHORUS]
“get smacked ‘cause you’re blue Black,
throwback to welts and twist naps,
’n[]gg[],’ you
ain’t allowed to say that,
light-skinned with choice
to format,

“dark-skinned
but, yeah, momma passed,
crossed the Ward,
swept faberge glass

“born in that white hospital
but they transferred her and I
in the moment when crowned
my Black ass”

called my grandfather
for connections,
megabytes per second cousin

I
dialed tone
when I breathed in
and felt my own baggage rushing

I
hung up and slumped over that chair,
staring at that gradient
between forearm and the thigh meat,
the pale yellow dimmed radiance

as if
time was the only gulf between us,
continuity and through-line sequence
medley, bevy of poly-genes
silk-printed just to rerun

mitochondria, yeah, fitted and colloquial,
some preshrunk embodiment,
and all the credentials for a tailor
fitting qualified postmodernists

[CHORUS]

Write my own way out of a
brown paper bag
club, race as form
and content,

across a continent
blood ties fists gripped
in blackened love

I
remember those sunny afternoons out
basking just to darken my skin,
comment section effigies of my peers
scrolling minds in tandem

metrics, lines,
self-spurred another scientist with
google image case study basis:
inherent blackness, intrinsic research,
a doubt of predetermined 31 flavors
(sample size per serving,
just a feast of the eyes,
intersections of what swatches
seem to serve and surmise)

with some stubbornness as intuition
or attrition
attributed to affinity
for new scriptures
sketched in books
and doodled verse reliefs,
Black-marked whiteness

prescription lobbying minds
to some greater prophetic margins

two parallel lines
for an abstract
starting

[CHORUS]

“soft curls on my neck flap
caress she’d tell me and scratch,
‘yeah, boy you look like me
but only back there where them good genes at,’

“brother and sister took after,
we shared features
but the pigment masked us”

[CHORUS]

crawfish étouffée in my census identification
written on the back of an SUV double-parked,
a New Orleans gas station

knee-length grass roots
with storm swept down
to the foundation,
charitable body’s
[family] records
given to the gulf as a donation

“word,”
of mouth, I remarked
as the portraits I’d yet to see
they met a watery fate,
sweeping the bayou sweat from my
sun-yellowed perplexing pate
I’d yet to contemplate

where does this history start
(no, really)?

and if memory by its very nature
is its own form of art.
Track Name: Big Rhys
I’ve saved these memories on blocks:

to come of age in the
Arathi Highlands
with my Guilty Sparks,
ethernet-linked systems
to controller hands

he taught me inverted,
yeah, my Plum dog

was the main cohort
in that digital-to-analog
K-8 bookended by
volumes of all the EB Games trade-ins

and when we snaked through Sotheby’s
just toe the line,
and I hugged your mom
the last time

those days of Nightfire and Azeroth—

so go, video my soul,
‘cause this was so real, so real

and no rush to record,
‘cause I’m just trying to feel

and I can’t deal

match made for an oddball,
holding on until the time expires

to load up an old file
is an old flame
that sparks harmonics on
a heartstring,
you’ll see it’s worthwhile

suggestion of a trial
to find perchance a reduction
of basic elements through
a concourse of past times

rendered worlds
drawing through-lines
and stuttered sights,
I stand, firmly anti-aliased to rewind

these games have brought
clear resolutions and bleary tears

graphical engines upgrading
as I doubled in years,

and it’s strange,
they’ve given me so much language,
strange how all these moving parts
saved for my own arrangement

still I feel myself anchored,
crazy as it sounds,
I feel myself anchored

12 years-old, docked in Seyda Neen,
my vocal chords now to express
this straining:

the first time I saved face on a cartridge
5 years-old there was moaning in a burning library,
strafing on a Blockbuster-rented
Leon Kennedy on CRT
with barely read ESRB
Big Rhys
on Lyric Avenue between alimony and Tracy

generations of consoles to console
private confirmation hearings,
Marty O’Donnell soundscapes and
West Gash symphonies

go, video my soul,
‘cause this was so real, so real

no rush to record,
‘cause I’m just trying to feel

and I can’t deal

now now, the Full Frontal Incumbent
thought nothing of it,
akin to something of an electoral puppet,
same script on the notarized budget:
an author’s note to a book of rhymes
made public


to obfuscate that collection of overly-abstracted raps
he takes a momentary lapse,
dips the pen inside an inkwell
dwelling on the right reference to
sentimentalize a whole past well

untaxed turns back with mindful inhalations,
citing source awards
with conflagrations

now rejoicing with congratulations for what
moments of childhood are recorded
and then stored

see well, an imaginary shoulder would hark here here,
to tip a solemn head a little there there,
circumnavigating fetal innocence,
transpositions octaves of a younger life
to somewhere more free and bare
(like what?)

go, video my soul,
‘cause this was so real, so real

no rush to record,
‘cause I’m just trying to feel

and I can’t deal

I’m documentarian, baby
full definition.



______________________

Flood session,
pizza, picture, essen,
retracing sketches
about another epoch:

after school flexing,
index’s the weapon,
information passed to
guild raiders and brethren.

Caravan to Karazhan,
tank buffed by power-words,
interior defended
(unseen, unheard).

Stadium Arcadium bumped through
Wet Sand Gateways,
unfurled through curls, braces,
farmer’s tans, race bait.

Jumps out of the gym
into punk bedrock,
niche in
silent cartography, maps drawn,
written plots,
pixel polyglot, ravenous mind, stomach,
stopped decibels for gendered interaction,
noiseless pundit.

Fuck kid—
Track Name: Thrust of the Memos / My Domestic Terrorism feat. Aissa and Moziah
Moziah:
well, you know, the KKK is making great strides. you know, I’m a fellow member myself, fellow chapter grandmaster dragon, 32nd degree, in Mississippi, hell, anyhoo. you know, I was thinking about the KKK, and we’re making some great strides. we’re now accepting Black members and Mexican members, still no Arabs, but you know we’re really trying to keep it going. if niggers wanna go back to Africa, well hell, go back to Africa. we liked Marcus Garvey. we, you know, we were his biggest supporter. you know, KKK, we’re doing alright. and on that note I gotta git—

[CHORUS]
thrust of the memos
thrust of the memos
thrust of the proceeding
thrust of the proceeding
thrust of the memos
(thrust, thrust, thrust)
thrust of the memos
thrust of the memos
thrust of the proceeding
thrust of the proceeding
thrust of the memos
(thrust, thrust, thrust)

my domestic terrorism
wears Swedish tennis player
Jesus necklace for intersection

my domestic terrorism
wears Swedish tennis player
Jesus necklace for intersection

my domestic terrorism
wears Swedish tennis player
Jesus necklace for intersection

my domestic terrorism
wears Swedish tennis player
Jesus necklace for intersection

my domestic terrorism
wears an AR-15,
hats to make America made in China
make itself a great maker again

my domestic terrorism
buys said bore arm half-off
last mental check-up station

my domestic terrorism
calls free trade’s origins in slavery
post-racial

my domestic terrorism
is syndicated, fiber-optic,
distributed through cable

[CHORUS]

caged in mylar
we float checkpoints
just joined at the ankle monitor
passing ports for verifications and photos,
toast ICE dangles still from the registry

the thrust of the memos
is an abstraction
for replete liberty
drunk driving doctrines,

an estranged line breaks
formation,
then divorced history

our domestic terrorism
wears a single band of tarnish,
unpolished family film
birthed sovereignty
and a warm embrace of mythos
it privatizes gains and socializes

televangelist separatist statecraft,
all-inclusive in the ethnostate flash
and hate bath

when in Rome
do as the subaltern do
and kneel fast

[CHORUS]
Track Name: Morning Becomes Apoplectic, a Follower's Prayer
clock ticks are irrelevant,
settlement, the present tense
deed is an exegesis
with a felt-tipped rhetoric,
scratch and sniff
these ashy palms
smoking desert kiss

placebo christened with that
flick of the wrist

I’ve been in sediment of the
epoch’s layers deep,
carbon copy of my
like page’s physique,
a play count as oblique,
all scriptures written cut out
of my abdomen and sewn back
with Rap Genius caesarian annotation

marginal status
with the noose in the lattice,
unconscionable praxis,
theoretics on my axis spin cycle
raining high heavens on my mattress,
drool-stricken mornings
waking up to crusted mouth fractures.

forgive me for all these scriptures
forgive me for all these scriptures
forgive me for all these scriptures
all sense spent on well wishing

forgive me for all—
forgive me for all these scriptures
forgive me for all these scriptures
all sense spent on well wishing

forgive me for all—
forgive me for all these scriptures
forgive me for all—

I know I won’t be recognized today

I’m a plot device,
dim foil headdress
refracting upon the headlights,
curved dialogue when protagonists sleep
I’m still up at night

framed in unbeknownst
but rehearsed speech,
crushed dolomite
reading rights to obsequious pardons of
French exits

when mornings become apoplectic
and slept-on electronica
fills a vacuum
I seek the circumspect,
keep my eyes wet in this
moving traffic fishbowl
my optics are shifted 24 hours
in length to catalogue droll

not an allegory to [sic] better circumstances,
a drip-line gushing,
missing pair of blood lancelets,

but a metaphor to [sic]
elementary probabilities,
second chances spun on Quixotic windmills,

an allusion to a minor key,

but an anaphora to [sic] a trudged speed,
a permit to [sic] that concealed weapon.

I am my own epinephrine.

I’m an inverted apostrophe addressed to
no possession,

a series of quotations attributed to
bold-faced irrelevance.

forgive me for all these scriptures
forgive me for all these scriptures
forgive me for all these scriptures
all sense spent on well wishing

forgive me for all—
forgive me for all these scriptures
forgive me for all these scriptures
all sense spent on well wishing

forgive me for all—
forgive me for all these scriptures
forgive me for all—

I know I won’t be recognized today

As I bolt my head up to rise
in this time trial,
I humbly seek significance
quantifiable in numbers,

that one of import may walk through turnstiles
and recirculate my thoughts most worthwhile
for those in action of
insights, audience, and reach.

I ask forgiveness for all these scriptures,
all sense spent on well wishing,
minute hands holding hours,
self-immolating auto-da-fés
in the shower.

In the name of the non-gendered parent,
offspring, and all-encompassing spirit of WiFi,
I do ask and beseech.
Track Name: Nebbish Frederick Douglass
[CHORUS]
poet laureate of my living room
poet laureate of my living room
poet laureate of my living room
poet laureate of my living room

elephant in the hallway,
poet laureate of my living room,
dripping trunk snot,
down-talking the TMC in Khartoum

the nebbish Frederick Douglass
feeling peckish,
techno-yiddish scribbled with a pencil,
vestibule, a threshold of lectures,
lectern as he raps all the measures

reclaimant on the bidet,
shoeless pedant, yeah in the dining room,
on hands and knees with a genuflect,
trademarks phenotypes with Legal Zoom

raps in fugues, sestinas,
Prussian Blue iambs begrudges
antifa farmers market luncheon,
yeah, hair parted like a truncheon

Huey P, à la carte, à la mode Hebdo
in the drawing room
sketching prophets in the margins,
dry humping scripture, yeah well,
on a full moon

pre-fab in the 9th house,
flipping-flopping in a gender neutral blouse,
abstract verse just to out-joust,
just to out-joust

[CHORUS]

peanut butter Sandy Koufax
spitting cold facts
in the cryochamber,
no hitter, eight figures rejoined with words,
syntax spinning like an Escher spitter

eschewing monochrome delusions,
every step and footprint a Black realist movement,
expanding bibliography for the duration
of the Uber

talking shop, chewing lipids,
liquid diet sans pill-form stock nonfiction,
placebo freelance eccentric evidence of
a pre-screened well goal post postgrad diction

with a PR firm over my thumb,
facial recognition, yo, on the upswung,
downsized, upsold
solid-state wheezing like just another iron lung

“partate the bars,” says the Creole Voltaire,
23 back-up discs, yeah, in the time-share,
single lyric sheet for each sector and hemisphere
with a reading fee so laissez-faire

sitting mid-vacation deloused,
bouncing .wav files, yeah, surfing on a couch,
poet laureate of my living room,
bed and breakfast, yeah, in a random house
motherfucker

[CHORUS]

“ohh, get up or get out the way! I might be in the studio or something, but I’m still getting hype!”

welcome to Langstónia…
Track Name: Incredibly Black and Extremely Eccentric (in Oregon) [LP Mix]
[a short story by Muckraker Jones]

incredibly Black and extremely eccentric!
Incredibly Black and extremely eccentric…
(but where, but where, but where, but where??)

incredibly Black and extremely eccentric
in Eugene, Oregon,
post-show brunch talking that Eugene Onegin,
so goes the heir apparent Pushkin,
sunlight, an envelope filter
before he cuts out
with his fortune

then continuing to prattle on,
onus is the next mea culpa college town
where they plant and nurture seedlings, outrage farm,
see even the parking ticket was organically sown

split the $50 difference from them usual citations:
footnotes, toenotes, Afro-centric in no sandals lately,
lathe-cut to disrupt,
Portland in the cut,
snapping photos, soundcheck,
self-loather emeritus

after performance de-centered from the whiteness,
bearable lightness watching Insecure with
the finest genuine women, platonic
couch surfers upstream
in a ’99 La Saber swimming

just the pale Black negative
Jason Mantzoukas,
Dutch Bros, 5-North,
roses and tulips,

grandest delusions, yo,
went to Bend, Oregon and
found the sound of silence
in audience movements

in Corvallis she reached for my what?
(no, stop, no)

onto the next few days, yo
up the border verily,
Blacked out bookings
amplified group therapy

incredibly Black and extremely eccentric!
(in Oregon)
Incredibly Black and eccentric!
Incredibly Black and extremely eccentric…
Track Name: I Could Rap Forever feat. Serengeti
You know what I’m saying? I feel like I could really do this forever.
I don’t know. I don’t know. You know what I’m saying?

yo, this that ardent cultural marxist
hopping out the fucking starship
in explicit FCC discourse, yeah,
marching in
electoral offices
to the apartments,
bicoastal elite feeling some type of glorious

yo, this that Earl Sweatshirt type beat
(oh my god),
yo, this that overthinking type sack of meat, well,
talking to ya

been off the Internet as of late, so
maybe a little more truth (real talk),
yeah the hangman hungover in the blanks
writing after the shots and shooters saying

I could rap forever,
but I won’t (I won’t, I won’t)

only until the moment in which
my epitaph got a blue check on it,
and bears a likeness of a rapper archetype
in the form of sonnet saying


I could rap forever,
but will you hear?
I could rap forever,
but will you hear me?

while the economy is being automated out,
my negro I’m fucking out;
while everything seems to be going down south,
I’ma stay right here and use my mouth,
case in point like
(check one, two, like ok, yeah, ha!):

yo, this that ardent cultural marxist
hopping out the fucking starship (two times!)

clocked out at the happiest hour that can be afforded
when your microphone bag happens to be your wallet,
when no man is the island
that tax brackets use to funnel dollars

well, this that over-his-head-
archipelago-flow-syntax,
great garbage patch of my personality, yeah,
fully intact,
the extinct elephant in the room authorizes
no authority or apps

that’s the wrong kind of twist like
intellectual white people dreadlocks
taking naps

I could rap forever,
but will you hear?
I could rap forever,
but will you hear me?
I could rap forever,
but will you hear?
I could rap forever,
but will you hear me?

“and now a bright young comic”

[Serengeti]:
Davis Deacon, Deacon, Deacon speaking
freaking leaking:
one time I ate chicken wings and
I, I, I, I, I, I was on a cruise ship.
hey hey, yo, what’s up, this is me Dave,
shout out to my man, Deacon Dave.
hey! hey!
calm it down, pipe it down,
take a shower, take a shave,
take a walk, take a nap,
take another shower, take another shave,
come back home, take a shave,
take another shower,
calm it down, pipe it down,
calm it down, calm it down!

[Rhys Langston]:
I could rap forever,
but will you hear?
I could rap forever,
but will you hear me?
I could rap forever,
but will you hear?
I could rap forever,
but will you hear me?
Track Name: Ignatius Speech [LP Mix]
speak up, yes
speak up
speak up, yes
speak up, speak up

waking up to tea,
take the caffeine,
why can’t I sit down?

(no, no, no, no, no, no, no)

waking up to tea
take the caffeine,
why can’t I sit down?

(no, no, no, no, no, no, no)

double booked, bagged, and
10 minutes steeped, I said,
“this mind is mine to keep”

though regaled from the
point of sale to your
effigy, no social receipts

I can’t seem to bend my knees
or to fold 90 degrees:
a layman lying on a public dais,
spurt open valves in Ignatius speech

another morning pot of tea
that blend you gave to me,
steamed I drunk it all
like a monarch

blank verse leered with
whitened teeth sovereignty—

a full theatrical release,
promotions

well canonized now,
the unraveling performance of
some unclear love poetry

waking up to tea,
take the caffeine,
so can’t I sit down

(no, no, no, no, no, no, no)

double booked, bagged, and
10 minutes steeped, I said,
“this mind is mine to keep”

though regaled from the
point of sale

I think that’s cool man. It’s little like a little interlude…

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