by Daniel Davis Clayton

I've tasted hatred and traded correlated rhyme correspondences tempered by time. Created kudos of recreational glucose ingestments, lactose intolerant pseudo investments of kisses, carressments, this is attestment taken under unlawful investigative actions instigated only for crimes intertwined with the troubled kind of love confined. I've kept things inside that collectively coincide with wrecked dreams and pride which indefinitely localize like clipped wings, plucked eyes and the vexingly thoughts summarized by those sought least of the lot.

Only as strong as our weakest knot and our heritage of homelessness harbors soulless plots against aviation. We were destined to fall. Flailing our arms and wailing our psalms in the aftermath of acute affixation unavailable for atonement during the duration of our delightful recital-esque interactions.

Compound fractions in the bones on which the weight rested. Bested indeed but bound to break upon more heinous heaping of unfounded harping, and whose to herald the disenfranchised when wolven packs lie in waiting and one must defend his own discombobulation? I'm confused. I thought niggers only had the mental capacity of conformity and could expound very little upon subjects outside the realm of the more base genres. You know, bitches and whores, how much weed one can smoke, who can't hold their liquor, who got they ass whipped last week and I speak on the truth. Folk seem surprised that you can use a word or two correctly or within their own language craft text of unrecognizable origins. Phrases that even have rhythm without the rhyme; touching on topics untempered by time. And now that I'm in the midst of trading these correlated subject matter mind melding mouth ejaculations placing seeds inside you as if I'm your future baby's daddy and since this is like 1989 love in the back of a Caddy we don't have to use a rubber no more I mean now that I'm up inside you already and our fluid transactions has exposed you to any viruses I may be transmitting you might as well relax and let me take you there. To the point I'm trying to translate; don't let any ole mutha fucka persuade you. And if you decide that Sweet Sweetback needs a new groove, that my vocal chords ain't vibin' right then stop meeting me late at night in dimly lit places to ponder. I've often wandered nomadic negro diameter distances.

Read of Toussaint resistances and met Bobby Lee inhaling much of his essence. The presence of such molecules in my blood stream attested to harsh contestments where even H20 can strip the flesh, falsely arrested intellects and southern dialects listening when fists stood still. Black silhouettes of suspended string lynchings, as taunt as guitar necks which bore the blues. Four from which to choose after church bombings and the co-habitation of bricks on bellies to burn. Pass the blame around the table to no one as it dwindles. Smoking flames surround and disable; may choke some then rekindle embers which never die, ice laden eyes and hearts. Fresh starts from frosty grounds on which to grow. Now I germinate my own anger ripe for hellacious harvests. Promoting hallucinogenics and split cigar lamentments on which to levitate. That's some heavy shit; and cloud nine can scarce define the stress marks it means to alleviate. I seem to deviate from darkling instances of self-alienation and placed placation; fermented libations consented for consumption, Colt 45 Billy Dee Williams rebirth of the cool eruptions. Fedoras, you know, tilted gangsterisms symptoms of street rhythms causing monthly aneurisms of FBI flushes. UGK said when the feds in town to feed your pit bulls balloons bloated with cocaine granules. Cats going down for multiple annuals, I mean putting in work 9-5 which results in 5-9's. Pouring 40's for lives lost in the holocaust of habitual harassment.

Breaking bottles and fist to cuffs in which to trust, the might of my own hands hollow from holding fleeting dreams and it seems that I can't kill enough to wet my inordinate appetite for affliction.

Momma didn't hug me too much and pops didn't slug me enough and now I've touched on all expected genres as aforementioned. You know, bitches and whores, how much weed one can smoke, who can't hold their liquor, who got they ass whipped last week and I speak the truth. Pimp shit disguised in thinking. Reaching surmised in sinking. Perhaps now I've said enough. The hatred I've tasted. The words that I've wasted. The hatred I've wasted on words contemplated. Created amazement.