Kama Sutra

from by Heavy Jamal

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about

We updated and expanded the Kama Sutra, check it. Shoutouts to Murakami Ryū.

lyrics

…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—

credits

from SHINING SKY LOBSTER, released April 1, 2012

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Heavy Jamal Brooklyn, New York

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