• Lyrics: play full screen play karaoke
• Hey Nas - Claudette
• Physics Of A Unicycle - Clouddead
• Pop Song - Clouddead
• The Velvet Ant - Clouddead
• Son Of A Gun - Clouddead
• Clouddead - Clouddead
• Rhymer's Only Room - Clouddead
• Rifle Eyes - Clouddead
• Dead Dogs Two - Clouddead

The phone rings
Another peaceful moment is lost
Latifah's chest jingle in "Set It Off"
I press pause in the bed as a king
I let it ring 4 or 5 times
Answer while I'm puffin' my green
It's Tamika sayin', "Hi Nas"
I caught a flashback of her askin' me was I asthmatic 'fore I tapped that
She offered me dinner under the moon
I said, "Sorry. I made plans at Ray's Boom-Boom Room"
Nine push-ups... Strength's gone at the tenth one so why hook up
The pimp's gone off the Platron Tequila
Put on my Lee's and the original Fila's
Sedated from L's, 380 cocked, naked ladies laid up in tails
Like Whodini I chose, gazelles don't lean on my nose
Drivin' by the clubs gleamin' and go
Heads turn it's a freak show
I need them to know... When will they learn
Nas need a queen not a hoe to...
Point out my enemies, a girl who's into me
But not a hype chick- someone with proper energy
Someone who's into me but won't fuck with my enemies
And you can sing along 'cuz I'm feelin' ya energy
Hey Nas... How ya doin'?
Take my name... And my number
Meanwhile... We'll be groovin'
But let's take... it... slow
One for the honeys who roll blunts up but don't smoke
Two for the few who see potential in you when you broke
Three for the G they got, they game is hot I give it to you
Double life wife- play with the man that's livin' with you
Here's the issue... A woman gotta be stunnin'
Get to a man's heart through his stomach
You gotta be skilled in the culinary arts
Know a brother stay mad hungry when he spark
Hit the museum, maybe Central Park, you mentally smart
Picture we in Tiffany, you becomin' my counterpart
If I want Chinese then you buy me a wok
If you want barbeque I call Professor and Ock
'Cuz u... point out my enemies, someone who's into me
But not a hyper chick- someone with the proper energy
A girl that's into me who won't fuck all my enemies
And you could be the one 'cuz I'm lovin' ya energy
Hey Nas... How ya doin'?
Take my name... And my number
Meanwhile... We'll be cruisin'
But let's take... it... slow
Slow is the way
Holdin' hands, tongue and hickeys
Hope and I pray where I run at you run away with me
That's if my gun get busy we gotta get outta there
Hear sirens jump in the stick drop a Sedan and hide for years
Like noone else in the world did this except for us two
You gotta trust me, I gotta trust you
If coppers bust me it's me you rescue, this to the death boo
You rep me respectfully that's how I rep for you
Retired from pimpin', perspire is drenchin'
As we... suck and fuck each other's minds out commission
Time's out forbidden
Until we pass out, that's when we stop
We give it all we got, give it all we got- we hot
Give it all we got, give it all we got- we rock
Give it all we got, give it all we got
You 'bout the baddest thing
Since Michael had Billy Jean
And Prince gave you diamond's and pearls
But to be my queen you must...
Point out my enemies, a girl who's into me
But not a hype chick- someone with proper energy
Someone who's into me who won't fuck all my enemies
And you can be the one 'cuz I'm feelin' ya energy
Hey Nas... How ya doin'?
Take my name... And my number
Meanwhile... We'll be cruisin'
But let's take... it... slow
I can be... What you said
That you need... I can be...All that
I can be... I can have your back... baby
I can be... What you said
That you need... I can be...All that

Orville and Wilbur
cold cut the anchor's from their ankle,
carving propellers from whale fins
in the back of a bicycle shop...
and thus begins the tale
of the thumb trigger cloud kill.
At last the Wright's reinvented the horse with wings,
another invention only fit for a mannequin.
Early time machine's
will have tended to leave you
left screaming
on a dinosaur's dish.
In da Vinci's "Bike Accident',
an outerspace whodunit?
monkeys play Magellan
as the next ex-Edison,
standing out in the crowd with a unicycle.
Physics of a unicycle...

It's the wood man and his splintering self.
It's the wooden woman and her hollowing out
Sickly Micky Mouse.
Skinny Minnie Mouse.
Elvis, what happened?
Pop Sickle note: The lable stapled a speaker
to the back of a sheep's throat.
Tongue depressor with the width
With the width of a spatula
Supresses all syllables;
"blah blah blah", end quote.
Cotton candy, Cotton candy... spun any way you like it.
Elvis, what happened?
High school picture day in L.A.,
someone in the sky with diamonds.
And you go back to bed
with a dead dog in your head.
How can I be your lover
when you sport a head of rubber?
Sucker...
You can't take applause to bed with you.
I've got my own blood and a decent depression line.

Wingless wasp, the velvet ant.
The cow on slanted land settles
to the lower most corner of the pen.
Chicken wire and it's either side imprisonment,
and the iwndows all stacked up
under the farm barn awning.
Two small girls and a handful of dressed men
walk a cage full of goats across a basketball court,
goats with rectangled pupils.
A rattle snake caught in a wheel well.
Starwberry in an ostrich throat.

Dying men keep rifles in cello cases,
known with a beer as the deer eraser.
They dress their boys in bright orange
and leave their daughters at home,
stripping meat, stretching skin for their musical men.
The makers of guns will never go hungry.
The makers of guns will never fill up.
May their children always play murder weapon since stick.
Abraham Lincoln never got offed
because it wasn't on the television...
and that's all he got,
was his foot background in a tourist's shot,
and his face framed by those old roman leaves,
dead-center on the front of a five spot.
Abraham Lincoln jumped the gun.
Julio Caesar jumped the gun.
Emilio Zapata jumped the gun.
Tupac and Biggie jumped the gun.
Jesus Christo jumped the gun.
Malcolm X jumped the gun.
Mahatma Gandhi jumped the gun.
Joan of Arc jumped the gun.
Martin Luther King jumped the gun.
John F. Kennedy jumped the gun.
G-Dubyu might just jump the gun.

I'm sick of keen eyed teens keying
car doors in the middle of the night.
They won't believe their donning dangling carrot cams.
Youngsters today are not prepared
to buy plants or collect stamps.
They won't believe their wearing lead lined pants,
keeping them inert like just a carrot can't,
aging in the space between two magnets face to face.
Your house keys are cut from utter nonsense,
from the ground to utter nonsense up.
When the people factory shuts down,
there is not mad fandangle on the opposite ends of
telescopes in spotlights in subparticles of rock.
The petty douse of your death spread over light years,
awaiting the impact of laughter diffuse througt space.
There is no search party for a star gone dim.
Are you prepared to give a guided tour
of your planet to something like... God,
to speak on behalf of all phylum,
from single-celled to sapien?
Are all your cells in agreement?

Rhymer's only room;
Cincinnati lone lie tomb.
Hiding under the ceiling over a cold skull winter bed spread.
Rhymer's only room;
Sweet smelling walk into cartoons.
Hiding in the seawee on the sea bed breath bloating welter weight land legs.
Rhymer's only room;
still sugar man to the hight school crew.
Hiding a garage full of let go balloon from the sky.
Rhymer's only room;

A murder of mosquitoes, moths, and gnats ravage the fluorescent flickering ribs of a motel lot flood light, their frantic trajectories perfectly sketching insane in it's halogen corona.
No collision... no drinking of bulbs at long last... just a panicked moon drove dance they bang their insect eyes and mind at in the dark.
Note: It takes an Extended Stay America's common black self cleaning line of ants approximately 1 & 2/3rd's hours to completely excavate the fresh kill carcass of a large New Orleans cricket.
Point: Minnows have teeth in their throats...
Thrice we passed this truck all packed with pigs... this truck is always packed with pigs.
You can not tell nor ask a pear tree that it might only have the bird's nests happen to it's branches.
Have you ever marveled through the pretty pith of your turned around eye at the bug blood gut modern art on the fender of your country crossing rental van?
It then becomes self evident that nature is responsible...
To peel deer from desert fun...
To sleep through vulture mouths...
It's femur like a chopstick through the paper.
Nightcrawlers all dried up
On the summer sun sidewalk.
An ant with a little bit of leaf
Looks like an ant with an African mask.
The red raw salmon steak
In the gas station urinal.
A full feathered dead pigeon
With it's entire skull exposed.
A single long stemmed rose
Resting between two mounted antlers.
A spider spitting web
On a styrofoam snowman's head.
Car salesmen asleep in their cars
On lunch-break under the highway on-ramp.
The x-ray of someone's tumored skull
Left to scream doom from the gutter
With all the other preventative waste,
No name no face.
All the oil drills
On some sick sedated rhythmic robot rape mode
Like brain-washed flies at a carcass.
The highway shoulder dead dog's
Fly devoured eyeballs
As garnish to a four lane state road,
And all the southern Cali orange trucks
Headed to somewhere there's winter.
One armed men changing tires in the shoulder
For pretty ladies and their well dressed daughters;
Engine oil boiling,
Undercarriage eaten by a billion ants of rust,

From the height of the highway onramp we saw,
two dogs, dead in a field,
glowing on the oakland coliseum green seats wasteland,
dogs, dogs we thought were dead,
they rose up, rose up when whistled at,
their rib cage inflating like men on the beach being photographed,
a guard dog, guard dog, for what? for what?
against tofers ellis pennyless athletics fanatics,
getting into games through a whole in the fence,
for the owner of the blue tarp tent,
pitched by a creek beneath an onramp,
in the privacy of the last three,
skin and bony tree, devoid of leaves,
and us undeceased, and our new cds,
dippin' on goodies, oakland
it's hard to stand the sight of two dogs dead under a sky so blue,
you have to stop the blood to your head,
to fit the breathe in front of you,
we secretly long to be some part of a car crash,
long to see your arms stripped of the tendons,
the nudity of swelling exposed vein,
webbing the back of your hand,
to be a red tendoned dog,
to be red tendoned dogs,
blood breathing by the side of the highway
i long to be dead,
center of a curious crowd,
to be touched,
sticky like nearly dried paint,
their soft silent stare nursing your face,
anticipating the slightest pinch i flinch of pain,
everyone blank in accident awe,
as the car crash fiberglass dust straight up settles
on your raw muscle tissue
it's hard to stand the sight of two dogs dead under a sky so blue,
you have to stop the blood to your head,
to fit the breathe in front of you,
to be a red tendoned dog, to be red tendoned dogs,
to be red tendoned dogs, to be red tendoned dogs,
to be dead center of a curious crowd
~against my misery i don't think i've seen my screeching pain,
i can now feel what's around us it is some sort of harmony,