Saturday, March 13, 2010

this is my "fuck you" to ke$ha

(By the way I love hip hop and I also love uffie and I wish kesha would stop hurting my brain and cheapening an entire music genre that hasn't even really been established yet)

Then again uffie can't flow like me so...and anyway I'm kind of an honorary O.G. considering how well I've been schooled


I'm slingin it smokin it shootin it poppin it
can't catch it
you aint got no hope in stoppin it
bitches be frontin don't know how I'm rockin it
they steez so slow they can't see that I'm mockin it

All they can hear is my gat when I'm cockin it
Dot on the mic and the beatboy be droppin it
All the cats out on the block they be coppin it

My flows like the drip
after taking that hit
once you start you can't quit
I'm that brand new shit
yeah the mad ill chick
32 in the clip
Mothafuckas better strip
we be cruisin bumpin the whip

I could be empty or just so filled that I
can't feel the weight of my skills its so ill
how I go down just like a twisted pill
into the center of all of it
and the dj spins like he's used to it

(Shout out to 163rd and amsterdam, washington heights+brooklyn+alphabet city, willy the bum and the ever-present dopeman. Dude with grills and the loc'd out attire. Wesley the latin king and the outdoor markets in spanish harlem. Christopher wallace but not really puffy. Tripped out summers in tompkins square park with flower petals and stained glass church windows while the suits walked by. Slim, on his bicycle, making deliveries of greenery in the east village on 4/20 four years ago while I was buying a kinks record on astor place. Night time walks with tea on st. Marks place and jimmy the punk rocker at trash and vaudeville until brooklyn called me home...sirens outside the fire escape, smoking cigarettes on the fire escape, tommy the most italian man ever "watching the neighborhood" on the porch of our house in flatbush. The guy at the bakery I went to every morning who would sing uptown girl to me and make my coffee. Subway trains, 40 oz malt liquor, squatters, crust punk bands and avenue c, the bowery and cbgb's...especially cbgb because that place was sick and they robbed them of it for the sake of...chuck taylors? Cracktoberfest in tompkins every year with the police force and MDC, b.b. kings and the subhumans, the hello kitty store on 42nd street and nyonya in chinatown. Guns and drugs and thugs. Gangsters and stoops we all sat on, bumming for change on the west side highway with donna or being in the vicinity of the uptown port authority. The salvation army thrift store, the dumpling man, the tunnel under the street that marco slept in, my living room walls covered in postcards and paintings and the slanted bedroom ceiling. Darryl "Ragidy Supreme" and the dove and rabbit at his apartment in washington heights, then his magic show at that weird nightclub in midtown with the 7 dollar heinekens. Prospect park. Washington square, union square, the botanical gardens, coney island and the russians I met on the train who took me to a movie in their fancy sportscar and all of the signs that we drive by written in russian. Nas. The velvet underground. Crossdressers, transvestites, hookers and drag queens. Keith Haring and neckface. Every kid making a hustle to eat or junkie supporting the business. Wet. "That leak. The leaky-leak." Queens, more specifically Astoria...and the wet grass under the shadow of the bridge there...the orange slushee you could get for 5 bucks from these dudes in the basement of a barber shop in harlem that would get you shitfaced in no time and was the most delicious drink ever. The cops who let me go. Steve, rest in peace man, and the blue puma jacket he gave me because I just thought it was such a pretty blue. Englewood cliffs, palisades park, newark, camden, edgewater, bergen county. Twenty year-old Elektra, with her black eye and frantic words, in the lobby of some apartment. The tombs. Community gardens. Mrs. Astor. Guiliani. The Yankees. Playing chicken with the police. Grant's Tomb and the museum of natural history, dinosaurs, ancient egyptian tombs, the metropolitan opera, carnegie hall, broadway and sardi's and one million overpriced parking garages. Canal street and little italy in a pocket to the west, weird lofts, hidden doorways,protests down broadway, cops on horses, falling asleep on the lawn of brooklyn college four summers ago. Hellraiser's biggest fan with eight million facial piercings, a mohawk and a little dog standing outside of the tattoo shop snapping fliers at the passerby. Getting lost, Hoboken New Jersey, the lincoln tunnel, ending up in south Jersey at a rest stop. Getting pulled over with a bat in the car, flashlights, vandalism, truancy, shitty concerts and that awful emo/bubblegum punk thing. Selling. Pawn shops, tolls, range rovers and red acuras. Cadillacs. Fly girls. Ghetto fabulous-ness, puffy jackets, chains and rims and spinners and high top nikes in all white, crooked grins, the projects. Bodegas. Loosies. Vinyl. Ballrooms. Skyscrapers. Central park west. Rastafarians in brooklyn and east orange. Mushrooms. Never really thinking about it being 4 AM waiting for the train in bedford stuyvesant, just waiting there in the dark. Lootings, shootings, new year's eve and an endless supply of hydraulics.