SHINING SKY LOBSTER

by Heavy Jamal

/
  • Includes unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.

     $5 USD

     

1.
2.
3.
4.
03:47
5.
6.
04:22
7.
04:45
8.
02:44
9.
(free) 03:01
10.
03:24
11.
12.
13.

about

The freshman catalogue of duo Heavy Jamal combines dance-y electronic beats with throwback narrative raps and futuristic philosophical anthems.

Inspired both by the big, dark, grimy jams of Wu-Tang and other 1990s rap icons and by the mind-bending, literate experiments of Deltron and Doom, SHINING SKY LOBSTER is… weird? Yes. Good music? Hell yes.

Look out for Heavy Jamal's second album to drop in 2014!

credits

released 01 April 2012

tags

license

all rights reserved

feeds

feeds for this album, this artist
Track Name: A.N.A.L.O.G.Y.
I rock a candy-stripe engineered-cat fur cloak,
walk dandy-style, killin fear, eatin mad oaks,
growin old folks instead a those heirloom rhymes:
I rock like salt/sage/rosemary/and thyme…

Rap songs are really just long metaphors
slant-rhymed over space bass from mini-KORG keyboards.
Sounds good over congas, good over bongas—
Heavy don’t care how your kit set up, man,
long as it got that snare tight with vintage cymbal,
cause I got more flow than an aqueduct.
Need a crash like an earthquake to tear shit up,
with the bass drum shakin like the EQ fucked up.
The reverb sound like his own doppelgänger;
every hook like a different strip-club banger.
It’s too loud to dance to, too weird to shake to—
That’s cool, space out, let the music save you;
psychedelically, enhancing all them bullshit flesh-bars;
Throw more soirees at your own apartments;
And flow like stone liquefied to orange-black lava;
and don’t never trust a beat that don’t got no congas!

Don’t never trust a beat that ain’t got no conga…
Don’t never trust a beat that ain’t got no conga…
Don’t never trust a beat that ain’t got no conga…
Don’t never trust a beat that ain’t got no conga…

Applyin nice analog loops over girls yellin,
is to Heavy Jamal as ice is to chillin.
Applyin nice analog loops over girls yellin,
is to Heavy Jamal as ice is to chillin—

…Rap songs are just strong metaphors
chained by space bass to mini-KORG keyboards.
If a verse emerges borderline we dig in again
until we leave nothing our wakes except Finnegan.
Cause it’s my way, Swann’s Way, or the highway.
Do mythology the right way, how might I say?
Venerate Kool Keith and Madlib; on good days,
I spray the hood prismatic with verbs, nouns, and bluejays.
Composed like Beethoven, the fabric is woven
out of birds and analogies and sometimes fallacies.
So a roman-a-clef I compose in one breath;
in one sec, rip a set like Jack on rot-gut and meth.
In a word, talk comparisons, confidence, and arrogance,
vocoderized lies about your hair and Tims?
Naw, I fly like the myna in an all-gryphon system,
and don’t never trust a beat without no congas—shh, listen:

I rock a candy-stripe engineered-cat fur cloak,
walk dandy-style, killin fear, eatin mad oaks,
growin old folks instead a those heirloom rhymes:
I rock like salt/sage/rosemary/and thyme…

I rock a candy-stripe engineered-cat fur cloak,
walk dandy-style, killin fear, eatin mad oaks,
growin old folks instead a those heirloom rhymes:
I rock like salt/sage/rosemary/and thyme…
Track Name: Altar of the Dead
For two hundred summers we been getting by,
Kept our ears to the streets, Ls to the sky
In deferential thought to all those who had died
Stealin whole flocks just to get the shepherd's pie.
…After class, flyboys was getting ass,
But us Brooklyn crooks kept amassin cash.
When they built the Starport on Grand and Kent,
We was high the whole time, stealin jet fuel for rent.
…My dad born, 2126,
Worked at the Chinese gas station, ate tofu fishsticks.
I weren't born, till forty years later.
My best friend James capped by a laser on a caper,
Robbin rich kids from Bed-Sty for paper
Cept cash been credit since President Ralph Nader.
We had bad planning: My boy caught a bad one,
Red-type stunnah, flowin red blood no fun
I went shogun in the hood, next few years,
Cryin all the time like it ain't all good—
But no fear, just thought of James's face,
Lyin dead in the phosphorescent condo loft paint…

In a bar on Atlantic and Bloomberg,
I told a dude my story, he was cooler than iceberg,
Bought my nerve-wracked self a drink or two,
And said, "Money, I too have lost mad crew,
So I regret to do what I got to do,
Hate to be rude, but what you trying to prove?
I'm a cop, son, and that load a jet fuel y'all took
Woulda sent my cousin into space, now his head's shook:
Lost his job, just watch the Tube,
Can't afford to pay the Google bill, mad crude,
Shot himself dead when his dream was killed,
So you understand why I gots to be so ill."
I said, "Damn, look like I had a good ride,
hood-side richer than a miner on the dark side
of Moon 1," and that was *all* I said,
gin-choked, bleedin tears on the Altar of the Dead…
Track Name: I B DRANKIN DIAMONDZ
I be ridin lobsters
ballin like a true sphere
center stayin everywhere
circumference bein nowhere

I be rockin long hair
no cares—no fears—
cept a bein so drunk
fuckin till my dick clear

lips be dark as horseshoe
crabs off a purple pier
at midnight in heaven
when the lights off, oh yeaher

party like it's Baghdad
in nine-ninety-nine
and you fuckin twenny Frankish bitches
feelin so fai-yain

BECAUSE!? I B DRANKIN DIAMONDZ
I B DRANKIN DIAMONDZ
I B DRANKIN DIAMONDZ
I B I B DRANKIN DIAMONDZ

I B DRANKIN DIAMONDZ
cuttin like a monkey do
trippin with them scissors
sippin on some sizzurp-stew

liquid chicken gizzards
…milkshake, apple bottom
don't tell em Heavy's round
this town crunk enough without em

OH SHIT IT'S TOO LATE
diamond po-po everywhar
askin have ya seent him, cuzin
nah they simply drinkin beers

still you should look closer still
the bubbles off the lager head
is fifty karat to the tenfth
tha's mo mo gold than Ozymand—

ever had—watch, men—
we do it like Watchmen
flyin in the Heavy blimp
and cookin shrimp poppin off

CAUSE I B DRANKIN DIAMONDZ
I B DRANKIN DIAMONDZ
I B I B DRANKIN DIAMONDZ
I B DRANKIN DIAMONDZ

I B DRANKIN DIAMONDZ
SPITTIN UP SAPPHIRES
SHITTIN OUT EMERALDS, DAWG,
TILL HE IN THE CLAY, EXPIRED

EVEN THEN BET TEN
HE COMIN BACK ANYWHO
WHO KNEW? THE DEVIL DID
TIME-TRIPPIN, HE CHEATIN DUDE

CAUSE WE B DRANKIN DIAMONDZ
…DIAMONDZ …DIAMONDZ
CAPS LOCKS IS ON IT
LIKE I'M SHOUTIN AT SOME FINE YOUNG

GIRLS WHO MY GIRLFRIEND KNEW
AND THEY B DRANKIN COINTREAU
WE B SHAKIN SALT
TILL THE LAND AIN'T FARMABLE

(why everybody want diamonds anyway?
y'all think rare carbon's baller but to me it's just a phase, until—)

I—I—I—I—
I B DRANKIN DIAMONDZ diamondz diamondz
I B I B DRANKIN DIAMONDZ diamondz diamondz
I B DRANKIN DIAMONDZ diamondz diamondz
I B I B DRANKIN DIAMONDZ diamondz diamondz
Track Name: Gorilla Dust
…My id lifts the heavy shit;
my ego flows, gettin froze, offa Per-nod;
permanently rollin tape, rockin grapes
pressed right, clockin papes—and yes *you* can invest, gurl!
…Spit shoe-shine diamonds, not gorilla dust:
Toes to clavicles to fontanelle, it's anti-rust/
anti-trust/*full* like the beat got way preggers.
You wanna buy my rhymes? You can call Dave Eggers:
He sell it in the pirate villain store with self-helpers.
I did a secret scuba show till over-eager Yelpers
brought like half the BK, the BX, and BMX
hip-set to rock out. I'm listenin to Dipset
sped down, backwards. Often let my mind mull.
Got so high, told baby girl she had a fine skull.
…And that's the kind of well-placed
pause make a club up and melt into a fuck-lake. Y’all
love the neologisms, love the way her pencil skirt shake
and fall off, like fallin-off-the-bone steak—
fake—cause the tempeh taste even better-best.
Her sweater I got reversed, her hair is a hot mess!
…And never spit gorilla dust, God bless!

Oh, baby, don't sell me no gorilla dust,
no rhino powder. Gimme somethin I can trust.
Oh, baby, don't sell me no gorilla dust,
no rhino powder. Gimme somethin I can trust.

Ignorant magicians read truth in the stars,
but that type of overstanding won't get your ass to Mars.
But whatever, based on a true story: LMFAO.
Stay local-relative, true the mic and gray suit coat.
So enjoy your eyebrow threadin and psychic reading,
whatever gives you the feelin that we ain't overkeelin.
I'm reelin, stupid loopy off the warm Tecate,
4 to the AM, amazing I can still say *everything*—
still run the game like the croupier.
Fans say the cracker rhyme saint talked the sun down,
the moon up, the pimps to a nunnery, get thee out of town?
Okay, soon as Mangoose mix this stuffed-crust—
Remix the Nixon tapes? *That's* gorilla dust for serious,
But yo, god, based on a true story:
Leaving emcees taxidermied after every brutal sortie.
Devil spit like a young James Joyce, sprung,
leaving dames moist with the dung-type talk, son.

(Yeah. Oh.)

Oh, baby, don't sell me no gorilla dust,
no rhino powder. Gimme somethin I can trust.
Oh, baby, don't sell me no gorilla dust,
no rhino powder. Gimme somethin I can trust.
Oh, baby, don't sell me no gorilla dust,
no rhino powder. Gimme somethin I can trust.
Oh, baby, don't sell me no gorilla dust,
no rhino powder. Gimme somethin I can trust.
Track Name: Conference of the Birds
Devil defines the self with cut-up songs and proverbs,
reverb, battle drills, philosophical chills
down backs that ran in back alleys where last night heard
were secret words chirped by aging turbaned Songbirds, like:

"…I'm the pigeon-king who trods in the gutter-street,
utters over odd beats, cuddles only otter teats,
dresses Mod and stutter-speaks,
hollers when I beat my meat:
'Peace off the curb, herb:
All birds can flutter lonely in the sky
or lower-greet the ruler with the lava-heat…'" Or:

"I am the four-beaked vulture-headed Shag-king
I sit atop my mountain made of birds and the words ring
from my jewel-ed tongue like the waves of deep shock,
waking up the Nephilim, the sneakerheads, and gods of rock—"

Among the rain and lights I saw the figure 5 tonight
and realized that sight was gift more gold than mines, and, yes, despite
the riches loved by eyes, the world itself is bright, alive—
truth is gold was is and always will be, right?

My new eyesight changed Brooklyn all around me
on the crowded street, a red fire bird slowed down to see
the tense unheeded clanging of my beak against the glass
couldn't get out, till I realized I was out at last,
had been the whole time, wary of the rumbling dark,
now the siren howl of the city fills the humble park.

And then the Owl says:
"Made me think back to failed attempts at queen-making,
coal-raking, liver-breaking (surely the heart's already been taken)
I need you the way the sea needs the moon.
I need you how oak needs the sun.
But cancer, too, grows from that very same fire,
so don't stare, girl, cause you ain't the one."

And then the Crow responds:
"In seed time learn, in harvest time teach,
In winter enjoy, in the meantime reach,
For a fool sees not the same tree I see.
Exuberance is beauty, and I shine mightily.
He whose face gives no light, will never be star.
If you know about God, then you know about scars…"

And then their leader the Kingfisher says:
"'Go head… Drink the mingled venoms up'
Heard this gangsta kid speak as the sun came up:
Truly troubling is this syntax…
How connected can I be to a whole fucking town?
Even one so so small as New York City;
I mean, in Tokyo, you can hear the growing of the ground.
The city's skin bursts, and cytokine reactions
grip the sewage system-livers and towers of woven bowels.
What if every single hair upon my head is crown?
What if the path walks itself and lives Uptown?
I don't mean to bust inner child custody battle rhymes…
No, fuck it: I mean everything: I am Solid Pride."

Prayers plow not. Praises reap not.
Joys laugh not. Sorrows weep not.

Simorgh, tell the Master, wait for me!
The Answer never seems to come…
It's as if the Answer's living or just bullshit; likely,
the Answer is a question-feathered, floating past the sun…
Track Name: Kama Sutra
…Pardon my French-kiss…
Sway your legs this way, that way, or this…
Rock a fog of love instead of a war-mist…
Whether with oils, fists, or piss: Experiment in bliss.
…Pardon my hard encore…
Even cyborgs want splattered-gore play-ta-tha-fore.
Frisky kitty, listen or least lick the wrist:
…Hope y'all all get the jism if not the gist.

Look into my blood and find the first triple helix;
my dog's name is His Day; my cat's name is Felix;
frequent is my gift: The Secret of Secrets,
whether to a Harry/Dick/Tom/Kathy/or Regis;
freak this, is what you should do if you feel this—
appeal to the pathos, logos, and penis,
doorway/scar/cave/lance/rod/or/genius:
Meanness tends to disappear when you think ahead,
ex-squeeze this, I mean when you think head and mean it,
a ski-lift is what you'd need to escape my sea-change:
Even lame brain is still brain so think-n-rearrange.
The game to reflect that if pain is suspect
maybe pleasure is the all/everything/one/and being
Being is a gift so give back and be it:
"It" being giraffe, humanoid, or semen
choice is a pleasure, so do what Thou wilt then.
Big Ben strikes every time I scratch my pen
to the vellum/face/mirror/time-well/or drug-den
you call a book/sword/poem/rap/or well-drink—
I call shenanigans/gimme head and then pink!

Kama Sutra, in my bed.
All these thoughts in my head.
Upside down, subservient cow,
I don't know where your dick is now.
I gotta slip-n-slide, you wanna take a ride,
Side-saddle cowgirl, you can come inside—

Instead of farms or bombs, the feds should subsidize sex;
expand the dildo industry; cure the Herpes simplex,
complex, medium, and sesame-chicken fried;
give tax breaks to porn producers, make em use skinny guys,
fat chicks, normal people, plots, and good music;
distribute the tapes to every Baptist Church in Houston.
…Every madrassa, every Catholic school,
should start worshipping the human, making facts of living cool.
See if sin we are in-born, then sin we will live and die,
and in between enjoy ourselves. Stop whining at the sky.
I vote for condoms in the middle schools, free.
Don't ask me—ask the million kids with H-I-V
in Africa and South Asia because the Pope is squeamish
about the hows and whys and inconveniences of penis.
I know, y'all, sex raps should feature a bubble bath,
a melismatic crooner singing odes to the fat ass,
but I tend to sing electric for all shades of mankind;
Love to straight and gay and brown and pink and every sweaty thigh.
This is do or die music, or rather do or don't live.
Kids: Touching's more fun than guns, so give what ya get.

Or take your cues from the MF BOOK OF DOOM:
When you coming over to cum? She be like, "Soon, soon, soon…"
Oddball, with the jaw that cuts like a Sawz-All.
Dag, y'all, what a cad, raggin on ya catcalls.
Scarfin cat down on the upside, look:
It takes a very long wait to leave every head shook,
by hand, by meter, at times by land,
sea, horse, man, woman, villain, or child—damn,
bake crab cakes with laser breath and fire eyes.
Heavy chest—styleless? Don't worry, we accept thighs
of all size. Teach to reach a climax on the side,
in the back, break the average rack when he sighs,
Yawns, or turns blue, like Almost Transparent.
Opaque mission—switch the vision of the bad parent;
teach via crazier lingo than Chomsky;
keep it Crunky; hatin like Cliff Yablonski.

Kama Sutra, in my bed.
All these thoughts in my head.
Upside down, subservient cow,
I don't know where your dick is now.
I gotta slip-n-slide, you wanna take a ride,
Side-saddle cowgirl, you can come inside—
Track Name: I'm Like
I'm like, so bizarre, live off Pimms and roast zaatar.
Yoghurt on his stache, still mackin the whole bar.
I'm under par, underground, the Undermountain star,
goatish young fuck with gilt tongue and long ha'r—
Deep Blue beseecheth me till doom-used
by indigo wendigoes, ventin they screw juice.
I'm like "oooh"-proof, doin the right thing,
but you too! can turn mics to Mike-n-Ikes,
chewin till bruise-toothed—
Yeah, right, I'm like Gargamel, spittin out blue limbs.
Naw, I'm like Lord Jim, on the ship, garglin Pimm's
…Or the Joker goin raw on the pills again—
Oops, too soon? Whoops, blame it on Cartman and his friends.
I'm like shirts vers' skins, vers' sharkskin suits.
Marksmen know, I'm like three bullseyes after five Absoluts.
Course the truth is, truth's relative.
I'm like a drunk white Fela Kuti preachin elegance.
…Otherwise, fuck style and its elements.
I'm like a tornado, eatin styles, makin yours irrelevant—
I'm like a rococo force majeure… I'm like a house built entirely of backdoors!
(Yeah yeah. And Mangoose bring it on the 1s, 2s, 3s, and 4s.)

I'm like, "Girl, all I wanna do is kiss it.
I'm like, for real, all I wanna do is ask ya:
'You like me now? How do you like me now?
How do you like me now? How do you like me now?'"
I'm like, "Girl, all I wanna do is kiss it.
I'm like, for real, all I wanna do is ask ya:
'You like me now? How do you like me now?
How do you like me now? How do you like me now—now?'"

I'm like swing with no set,
or a sun composed entirely of one, fuck it, just came here for the wet—
[BLEEP] Shit—I meant to say the exposed necks:
Either get a gorget or learn to like it a little lacking in respect—
but never lacking class. I'm like the pied piper of a parade of fine ass.
Plus I'm like always eatin nice striped South Sea bass.
I'm like a walking monument to me own fits
of admittedly only ever three-quarters clever bullshit
spat like a thousand-mile-an-hour cricket bat
of aluminum through six inches of steel, so who needs guns?
Who needs DMT when you've got DJ Run?
Fuck it, gimme both, I'm off to the bogs—viva la FUN.
(And keep it comin, with Heavy Jamal… the Mangoose, on the 2s and 1s—)

I'm like, "Girl, all I wanna do is kiss it.
I'm like, for real, all I wanna do is ask ya:
'You like me now? How do you like me now?
How do you like me now? How do you like me now?'"
I'm like, "Girl, all I wanna do is kiss it.
I'm like, for real, all I wanna do is ask ya:
'You like me now? How do you like me now?
How do you like me now? How do you like me now—now?'"

I'm like, "Ooh la la la la."
I'm like, "Ooh la la la la laaa laaa."
I'm like, "Ooh la la la la."
Then I'm like, "Ooh—ooh—oooh la la la la laaa laaa."

I speak with confidence.
It's like every time I open my mouth the ground is rent in half as verbs devour shit.
Speak and destroy kids, then bring em back again.
I'm like the internet. I'm everyone's friend.
I'm everybody's threat, and I fuckin bet,
You are a little like me, cause life is hectic.
So learn to like the chaos and the calm inside of it.
For now, I'm gone, but not for long,
Yo, DJ—rewind this shit—

I'm like, "Ooh la la la la—"
I'm like, "Ooh la—" I'm like, "Ooh la—"
I'm like, "Ooh la—" "Ooh la—"
I'm like, "Ooh la—" "Ooh la—"
"Ooh—" "Ooh—" "Ooh—" "Ooh—"
"Ooh la la la la—"
"Ooh la la la la laaa laaa—"
I'm like, "Ooh la la la la—"
Then I'm like, "Ooh—ooh—oooh la la la la laaa laaa—"
Track Name: Walk Around
When we walk around the world world world world world world world world world,
we rock the party fo sho—
When we walk around the world world world world world world world world world,
we rock the party fo *sho*—

I walk around my house in my drawers drawers drawers drawers drawers drawers drawers
in my basketball shorts—
I walk around my house in my drawers drawers drawers drawers drawers drawers drawers
in my basketball shorts—
I don't give a fuck about sports sports sports sports sports sports sports
I'm only five-foot-four—
I don't give a fuck about sports sports sports but when I step up to the plate
I always score score score—

And when my boo be in the mood I'm all like gurl gurl gurl gurl gurl gurl gurl
and then she on all fours—
And when my boo be on all fours it ain't no pause pause pause pause pause pause pause
she sceamin more more more—
And when she sinkin in her claws I'm feelin sore sore sore sore sore sore sore
until she up and just roar—
And when she sinkin in her claws I'm feelin sore sore sore sore sore sore sore
until I'm out that door—

I might be broker than a joke joke joke joke joke joke joke joke
but still I'm reppin fo sho—
I might be broker than yo moms moms moms moms moms moms moms moms moms
but I keep honeys galore—
And so I ain't never poor poor poor poor poor poor poor poor
because yo moms want more—
And I'm mackin like a don don don don don don don don don
until these rhymes you can't afford—

If I walk around the world world world world world world world world world
then I guess I'm on tour—
If I walk around the world world world world world world world world world
then I guess I'm on tour—
But if I'm rockin at the spot spot spot in Bed Burg Bush Point Park Heights
I shake the Planet to the core—
But if I'm rockin at the spot in Fort Rock Bridge Ville Coney I I I
I shake the Planet to the core—

I shake the Planet to the core I shake the Planet to the core I shake the earth
till I see all a em panties on the floor—
I shake the Planet to the core I shake the Planet to the core I shake the earth
till we see all them bras on the floor—
I shake the Planet to the core I shake the Planet to the core I shake the earth
until we see all them booties on the floor—
I shake the Planet to the core I shake the Planet to the core I shake the earth
until I see all a em panties on the floor.

I shake the Planet to the core I shake the Planet to the core I shake the earth
till I see all a em panties on the floor—
I shake the Planet to the core I shake the Planet to the core I shake the earth
till I see all them bras on the floor—
I shake the Planet to the core I shake the Planet to the core I shake the earth
until we see all them booties on the floor—
I shake the Planet to the core I shake the Planet to the core I shake the earth
until I see all a em panties on the floor.
Track Name: [Control Song]
Clap yo hands like a dog
Clap yo hands like a dog
Clap yo hands like a dog
Like a dog with human hands

Do a dance like a dog
Do a dance like a dog
Do a dance, any dance
Like a dog humpin my pants

Turn yo head like an owl
Turn yo head like an owl
Turn yo head like an owl
Three hundred sixty degrees

Turn yo head like an owl
Turn yo eyes like an owl
Big ass eyes like an owl
So you can watch this dick please

Raise yo hands put em down
Raise yo hands put em down
Raise yo hands to yo pants
Now pull off all yo underwear

Crush a spider in a jar
Crush a spider in a jar
Crush a spider in a jar
Now why you crush that spider there?

You do because we say
Cause we say
Cause we say
You do you do because we say
Cause we say
Cause we say
I wanna see them hips sway
Hips sway
Hips sway
I wanna see them breakin down
Hips swayin
To the ground—

I say I say I say I say
Who gives a fuck, fuck all day
I say I say I say I say
Show yo bus and alleyway

Show yo bus and alleyway
Show yo bus and alleyway
I say I say I say I say
Steal a horse and drive away—

I say I say I say I say
Who gives a fuck, fuck all day
I say I say I say I say
Show yo bus and alleyway

Show yo bus and alleyway
Show yo bus and alleyway
I say I say I say I say
Steal a horse and drive away—

Arch yo gams like a cat
Arch yo gams like a cat
Arch yo gams like a cat
Who be knowin where we at

Drink some drank like a monkey
Drink some drank like a monkey
Drink some drank like a monkey
Who be knowin how we rap

Certified crunk please
Hand me aperitifs
I don't dance I just command
Like J-Caesar or Methodman

We got wires, we got hands
You got wires, you got hands
Give yoself a silver star
We get gold stars because we can

I say I say I say I say
Don't listen to the words I say
I say I say I say I say
Feel six senses in five days

Smoke some diamonds in a flask
Smoke some diamonds in a flask
Smoke some diamonds in a flask
Now why oh why you did that task?

You did because we sayed
Cause we sayed
Cause we sayed
You did you did because we said
Cause we said
Cause we said
I wanna see them hips sway
Hips sway
Hips sway
I wanna see them breakin down
Hips swayin
To the ground—

I say I say I say I say
Who gives a fuck, fuck all day
I say I say I say I say
Show yo bus and alleyway

Show yo bus and alleyway
Show yo bus and alleyway
I say I say I say I say
Steal a horse and drive away—

I say I say I say I say
Who gives a fuck, fuck all day
I say I say I say I say
Show yo bus and alleyway

Show yo bus and alleyway
Show yo bus and alleyway
I say I say I say I say
STEAL A HORSE AND DRIVE AWAY—
Track Name: Daisy Miller
[I used to roll with a sly cat named Randy Winter. He was a real popular gee. Lemme tell you bout how he almost got iced. This what he told me:]

I was simply chillin, villainously weed dealin
in Germantown Philly, when a cutie said she feelin
how it's like I rock the ceiling I got so many fans
so I said "what's ya name, where ya come from, damn,
baby, red hair like meant to be stared at,
back like a whole grove of mangoes, please lemme taste that—"
"Ya frontin"—that was all she said—
then she twisted at the hip, turned around, and left.
I followed suit, said "two can play hard-ball,
plus I bet them daisy dukes get a whole lot of cat calls
and yes y'alls," she said, "indeed indeed
they call me Daisy Dukes and I'm pristine, a dream,
black chick with bubblegum lipstick and a wig
and yes I like ya style but ya need a leaf of fig
to cover up ya doghouse mind, it's too obvious,
plus I'm only dickteasing, mama'd be furious,
I'm too young, and I don't even live here,
only chillin out till we head back to Brownsville"
I said "Cool, I can respect that,
it's simply that it's mad hot, my brain's crazy one-tracked,
if you like I can give you a lift,
there's a castle down the road, no lie, we could smoke a spliff—"
she said, "Word, …take me back to my Aunt Merle,
Y'all can talk and maybe in a day or two we'll be, uh, homegirls,"
I laughed, she laughed, I met her aunt
smooth-talking/good-lookin older chick, hip,
asked if the three of us could split the aforementioned spliff
I said, "Yeah, we could roll deep like submarines and shit,"
I took Daisy out, leaving out the nasty stuff,
We had a good day or two, auntie had a couple puffs
of good weed, she said, "Peace, Mr. Winter, please,
Come and see us soon, the girl needs a role model or three."

[But I wasn't really cool with the whole deal, Heavy—
I can see why not—
Fuckin with a young mind, not trying to do wrong—
What happened next, Wint?—You tell em, Jay, this is yo song—]

Looked her up the next year to say hello
And caution that Miss Dukes could take life a ways slow
Her aunt cryin, "She's been in Philly for a week,
Chillin with a mob cat who spits when he speaks,"
Mr. Big Panino, I met em at the castle doors
all broke in and smoked a spell,
talked it out, what the hell,
She seemed happy, maybe caught up in living fast,
Only I could shake my head, shake some hands and peace back,
to report to her aunt what I seen,
too weak to stop the girl from livin in her dreams
stead of using her head right, she's living in some next life,
Didn't think about it till the next winter my phone lights
up in the dead of night, it's auntie, the girl passed,
complications from a bug she caught throwin a long pass,
you know, hailin Mary like y'all hail a cab,
trying not be bored, too smart for school bland
too hot for cold nights, too young for living grand
too grand for poor blocks, too tight for loose shocks,
rusty rims, holy candles, Voudou, or holy socks
Almost caught the bug from a chick on a trip
Probably helped ruin her life, now mine's shit
Don't feel good about nothing I've done,
let the beat ride out as Heavy Jamz gets it done

[That's all my boy said, last I heard he fucked up
baggin Don Panino's wife, almost got his collar cut
instead took a vay-kay in Colombia,
only hope he's learned to be strong, say no to younger]

[Kids, this has been a PSA, from Heavy Jamal,
Devil, Mangoose, and those American Apparel ads
wherein eleven year olds are encouraged to where spandex…
That shit's retarded…]
Track Name: 1001 Plateaus
I am an orchid. Girls is hornets.
My style is tai-chi. Your views is morbid.
You is a subject. I am a writer.
I tag the wings of red lions with hi-liters.
Kite-string cutter, thought is potato-shaped,
still an ape, Cutty-Sark funneled to my funny face.
Tapes-n-Tapes, I am absorbed in:
displayin how the most trapped asshole’s the warden.

If you drunk teaching children in an air-conditioned building—
—Give yourself a gold star—
If you gotta pretty tag and a messenger bag—
—Give yourself a gold star—
If you read Foucault and eat jalapenos—
—Give yourself a gold star—
If you cut, scratch, break, erase, or rhyme slooow—
—Give yourself a gold star—

The key is play the game and wobble through the tracings.
I cut new maps from cobblestones and lace things.
That interform the world—the map worms and makes flat
rap songs/“real” life/garden walks/and sand cats.
Who loves Tom? Only Jerry can.
I got a Blackberry tin-can phone, Sam—
play it again. I’ll have a gin and smoke.
Callin all Cthulhu cultists to keep me unbroke.

If you re-spect women, pets, and wet sex—
—Give yourself a gold star—
If you cookin curried lentils and yo shirt say "Das EFX"—
—Give yourself a gold star—
If you drinkin old Scotch with like one nice rock—
—Give yourself a gold star—
If you disbelieve in stars, golds, problems, and clocks—
—Give yourself a gold star—

Intruder with a key, B&E, S&M—
messin with these rhizomes is open-system titty-twistin.
Devil Springs creak… C'mon, listen:
The snake eats the apple tree and keeps on hissin.
Spill the whole programme at a glance:
Plug into all machines: All hips and hands,
and when my lips say get down, baby, we gon’ dance—
the core becomes sound—the floor becomes pants!

If you poised to rock Organized Konfusion OR Noise—
—Give yourself a gold star—
If you mix high and low and smoke medical dro—
—Give yourself a gold star—
If your pet cat mates much faster by FireWire—
—Give yourself a gold star—
If your metal balloon dome can't fly no higher—
—Give yourself a gold star—

If you A-plussin that new-math take-home pop quiz—
If your book is the whole world, never-ending, infinite—
Written in the language that the *birds* speak, oh shit—
You phone home in tritones and drink red platelets—
If you far from home, still samplin the Cote-d'Rhone
When in Rome, tossin bones to cougar-crones
…Shit, if you tellin the Empire to suck eggs—
If you stole the Queen’s brandy stock and left behind the dregs…

[Give yourself a gold star]

There ain't no town, there ain't no town
There ain't no rest tonight!
Track Name: The Ambassadors
So when I drip drop my tip top
I don't stop till hips rock
You flip flop I rip spots
Yours flim flam mine top notch
Spit strong shots grab long crotch
No love wrong bad songs not
Read no clock keep no Glock
Pimp cream hot sauce fire SHOCK

The year is nineteen ninety
I'm headed back to Atlanta, to find my girl's son Tiny
he's tall, handsome as the Devil, as slick talking, and with the Devil he run
I'm almost forty, so my livin is done
saw the wife die, a boy sent off, two twenty year bids
other boy was a doctor till his heart sk-skipped (for the last time…)
now I'm leeeavin, on the next Amtrak train
to get my girl's son to stop dealin that cocaine
and come back to mama, run the record store like papa did
and let me marry mama so that I can finish livin proper…

When I get there, Tiny even ain't in the slums
has a nice house in Little Five and even more fun
spinnin dubstep sets at a club called Bohemia
in Underground, or reggae at a place near Perimeter
Mall with strippers and all, but, shit, he's recording
sure to win some awards, cuz that shit is sounded good, damn,

"…come on, Uncle Heavy…" he picks me up from Hartsfield,
buys me lobster steak and two shopping carts of threads, feelin
nice, lookin nice, met an English lady at the Ramada,
she says she's a reporter, "looking for music's next Spanish Armada"
I say, my soon to be son-in-law DJ got the hot fieyah, harder
than whatever you listening to, plus he knows all the good bars…

We dance feeling good like it was '81
I like Tiny's Mom but this Brit got me stunned
Her name is Mary don't like a day over forty one
and dances crazy with her hair all done up
I don't think kids today are into crime and dope
If they are just let's hope its fine Buddha smoke
…I call Tiny's mom. She says "what
You gonna move back to there where the kids fuck
at age thirteen and eat greasy wings?
And listen to that crazy demon music they sing?"
I say "maybe but at least ya boy ain't dealin, babe,
sorry if I didn't call earlier, I thought he'd take
days and days to find, but in the mean-time,
he's been treatin me, he's king of the bump and grind…"

BOOOOOP… Just a hangup, dang, Tiny, sho nuff
yo mama trippin on you but you livin right so what's up?
"What's up with me…? More like with you," his reply.
I look at him serious till we both laugh until we cry.
"You right. How can I marry girl if she disown her only son
all for playin music stead of getting a job back in Brooklun?"

So when I drip drop my tip top
I don't stop till hips rock
You flip flop I rip spots
Yours flim flam mine top notch
Spit strong shots grab long crotch
No love wrong bad songs not
Read no clock keep no Glock
Pimp cream hot sauce fire SHOCK

[Then we just listen to the music… talk funk albums…
Also, he has these crazy Japanese art records he samples—wow, son…
Sound like insects growing out of the speakers,
Covering the room in crazy paint, or something, e'en freakier…
"Damn, Uncle Heavy, you a wordsmith…"
Stop sassin me, boy… Go get the beat, get on with it.]

Returning to the problem of my girl, Tiny's mother
In my room at the Ramada, under itchy bed covers
as that British lady paces the room, she can't sleep.
I say, "Mary, the boy is fine, what do I do, sheeyit…?
Feels like we known each other in some past life or something."
"…What if you just continued to do nothing?"
Hm, well, good. I guess I'll just stay down by Stone Mount
chillin with the DJs, Tiny's friends, the whole South.
After a couple months, my girl in New York is flabbergasted.
"Get the boy and you and come back up or I am past it."
"Past what—?" "Past the point of not breaking stuff—bridges burned,
through the roof, you know the deal, you Heavy Worm!"
…Shit, I think I better go. But you know you got the flow
with the ones and twos you bruise, so, Tiny—always keep it jumpin, bro.
Before I hop a plane and calm your mom and make some lame
excuse for why you still in A-T-L, just give me Mary's screenname.
Heh, bet you kids can't instant message or text faster
than that old Heavy Jamz, official Rhyme Sex Ambassador.
So turn up that one track gets played by all the local disc jocks,
Something like my man Tiny is that PIMP CREAM HOT SAUCE FIRE SHOCK…

So when I drip drop my tip top
I don't stop till hips rock
You flip flop I rip spots
Yours flim flam mine top notch
Spit strong shots grab long crotch
No love wrong bad songs not
Read no clock keep no Glock
Pimp cream hot sauce fire SHOCK
Track Name: The Tongue-Cut Sparrow
My gun shot himself in the head today with a bow and arrow.
How blood flies defines crows from sparrows.
The bread line traces the path from false Gretels to Grendels.
This wizard tips his kick drums in venom
to poison the oil barrels and half-penny pushers
whose methods are mad narrow. I'm a Tongue-Cut Sparrow
with a clear-jaw, red-eye, and steel vorpal beak.
When I rise against the night I dawn sex for the week.
From the feet to the wing-spread, all Glocks are dead by hanging.
The moon lamps quickly to the cow who's gangbanging
and laughs. In stutters light from scintillate facts
that cut shurikens in half—the math
despises to think that such tasks—would bask
in un-bright sun as the noon clipse passes…
…I love asses with color and shape.
Only thing I ask birds is to forever relate
to how this cat jumped guns until he never had weight
and could fall only as far as the mind's wine lake—

My father was a raptor, my mother was the wind,
And when I find my song, I'll be fly again…

It starts with a beat, then the rhythm of the blood begins to compete.
The gasp of the lass is sweet, but to complete
need the howl of the Wolf, laser-cuttin steel,
splinter of the cloven hoof in mud, to keep it real
sprinkle in the fireworks
but why bring the heat when you cool with both sides,
of course, cold as Dante,
triple-headed flyin horse, whatever I say.
Rhymes fresh as Prom day,
but night always bringeth everything, mostly the bottom-slay.
…Burn like a heart, sore like a cold,
king like my partner, nerd with stylish soul.
Chaos in control, supernova spittle,
eyes shining coal, laser-focus on the hot griddle:
Death From Above 1994,
rap classics like the comics on the basement floor
at the rents' place, shadow of the tall pines;
spine bent; scribblin to bend back a Pitchfork tine—

Transfused his blood with hot magma.
Keep it Noh actor. When he cut, disaster:
Ingest plaster, spit back Pompeii—
Magnus—Ultramagnetic geothermal blades.
Transfused his blood with silence,
nicked his neck shavin, made the fanbase desirous.
Osiris, cut him, he come back to one.
Holistic asshole with the Frankenrhymes thanks to the staplegun.
Transfused his blood with hot glue.
Can't stop the rhythms, and between me and you, who would want to?
Gotta get sticky sick and bounce,
back to the Brooklyn Zoo, no doubt—

My father was a raptor, my mother was the wind,
And when I find my song, I'll be fly again…

You goblins see a half-full glass,
the Tongue-Cut Sparrow see a whole fuckin bath.
Odd nickname, true, but the dames know
schooled good in sword style and mic tricks in Tōkyō
Out there, picked up the legend of the bird men
ciphered with the night owl, made the crow his best friend;
Then made the crow cough,
to bring back the love raps, the freaks, and Dylan talk,
like: "The force that drives that water through the rocks
drives my red blood—" this spirit search I never mock.
…Heavy Jamz, seventh beer in pack of six.
You would need a third ear to hear our whole mix.
Tongue-Cut Sparrow, flyin scissor-knife tongue,
goosin old dames, shootin only cork-gun—BANG—
pour bubbly—naw, pour gin.
Flyin high, roqs and pigeons is the best friends…