led G od, for in chaos all things are possible) 2. Disclaime r I stole the wake/work/sleep ant hem; they caught me with my finger in the dyke, but it only shows that great minds teetering on the brink of madness think alike. Dismissed the phalanges; gave implicit permission for insanity to leak out with my rhymes , but they‚'re tight! My ten-step easy process to losing your mind‚'s the lecture topic of the night. In this concerto for my philosophy and ph at beat dope team players I spin non-animated American Tales with no Fievel, no bibles. I bite my idols; apologies to - Zook, he didn‚'t even know I was his disciple. So buckle tympanum up and turn synapse s peed to blazing. Let‚'s get insane. Lay me down a quixotic lullaby of a beat. 3. The Madness Fragments Pt. 1 I‚'ve got a personal madness gold certificate earned by threading the needle with those strings I deem significant. Brai nwaves buckle under the dreadful stress of diligence, but it‚'s worth it if I know someday my name‚'ll witness interest. I‚'ve got seven easy ways to ease the pain: a couple think posi tive, the others push me in the dark again. It‚'s just like -one step forward, three steps back.‚' I sit, inhale an d look around, exhale and watch my world c ollapse. S o if I want to kill myself slow, then it‚'s not your goddamn business. I pull beeswax o ut of honeycombs to feed my starving synapse. Innovation rolls disguised as stoned out summer Stonehenge visions. I‚'ll pay admission to administer the leech-treatment incision. I‚'ll pay admission to visit the village ministry; still can‚'t nail down the future quite p recise beyond autonomy. I smoke. Breathe in poison, spit solution. Toke. Combustion, evolution. I tiptoed past my closet so as not to wake the madness, grabbed my papers, jet to safety, cling to arbitrary snatches. There‚'s a monster in my room who deals in apathy and sadness, fearing coal-red vision trained on ways to clip the stifled gladness. Hang on, Proverbs tell s me to be prudent, spreading moderation magnified through righteous prayer-fed movement, heading magnet schools for robot home-schooled students, leaving stagnant fragments reeking mad conclusions. Confusion. And when the rapture comes and liquid fire‚'s in every hole and rift then I‚'ll lean down to use the flaming ground to light my fucking spliff. When the Phrygian Gates opened I shaped words. Starkness. They catalogue thoughts pre tty but soundtrack maelstrom to darkness. Harshness. Let‚'s catalogue the Noah‚'s Ark of cats I bark with: two of each kind run as ticket, that‚'s why I hold my breath when grip starts slipping. Fuck it. I spit abstract because of my mad lyrical autism. So yeah, it‚'s convoluted; so‚'s a Bach crab canon. It‚'s dense, I consent, but it‚'s not sitt ing on the fence, and my name may be unknown but it‚'ll come to my defense. I had my tongue betw een the thighs of Good Intentions when my o ther lover Karma burst the room and put a revolver to her temple screaming I was next. Now where‚'s defense? At least she‚'s got no evidence! This urban turban searches for an outlet set with precedence. I outfit journeys to the city with maps for the dizzy, ice scrapers for the frigid and peppermint patties for the kiddies. Downtown, I strap on flimsy wings, th e type bought in an alley, to find out if fizzy lifting drinks can catapult divine, so I can take in what it‚'s got (big sky factory assembly line). But if promises are made of wax, then I‚'m delusional, right? Because as soon as the sun starts to shine with pure white sober light then I‚'ll streak Hailey-style on melted skeleton from top to nexus, make a six-foot earth angel and a h alo solar p lexus. I‚'ve got spiders in my lungs, I‚'ve got spiders in my lungs. I‚'ve got roaches in the synapses and worms under my tongue. I‚'ve got spiders in my lungs, I‚'v e got s piders in my lungs, and wasps inside the numb skull building nests in lobes they‚'ve stung. 4. The Madness Fragments Pt. 2 There‚'s a monster in my room. He‚'s silent, but he‚'s giant. He reminds me that it‚'s just a matter of time until my mind‚'s bent. He paces nightly as I wonder where what I couldn‚'t find went. He‚'s on assignment: he‚'s been sent by the Wild Things to do their spying. He expands his territory from the closet past the stage a nd wings, across the carpet now. What silent beast is slouching out of Framingham down Route 9? Now he‚'s at the foot of my bed. He rests a heavy paw upon my chest. The razor claws conceal ed the evidence. I can feel his breath, and I gag on the stench, and I see the two red coals inside deep sockets in his head, and I know he knows I know he‚'s there and could wrea k havoc with real purpose. But he‚'d rather make me wait because he kno ws how I get nervous. He whispers secret things t o me while I‚'m asleep; instead of sheep I get this beast! My concrete deep sl eep dreamtime feast is crashed by Grendel. He tips the table, grabs the girl and splits her down the middle. Like me, he screams because he sees how dreams are poised to t ear the future and he‚'s not afraid to open wounds to protect the beautiful sutures and he lives for that sweet moment when the pearl of blood takes shape and then the monster in my room leans down and gently shakes me awake. My monster follows me on sunny days, painted to the ground. If Nick Shadow is the soul‚'s best friend then call me Tom Rakewell! Some friend I have! His name is Brutus, and he‚'s waiting in the orchard. Did I say Brutus? I meant Judas! But he was just following orders: he was just one monkey down, one monkey down from the next authority, -til eventually we get to the top and see that God‚'s a chimpanzee. He wouldn‚'t give a fuck about us. We‚'re barely ants to him. He programmed our biology, sat back and watched us dance for him. So I know he wouldn‚'t mind if I smoked and prayed a prayer to seize this opportunity to lose this monkey on my back that looks like Jesus. And the shadow and the monkey sit in wait to get me, and I cannot scream for help -cause if I squeal my monster says he‚ 'll kill me. It‚'s a sad hy-prophecy but I‚'m the one who invited him in when we smoked the leaf of k nowledge off the tree of o riginal sin. 5. [Gloss] I searched the bible factory outlet for answers buried in the rubble, found only trouble, incest, murder. Rhymes were dope but seldom subtle. Times gave hope but colors muddled. Learned these secrets in the hu ddle while I bounced my thoughts off popping bubbles and gasoline-stained rainbow puddles. Checked on space with vision-Hubble but found just smoke and paper crumple d. Spoke with skeptics fairly gullible about time/space -til thoughts befuddled. I wanted more but couldn‚'t juggle muse with fact; my brainwaves buckled. That‚'s why I‚'m alone with sandpaper-stubble and though I‚'m clear, I tend to mumble. To your credit, you barely stumbled. Were it me, I would have crumbled. This humbug symbol crumbled b eneath the somet imes humbl e hunkered struggles. Tore to shambles my social planning, still my energy‚'s a fungus jungle. So welcome to my lecture: The 12 Steps to Going Insane. As if a trap door in the cei ling‚'ll make me incandescently happy. The only things I speak about: science, religion, marijuana, ladder theory, bitches, David Attenborough, flora, fauna. Self-consciousness throws a monkey wrench into my cerebral immutab ility, so you can listen passive/complacently but don‚'t question my ability. 6. Satz: Scherzo I crossed an ambling third party on a solar revolution and used my elocution to tell this man the plant‚'s not mind pollution, -c ause you cannot judge a plant/brain symbiotic evolution -til you‚'ve tested out the chemical molarity of my solutions. To explore the many facets of the tyranny an d the magic presupposes the perfection of a trenchant introspection trick. My thoughts play malice when I cut them up with tragic hits of callous secret knowledge got from draining the secret chalice. This chimerical chemi cal‚'s: an oracle hysterical; a seminal calculation from your synapse, not your testicles; a quicksilver step from rham phorincus to tear a dacty l; and another way to kill those frosty thoughts without an icicle. The tree of life convergence of intelligence and brethren that cash the grass gives semblance of a me thod to their negligence. I cool it out to come to terms with demons, ghosts, and denizens, but the present is the ten se in which to shake my cosmic resonance. Appeal to the deep-sea fishing division of my derisio n. Pulling bottom-feeders out of subconscious corners of my kitchen. My precision yields a round of ammunition for my mission: to isolate plasticity and pistol-whip my vision. T his calamity‚'s a dream that yields a hundred thousand pieces. This inverted vista makes a hermit scream about his features. This apocalyptic feast will seek the walk ers and the seers, and ambrosia said that -shit‚'s my bed,‚' so toke beneath the bleachers. There‚'s a host of other drugs whose worth is measured out in dimes, and Nickel Bags of Funk got beats that rock, but nothing on my rhymes. -They‚' re four-square.‚' Fine, but given time could you find equal swerve and grind? My m onster comes out waving sticks of prose that gently warp my mind. When I get introspective danger lurks in finding onyx darkness, - cause upon discovery there‚'s little use for all these phonics. -Yeah, man, 2 am, right. Like I said. In the parking lot of Sonic.‚' -I can‚'t believe he‚'d charge that cash for half an ounce of hydro p onic!‚' Give a madman ample time and he will beat you round the block; give a stoner ample weed and he will clean your fucking clock! The pox that rocks the crooked cops will walk as allegory stalks. I write these simple rhymes at nigh t while you‚'re off jerking in a sock. The wind that blew in Revelations blew the smoke from off t he sea. Yeah John saw that fucked up shit; his face was b lazed off from t he green! Sure, I‚'ll ta ke solace in the bible too, but my version‚'s got the scene where we see the tree of knowledge as a QP of KB. Poor Brad‚'s Almanac is coming out in limited editi on. It‚'s got the forecast for the Fourth Annual Science-Speak Convention. I‚'ve got weathercasts that call the horizon on still playing chaotic and comets cast the spell to tell the Gen-eclipse quixotic. Don‚'t plant your see d in fertile dirt -til I‚'ve given permission; I‚'m the opportunist superstar who‚'ll lanthanide cold fission. I‚'m the alchemist. Give me your dregs. I‚'ll raise them to the stars and find a way to hide the weaknesses you passed along for me to fix. Bedlam-bound bridges burned while I slid down the banisters. I burnished shiny promise while I furnished works showing similar. I garnished simple thoug ht with surface fireworks invisible and harnessed salt-br idge power, letting my ions flow invincible. What flavor of hating shatters confidence i n dissonance? The counterpoint perception. Harmonic invention‚'s dead. The counterweight dimension. Like an ar t student PowerPoint presentation, y‚'all motherfuckers dense, so lemme spell it out for you real slow. If you don‚'t get it, just forget it. Here‚'s the tem per tantrum anthem. I pledge to tool you around -til the day I get so fugly only poorer folks will want me. I pl edge to look you in the eye while denying necessity of Icarus wax-wing flying. I pledge to bicke r with the wicker-basket credence, like the only valid life smells like chocolate and peaches. Poor Brad‚'s Almanc‚'s style tends a little iffy; it‚'s got a leather back but paper front to burn fast in Mississippi. Crash and burn; watch and learn. Trying to keep on hovering in the face of half-full smashers pulling rugs out for the fun of it. Crash and burn on wings you earn. They put me near the front of it so my wax‚'ll melt the fastest and I‚'ll tumble from the summit. 7. [ ] 8. Satz: Feierlich For the sake of everyone involved, I set my wake-up song for nine. My tendency narcoleptic merely plays my day erratic and sings my synapse off to nod at five when nature‚'s song subsides and different lyric s quote the verse that quotes the logic alibis. Puri tan forests, kings of weeds, Unitarian life pipes at our feet. Oxygen rich millipede found debris swinging CO2 complete. Glycolysis: the game I watch when I let other plants suggest the veins of wisdom hid den while I scourge the earth for truffle info nuggets. Twist. Not only citrus, but our histories in a ladder twined together climbing ivory on the bricks of flat c elebrity. Shall we denigrate the past? I‚'m too hung up on old tradition to sweep roaches from the corners of a tight subconscious ki tchen. We play fusion on this field and if your count is up, then fly. Th is kitchen switches one position to the other through the night. Sleep. Soporific velvet castles. Tapestries of apple seeds play Technicolo r visions on narcotic narcoleptic screens. I can sense the slick sensation, strictly stark and prickly patient, strictly starting spic and spacious, span the bridge of bleeding sages. Wager what you will ed away; our thoughts have failed the compromise. And listen for the swish of rapids: whirlpools built to keep you laughing. Bridges win the coveted prize with effort culled from covered eyes. Bitches bear the bling-bling wise when visions fail to materialize. I‚'ve got a poster on my wall; it‚'s a l iving snapshot of m y face reflecting various terrible things I burn on my visage throughou t the day. But village folk won‚'t pillage rope they need to tie their hostages, so I guess the mirror-folk will sit still one more night for consonance. I‚'m a landscape, but I cut my thoughts with simple multiplicity. I‚'m Orestes. I‚'m cold. Plug in volts of Elektra-tricity. My nightscape scope‚'s a ray of hope, escapes the orbit your god wrote and places rainbows‚' gravity low to valence electron laser shows. Open to a page at random; spit this shit with tandem aba ndon. Target lucid sensations like you‚'re dreaming when you spin it. Clear the endoplasmic ridiculous. Hit the snooze, just five more minutes. Any a ftermath based in delusion bathes in troubled water, but I drained the standing pool to float above the swampy comment cartel. Simple finicky Western Wind-twisted seat breakers reach for shovels, but the curious-cum-ti me suspension crew use teaspoons in the rubble. See, I ain‚'t really a fan of your aesthetic. That‚'s why this picket fence erected: to protect intact intel ligence. It‚'s like one hand reaching through the slats, one holding back, while Huck and Tom whitewash the facts that stain the pigment-skinned slat facets. Tragic. My best friend‚'s from Neptune, an ambassador turned zoologist. He tells me I‚'m okay when he sees the shit that goes on around us. Like the gam es we play with contact! They say -no man‚'s an island‚'; I say I‚'m part of the archipelago but the port embargo‚'s timeless. Wanna show me the promised land? Milk and honey? Silk and money? Instead of manna you‚'ve got mannerisms. Registers in flight. But my laundry‚'s shrunk and tight. These fuckers think I memorized Strunk and White . See, I‚'m a factory, pump out smoke all day. Head‚'s literally in the clouds, and yet somehow I‚'m proud I‚'m looking up instead of at the ground. -Man, we thought we killed off doubts.‚' -Here‚'s a shovel. Bury your dead.‚' But my mindscape teems with zombies t hat are better left unfettered! Me? Thanks, no. I spin the facts with doctor/lawyer interior ity and a prime directive to direct my thoughts from complex inferiority. Like molasses/resin/sugar, my thoughts strong case for ocean madness, spinning candle-vigil tension spanned to shift away from sadne ss. And when your structures burn to ashes, I‚'m still the ca t without his glasses squinting hard into the sun while they look for contacts in the grasses. 9. The Fogbow My winsome win-some/lose-some attitude was negligence. I never thought I‚'d find a way to sever thoughts from resonance. See, I beat the darkness with nothing more than a steady stream of air and a little flame to gain the brains the chemical‚'s got in there. This su bversive for m of verse attracts a class of introverts whose very task‚'s to turn aversion into metered sky and dirt. My pillow moans with the weight of the head of hair I put upon it. My thoughts‚' ridiculous, synapse trickling, distractin g brain and dick from bickering. That‚'s why I‚'m on it; this phase is honest, like the last si x lines o f a sonnet. If I scare that stag away, my hunt is finished. That fire‚'s flickering; my honor offers alms to see that flame regain some kindling. But white burns blue and red burn yellow; wicked dance of wick and tallow. We can tell you killed Othello. Your nickels paid for Mont icello. My exposition‚'s over; my development‚'s begun. I‚'m saddling up to leave these family keys to visit other suns. I‚'m spinning webs along my way to stay on top of this metropolis and play those seven deadly games perfected in the acropolis. One: a trenchant introspection trick in onyx darkness. Two: a brief assessment carried out in honest starkness. Three: I spit some miracle brain opera jazz, but fuck it. Even seven deadly dances won‚'t begin to please this public. This is how we play our mindset when the coast presents self-conscious: I spill juice to grow my eucalyptus grove for these koalas. The capital of my funk is cityscape-fed 9-1-1. Flashing visions of a godsend on the inside of my eyelids. An urgent torch gives go-ahead to ex plore the deadly sins, but I‚'m too lazy to steal bread so I write sacrilegious hymns. My motion‚'s standstill steady already. I paint it with significance: while your rainbow peters o ut, my fogbow radiates magnificence. I had ti me machine/binocular mindview but skewed and blurry vision. Too tired to clean the lenses, I just lived with poor precision. Went back with altered monocle; that light sparked realizations. Now I see your lifestyle wax and welter ten steps pre-fruition. I ‚'m ‚'a spin you dizzy for a sec; wax synapse/cortex through a fairly blurry blizzard of merry syntax voicing the vortex that h eld me underwater while my life defined frustration. Maybe beautiful but deadly. Ill times. Forced unpaid vacation. Kamikaze headache floor-up hard w ork just weren‚'t working, nor was safety net next door or welcome arms in bed made worth it. I was trying to light a flame on open sea with a book of wet matches while the storm that shook around me soaked through leaky ill-formed hatc hes. A lighter and some limelight and a spring spent in c aptivity ma de me ask why I was in the dark with ve ins of electricity. Now if you ever find yourself come across this situation, let me give recommendation to underground-found bra in fuck penetration: it‚'s just patience. Spread the checkpoints with unshakeable fragility and heartbreaking stability. Push the button, set the course. Caged riots and alliances deny existence of a -buy it‚' instinct. I strolled up to my darkroom, opened the door and flicked the light switch. Now I‚'m here to check the tapers, scour papers, light insatiable lexicon on fire with my molecular compliance. I‚'m here to post a warning to you and yours before your fall. I‚'m here to crack the thickest wish list and write prophecy on drywall. I‚'m here to show you beauty in the fa ce of naysaying magic, like it‚'s possible to dock the boat before the mast splinters and mangles us. I‚'m here to direct my vectors in a twisted world. Are you here to join the seers or play cannibal with

The Oracle Hysterical

00. Chaos [that which is rightly called God, for in chaos all things are possible]
01.01 Disclaimer
01.02 The Madness Fragments pt. 1
01.03 The Madness Fragments pt. 2
01.04 [Gloss]
02. Satz: Scherzo
03.01 [ ]
03.02 Satz: Feierlich
04. The Fogbow

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