Wang Club

Wang Club

 

Welcome to Wang Club this ain’t no city,

laddy, this the country but welcome to um

our little fight club- we runnin’, like this is our job

you z-snap like savvy

We should slaughter these sales like sleeper cells,

in every major city, key the cute kitty

eyes, real shifty eyes,

perhaps, mayhaps,

is Pandas Wang building an army?

We swagga real fly; real smarmy.

Best protect ya neck,

cause our cousin got our’s, and yet

you ain’t got protection, from projections originatin’

in our quadrant, some bewilderin’ terms and a few sectors over,

we back on tha cover, fightin wit each other,

but thats how we do, leave you lying where you’ll rue

the day you chose, swimmin’ in ho’s, to fight the Baron, and so

now you’re swearin, and so, I dodge, duck, dip, dive, and

Dodge, my way past, every logical fallacy, at last,

I weave in and out a portait, of you, but even as I wove, I warped it,

it grew, into something morbid, grotesque, ick and label it a kubrick

esque-potrayal of your angel-face, as I allude to nihilistic fuel,

as you catch your breath in spews.

Inhale before the fight, focus my Qi, Inhale for a minute long and act quickly

for it is as He has said to me, nothing in the world is free,

for races surely go to the quick, and the fights go to the strong.

Strawberry Yields

Strawberry Yields

 

Strawberry fields and marijuana yields,

flattened peels, wagon wheels,

and fly! Eat resistance, resist, noah23 that shit,

fly to the wings, drop dem things,

we fight, backs against the current, download it, with all those torrents,

does the information age inform, or is it just the perfect storm?

Species-wide immunity; recession, the succession of events,

post-seccession supporter vents, kill the president-

more well known than I’ll ever-

be, John Wilkes Booth,

National Treasure, to boot, lord of war, head to foot,

played by nicholas cage, too quiet for all that rage.

I’m center on the stage, one of four kings,

soaring like we got wings-

who knows; maybe we do, but that begs the question;

who are you?

Resistance is fu-

-tile, the fat lady

assimilates you, wake up in Hades-

and think: what? I’m so baked,

man, we gotta make it, fall through and shake it,

wake, wake and bake it, oh, I already said that,

so sit yo ass up and hit dat, shit, and get yo ass dressed,

we gotta go, we got moves to make, and moves to make

and miles to go before we sleep, and piles to go before we sweet,

and guile to get us to easy street,

nary a road we ain’t taken, but for all the sense I’m makin’,

don’t they say, you best be prayin’ try to keep the horse from neighin’

and steel before the onslaught, give it all you got,

this is the way the world ends, this is the way your world ends,

this is the new world, welcome, word.

Race to Fame

Race to Fame

Or a Stream of tangential Reflection of a text-conversation with

 

 

Wil, Wu-Tang Man-ual and text-based procrastination,

Machiavellian infiltration, multi-media nation and

hustle art, hustle hard, fuck the ladder,

we’ll fly onwards to the top. We’ll spin ‘em on their top,

and we’ll learn it like a crop and slip out past the cop, and

hit the jackpot and float on to the top,

minds in the same lot, and jack-to-the-pot-and

so we climbed the ladder that was fo’evea

but that is so over, Weezy; fall. Wang; rise-

look for the sunrise

and don’t be surprised when we flash in your eyes

-and ears, audio surf, snatching up as much turf

as much, as much, as such rockets us towards

our dreams and so forward and so forth-

work on, looking north,

well actually south (rise again!)

God save the South though I think we’ll be enough.

That’s enough, too fun,

I don’t care what I lose,

I just thank God-well,

you know;

I’m alive

 

(when I write)

 

I’ll race you to fame. Haha – but for real?

well, well, well, willy robb,

like achilles, should be a tough job,

but not for-

Beezy is far too easy, so how ’bout Baron?

 

sk-sk-skip-

I’ll strip off what ya wearin’ leave yah farin’

oh, seems not so well, so perhaps you should listen while I tell

the world to carry this rap like a cross, where only we need ever be; our own boss-

lay down another line, make you look at your feet; think; well,

perhaps you should concede defeat.

 

 

So, en guarde, Sir Willy Robinson; you’re on,

and I’ll be robbin ya, son. I’ll race ya to page number one.