true people true people

Category: Raps (page 1 of 1)

I’m not sure what to call ya

Father, I’m not sure what to call ya. Dad won’t stand,
Cause what Id rather have is a friend.
All my life, you fed me stipends instead of good sense – leaving me to tie up the loose ends of my messy youth and that may sound confused but only ’cause you’re not used to the wild ways a child appraises truth. Im not obtuse –
I always knew you were in cahootz with crude capitalists – you bump fists with fiscal fascists. You can’t cap and trade on climate change – its far too vicious, so fuck your wishlists!

The mining industry needs their free trade screed to feed their growth expectancies. You can’t see you’re greasing up once-green pastures for rapacious masters. Goddamn Old man, you on the attack, got mother Nature on her back when you shake hands with the damned from Goldman Sachs! Matter of fact, something must be missing for you to be digging the next seven generations such an early grave.

Growing up, all I ever heard you say was:
My house my rules sit down behave do as I say not as I do Im telling you Im through with these clownish tirades! Face the corner eat your dinner sit up straight, don’t make that face – you must be a humble winner. Hate the sin but love the sinner. And bulk up, I choke up when I see you thinner than your sister. Chin up, I raised you to be strong so you wouldn’t wither.

Amazed, I would naively kneel, learning how to pray, too juvenile to understand why my Mother couldn’t let you stay and because of their shared pain, I aged apart and away: too shallow were the roots of your religion, too hollow were the suits who signed off on your commission – I’ve been missing something I never even knew I had. This too shall pass.

You were gone too far too long when I was too young too soon for my two brothers and not to toot the horn of my ornery sister but she’s been torn apart too by the same half-farcical patriarchal diatribe that we had to contrive to fill in the details cuz in the end, you tried and failed to be my father, my Dad or my friend.

Sea Change

Trying to hack this rap
As if I could rack up all my
thoughts in just one riff.
Still trip over my words with these flapping gums,
maybe ‘cuz the blunt ain’t done
And I’m fiending for another one,
but what’d I miss?

A verse so soft,
I could relive whatever it is
that lipsticked lips leave behind,
like a gentle kiss making me wish for a better time
when my mind was secure in its bliss,
not so quick to remiss,
or so swift to diss each thought as derelict crap.

Got that? ‘Cuz I didn’t. I’ll riff and still miss it.

Some flow got so much drow
You’d mistake it for a palindrome
still caught up searching for some meaning in the undertone.
Lost in my undertow.

Seeking a sea change, I rearranged
my life under a hail of endless tetris blocks,
wanting to rock somebody’s socks off
or prove that the whole world’s a crock.

Now, I’m just stuck between a rock and a hard place.
I’m in the caravan running on the fumes from tar sands,
and Iraqi oilways, far from grace, and yet still laced with rich veins;
We mine this land where justice leaves her own remains.

It’s over – we can’t sustain this limitless growth in select communities,
under lock and key, oh, tissue please, with stock issued priorities.
Hear them wonder: “Ah! What wars are lurking in my stock’s annuity?”
Here them ponder: “Ah! What’s so fucked about a neofeudal plutocracy?”

I can hear them mocking me. Me and my idealistic economic justice tendencies.
“Hey! How’s it feel to be a hippie hipster hip to our hypocrisies?”

I never thought there would be so few world leaders.
Or that the rich would need obedient good deeders.
I never thought great evil would be hiding in taxes.
I never knew how much destruction would be wrought by just plastics.

Paralyzed with hunger, I wonder, how to shop morally
as a concerned consumer when all of my groceries
are produced by fewer
than a dozen global companies
wringing out the juice like machines tuned
to consume at the rate of baby boomers.

Sooner or later, the temperature will
rise so fast it’s gonna surpass every ceiling and
steal the sky, leaving us all reeling
and kneeling in the dirt until we die.

And the next seven generations will forever ponder why.

So it goes, ashes to ashes,
dust to dust, thank you very much,
all our grandchildren will smirk, ironic ’til you blush,
cold to the touch, blaming all their civilizational clashes
on the climate tipped off-balance, and hand us this stanza:
so it goes, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, thank you very much.
All our grandchildren’s children will work against the rush
of flash floods, where no looming levee will ever be quite enough,
And their only crutch will be the refrain
which circles down the drain,
along with all the leaves of this sordid history,
so it goes, ashes to ashes,
dust to dust, thank you very much.

This notepad

Writing raps in this notepad helps this here broke lad break down his fear.
I hone the notes;
phase out bad elements
and purify the filaments which steer
my common sense.

But does it make you glad to know
that there are poets who crow about flow,
or about political turmoil –
whether serious or just some passing fad?
Those who care to
blare their woes to
chairs in rows
all their stories that
nobody knows
as if they were
impressive impresarios?

Well, I, for one,
love the tippy-toe confessionals,
for two fortuitous reasons:
seeing the Rule of Three being used so effectively and,
forcing the audience to forego their habitual

rituals, no matter the residual effects,
it should probably feel like you’re having some really good sex!
Coming correct, with continual consent and,
I bet if my decadent deceit need not be repeated then,
you listen well enough to get your crush’s cheeks heated!

Some advisory reads: “No Kiss and Tell!”
so I gotta hide my eating.
Never saw the sense in revealing where I
regularly like to find my seating.

But, as for reading? I liken it to lightning:
it’s like ideas flash before my eyes – blinding
my deciding mind until the sound of meaning crashes
through my spine and spills onto the page as writing.

You think I’m hiding Hell? My insides are inciting
a riot just because today they find it exciting!
My sides are saddling up my rib-cage for some riding.
Scamper up on these rhymes – they’re galloping like a stallion

rallying to the cry of a work horse. Of course,
who better to tell it to the letter than a good source?
Have you not suckled this simmering sauce that I sourced
from the finest of the coarsest boors? If not, then it’s your loss.

after winter comes spring

After Winter comes spring, when ghetto voices remember how to sing,
selling bling-bling, captured in a spiral of suffering,
I told ’em “nothing” when they asked if I was holding
got scolded by hot verse reserved for high kings
I woke up, spoke up then got my spokes choked up
drummed up and had to hitch home with my thumb up
a broken cup couldn’t hold water even if it were wine
A fierce mind falters if it doesn’t have a strong spine
Trading dollars for dimes and balancing on a fine line
Crying, “don’t take me back to court”, I said
drying dreads, four decades since I seen my own bed.
Snorting dried five-alives looking for street cred,
Now, scratch marks on my coffin to prove I was never dead.
Daddy said, “I can’t give you what you need,
so you better watch your mouth and you better watch your deeds
no stallions for steeds but there’s a battalion rallying in the words that you read.
Every single man has got to have a creed or a code ‘cuz hard lines are tough acts to follow,”
So, with classical largo, I spit slow to make it to tomorrow.
Calling out to Jim Crow, “I recognize, never fail to historize
and memorize all the times that you been terrorized.
There’s a lot of victims in a genocide and everything I know comes from just this one life of mine!
And when their souls sigh, they never leave a dry eye.”
So when it’s Do or Die, you’ll stand up for your rights,
the podium erodes in the absence of the people’s might.
‘Cause we carry the light! Every furnace is counted in candles –
Too hot to handle, we run deep like the mantle of the Earth.
The foundation of every birth – be it a blessing or a curse.
I’m confessing that a Mother can be smothered by the trial of giving birth.
Playing circles in her mind like seeing violence in reverse.
Spit a cycle of curt words to break the wings of her birds.
It doesn’t matter if you were born first or third,
‘cuz that Hate is bound to spread when it’s heard.
But now we’re here, so nevermind, smile alive and have some compassion
We could save ourselves a whole lot of queer-bashing,
if the spigot of bigotry had no symmetry,
if ignorance of experience was filled in by family,
Maybe even happily!
Then walk a mile in the Other’s shoe.
Didn’t you know Johnny Appleseed had rotten roots?
You can learn a lot from someone by the stains beneath their boots.

by Michael Cody Clarke
All Rights Reserved.

I stack ‘lax graffiti tasks on streetbeat kids

Slip me some sugar but you’re missing the molasses
and these mogul fascists
deserve 10^10 lashes.
Brandish the sashes and the barcode Ids
Identification fees costing you your identity.
Like muddy boots mingled with the shingles in a miser’s loot.
Are you in cahoots with the root fruits that produce this rotten truth?
My trenchcoat moat reveals roles like haute culture
I was born in the future so my epitaph will be graphed in the past!
I stack ‘lax graffiti tasks on streetbeat kids who got a thread for Lamborghini skids.
Rid of them all so don’t you stall!
When their flag is in the clear,
you don’t fear to drop the ball.
‘Cuz their smokestack ceremonies and their alimonies
breed fires into electric wires until the
choirs rent a tents at the base of the spire.
Call me a liar and we might have a brouhaha
Too many brews will get you bruises and you’ll need a spa!
Flap your wings and rap sweet nothings
I soften the sting like a broke arm in a sling.
And my longtime standing friend is now demanding an end
to this stipend that’s coming outta my two hands.
I pretend to render a smile fender-bender like the Nile,
your style can’t contend! With the depth of my breath
so I leave you to the flock
Grieve not that you’re caught as the brine of the stock.
I’ll ladle you anyways, slurpslip a sip to the tip of my lips
It’s better than a kiss ‘cuz
Nothing is missed in this gastrointestinal slowflow parable
Lying underneath this table

Cut the cable or cradle umbilical cords
Can’t afford to get rabbinical on the Lord
Draw the sword, or the pen if that’s your aim
Just be sure to find some blame or ‘least leave a stain
In the wrong game, maybe I’ll still capitalize
Cannibalize “turned” spies quick like turnstiles
Memorize, the process to this next spit
With no control over flow, sometimes it can just quit
get lit up, need a friend like i need a spark
either way would work to burn away this lonesome dark
on the midnight oil that burns but doesn’t boil
black and pitch like soil, why witches find preference
‘least, lackeys of lore retain my deference
Clearly clever sense, when I leave you for the Self
Dusted up my health and wealth that I left up on your shelf
but I’m over it. No longer playing games
Can count on me to always change, that stayed the same.
Just don’t forget my name, I’ve had enough awkward parties
Getting carded in bathrooms and told that I’m the “shorty”.
I burn bars whenever I get delirious, or furious,
Truly Curious to feel young and impervious
To shirts and snuff and bashful bluffs
Came too close like sniveling prose out of your nose,
Took the wrong dose, now you’re rooted and can’t balk.
This is the final walk so guard your speech and Don’t talk
We’ll be having a rendez-vous, you and I
True or die lullaby make all the wincing widows cry
All the same, ends you in a fresh-dug grave
Jeepers Creepers, creeping crawlies know how they should behave
although Slaves, they still brave the Overmind
Direct orders with the “Thanks, you are too kind”
Nevermind, no longer blinded by your orders
I smuggled all of your daughters across the borderline
Wave goodbye like Sin
Try to find the blade to break this bind
I’m Alex of Macedonia showin’ ya the answer to his koan
And no drugged up Samoan can bluff me like the mirror showing
Fear and stale drinks, beer and alcoholic sinks gotta think
this one through, last three hours felt like two.

by Michael Cody Clarke
All Rights Reserved

I’m Cantankerous

I’m cantankerous,
a cattle-shaped tank with custom-made plates
so real they make your wheels look fake
preposterous, I know
but sometimes these rhymes glow like phosphorous
or flow like osmosis between cells that are porous.
So, It’s a chore for the chorus
that’s why we bleed away the stragglers and fondlers
strep throat, straight coat ponderers
and philosophical wanderers
they strip the tips of gold from ink fountains
so they can write shit and call it a brick mountain
and now I’m counting the steps to orgasm
but I’m spinning a dizzy spell and I fell into a chasm.
stopped, dropped and rolled when my destiny was foretold
by wine-soaked gypsies crippled by their history
their memories plagued by parodies of their families
so never once will i feel at ease
in the arms of my enemies
cuz I carry them like knives
scared stiff like submissive wives
singing still stuck on lullabies when no one here would ever even hear their cries
their friends frustrating and fraying at the ends
strung out like old schoolshoe strings
gym-worn, street torn and busted down to bend
by stylistic trends measured in karats and gems
and don’t pretend that I’ve got enough money for a benz
that’s my uncle’s junk and I have no problem being a punk
I know my shit stinks but this brink brings its own funk
I’m no creole monastic monk.
but funnily,
I have a grasp on my most recent collapse
the time when I relapsed into an egotistical addiction
but now! science fiction teaches me everything
how to wonder and ponder and even how to siiiiing
I’ve got these birds chirps changing my hymns
because their melodies remind of Him
who is most on High and although I know it’s the greatest lie
I have no trouble speaking about religious bubbles
pressured and then pricked to pop
where else would emotion derive its motion?
why else would the genius of Icarus
be grounded in his grand fall?
It’s these pall mall conversations
over caffeine and masturbation
that make me sick of the sentimental shit
always fettered with the bit
driven right between my teeth
I need some relief,
because these pyromaniacs they have me in their sights
so I get panic attacks whenever I see a light
even if it’s at the end of a tunnel.
and my funnel vision keeps me in remission
I tend to lose my ambition whenever I need
to plead for your permission
and these statisticians are witnessing hell’s kitchen
caught cooking up a nation of fear
and the ingredients are ill perception,
terrible sense and way too much beer!
there’s no right answers here
only questions
if we only had greater sense
but I can’t count the dollar and cents
‘cuz I need to pay my fucking rent
where’s our parachutes and safety nets?
They’re with the dice and the back alley bets.
we’re waiting on excrement to ferment
in the hopes that we can one day play Rome
take this diamond vehicle covered in dents
to finally find a place called Home.

by Michael Cody Clarke
All Rights Reserved

Who am i?

Who am I?
When you do see me, I’m frosty, freewheeling and altogether dreamy
Unseemly, I know, to call my own posture, but who better?
Me or an impostor?
I fostered more children than I could even name ‘cuz my seed flows heavier than a storm drain!
I bring the flood, you know I got the King’s Blood!
In my capillaries so I must be royalty. So bend your knee ‘cuz I demand fealty
To my decrees and especially my pedigree: the Satan Spawn of my sexuality
Until all and one can agree upon the glory of Me: MCC
Master of this Cerebral Ceremony.

Now if you take the moment to ponder and recline, we’ll turn the conversation to Albert Einstein of the Rhine.
He was the greatest thinker of his time.
Scientific revolutions in his mind, he could find
All the best solutions to all the world’s pollutions – even mine.
One of nomenclature that undermined my stature,
I would grind
My teeth to dust
because I fussed and fussed
over who to trust
establishing my bust
‘Cuz I don’t wanna be stumbling, fumbling
with my wrist in rattling this ritalin
I get my medicine as if it was insulin.
I’m insolent but not insignificant.
I’m magnificent but not like Maleficent.

I’m Mista Bent, like a character borrowed – a shade trade that belays my largo flow. I slip like ice and snow but don’t flake and when I bake, I spit spiritual.

Grip the cash bag of lyrics
and bash any fake spirits that hamper your
stuttering sidesteps.
Be blessed oh dear pious one
messed up with a melted spoon and this loaded gun.
This situation is ill-spun like Hunter`s bad dream with a Thompson.
Or was it a handgun?
I can’t remember…
A whole different calibre I clip to the quick and spit before you can get hold of your esophagus.
And this metropolis has become my sarcophagus.
Don’t matter got gold like Tutankhamon
‘cuz I’m so rich I make all y’all look common
And my derelict slapstick ticks off all these Brahmen.
I’m conjuring just like a magic shaman.
So, dream of genie or better yet a genius.
A sober, serious scientist that did enlist
in unveiling the tale of the cosmos.
Let’s all dose on Al’s mathematical prose.
E=MC squared,
I dare thee to refute this truth!
But you see,
my philosophy is inextricably eponymous of its calligraphy.
I’m MCC, synonymous with Energy!

by Michael Cody Clarke
All Rights Reserved