Monday, November 12

(observed)

You common cry of curs! whose breath I hate
As reek o' the rotten fens, whose loves I prize
As the dead carcasses of unburied men
That do corrupt my air, I banish you;
And here remain with your uncertainty!
Let every feeble rumour shake your hearts!
Your enemies, with nodding of their plumes,
Fan you into despair! Have the power still
To banish your defenders; till at length
Your ignorance, which finds not till it feels,
Making not reservation of yourselves,
Still your own foes, deliver you as most
Abated captives to some nation
That won you without blows! Despising,
For you, the city, thus I turn my back:
There is a world elsewhere.

*
yuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup.
coriolanus knew what was up, ninjas.
that's that shakespeare jauns,
and it is dope!
hard-hearted hard styles from the heavy-handed hamfists of headstrong 
warriors of victorious virtue and powerful principle...
that's the base of the brutal barbarism that is begotten through misunderstanding.
or,
better yet,
it's the way really real mutha-'uckers bring the thunder and the lightning down on
all the weak sauce water-babies who just want everything to be nice.
F* nice, neighbors.
that's real talk.
active participants know it's not the surface skim-coat that wins the day,
it's severity of substance that withstands the winds of war and change.
mincey gaytardation isn't gonna get you anywhere, y'heard?
you want nice?
get a few fake friends to flatter your face.
you want worthy?
come and hang out in the woodsly goodness,
with the berserker twerkers and hermit lurkers
who doo-doo what they do, without regard for pretense or personal safety.
duders who know they're dope just BE dope,
and the good name gifted by the general mass of middling middlemen 
just doesn't resonate as relevant to really-real life-living documentarians.
we record and revel in what's really happening, friends.
not the well-worded wistfulness of what we wish would've.
awwwwww.
wordimus prime.
truth tellers can never stop;
never quiet, never soft.....

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