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…