CAPS LOCKED from Pantywaist by odter

Sticks up, we waited. We were elated with our breaths bated to be wasted with dreams of parables pirouetting on Venus. We were whomping the willows and doing hood-rat shit with the waterfowl, then we were strapping in the Odderott because the colours are shifting now. I cue up the cornea to the immediate flooding in every parcel of vitreous humour from here to retina. Interpreting impulses are indiscriminately shitting their pants about an overdose of visual stimuli.

Zoom zoom and I’m speeding and my vision starts weaving and I’m foaming at the mouth like I’m bonanza jellybean while I’m weeping and I’m seeing how the universe is bigger than we can fathom and everything we know is an atom inside of an atom inside of an atom. We're protoplasm with a suicide/death wish dragging every bleeding platypus to the depths of the sea with us. If we can see the patterns and our wits are diligent then we can understand the importance of doing something significant with our lives.

So I curl my fingers around the neck of a bumble bee and I try to scribble some scrawl to discreetly seal the memory before I slip into the plume and I give into the mystery of the whatever beyond and it's elusion through history. For example, all of the omnipotent critics critiquing our adequately intricate sentences and penmanship from their lexicon of samples with their existential accuracy dependent on jealousy or mockery or any other icky thing that you can think up. There are ivory and black Faberge eggs on attack! Brutal noodles jack! Hot chicks and literary hacks until I snap back to Zack and Taco (Taco is actually a Taylor. Not a tailor. Also, not present, presently. He's opening presents that we presented him with: disappointed messages and condolences while hoping hope-against-hope that we could pick up more lids.)

Throw up.

Holy fuck.

Now, what was I saying?

I think these technical errors are due to magick of a Wiccan persuasion.

It comes on like a head-rush tugging at my skin like elastic underbrush, but I feel it turn to dust while I snuggle myself right up in the pulse and see the puggles suckle the nipples of the crux of evidently absent snuff from the box I keep in a cabinet. I am not having it, but I’m certainly on it. The world dissolves to onyx carved into paths that I’m apparently wandering endlessly. And what do I do about it, you may ask? I doo doo doo doo jub-jubs up under the carpet, but at least it's honest and I’m glad that I’m a part of it because the city's Achilles is uniformity firstly. The echoed thralls of remorse label this verse with adversity. I'm giggling silly but still my palms are sweaty. If you're fucking with psychedelics then you'd better be ready for taking the intimate morals with sodium morsels while holding the horses of nitty-gritty purporting bubonic rituals. My mouth flaps up to my nostrils while I babble out nonsense and everything around my is alive and reverent.

• Alternative
• Hip Hop
• Hip-Hop/Rap
• alternative hip-hop
• cool
• experimental hip-hop
• indie
• Calgary