![]() The book itself is one long poem in the voice of a man that's telling of the coming of a female Messiah. Likewise, she made her residence on the outskirts of history, on the dark side of the moon where the searchlight of the sun cannot spot her nor rot her, the seed of forbidden fruit every tree has a hidden root, yet she has come to light.Īnd that is the opening couple of stanzas of this epic poem that I wrote called Said the Shotgun to the Head, which is available in book form. Notebooks are carefully folded, forest void of autumn bound from the sun. No penmanship was ever cargoed with her character. My path now crystal clear, I am come to tell you, she is here. I am he who walks on wind-scorned feet with toenails of amethyst and road (unintelligible). When, in truth, they had begun the gradual process of crystallization. I'd begun to believe my blackened toenails were on path to decay. Currently moon marked and sun sparked, unmarked bills, will I am certain I speak a new language, as is always the first sign of a new age. The wind could not serve as truth's currency. Once muddied and still, the river runs red! All those ships that never sailed, the ones with their seacocks open that lied scuttled in their stalls today, I bring them back, huge and intransitory, and let them sail forever - if ever there were currents uncurrent. SAUL WILLIAMS (Spoken-word Artist Author, The Dead Emcee Scrolls): Citizens, children of the night, bearers of the day torch, scorched and burned - burn not. Here's spoken-word artist Saul Williams with Said the Shotgun to the Head. The assertion of the predicate.And today, we close the show with a poem. That would mean “bad” meaning bad and “good” meaning good. I was gonna make being dope being dope again. Sitcom, a glimpse of Oprah’s privates, a hand shake from at least three black nationalist figures, a kiss from a guru, cocktails with Bono, duck sicked in an elevator, contact with Jesus, and a private tap dancing tap-off with a girlfriend to accomplish. I had a plan that I was only going to need one strand of Puffy’s chest hair, a Cotton Gin, a message from Flava Flav on my answering machine, the divorced wife of a dope Southern rapper, an appearance on a U.P.N. Kings burial site and smoked one for The Dreamer. Perfect! I jumped in my Caddy, drove down to Dr. Slang, like, “this shits the bomb”, had thrown them so far off course, they had begun to ignore us. He stepped on stage in an all white suit, clean as Canadian pussy, and simply said “YOU CAN’T UN-RING THE BELL” before ascending into the Mothership leaving a trail of genius and crack smoke over the Harlem sky. George Clinton did a “White Only” show at Abbysinian Baptist Church in Harlem. ![]() He was Crumpin’ so hard I almost put a spoon in his mouth. ![]() ![]() I saw one cat in a Sean John suit, with Bird Man shoes, a G-unit hat, a Thug Life medallion, and a Super Bowl ring. Back alley gangstas were turning white collar and white collar gangstas were turning themselves in. Now, everybody was steppin their game up! Meanwhile, the cats that were in school all along were given free classes on “twerkin their jelly” non-academically for the systematic downfall of The Empire. Countless hoes gathered at the foot of Stone Mountain as Bessie Smith sang a triumphant re-vamp of Purple Mountains Majesty all the while doing the “Anti-freeze” and the “Body Rock”, nonstop. There was a sighting of Robert Johnson at the crossroads (the Mason-ry Dixon Line) in a candy apple Chevy, ridin’ dirty, with Pimp C in the passenger seat hootin’ and hollerin’ about the sanctity of marriage and the need for fewer pimps. THE DEAD EMCEE SCROLLS: THE LOST TEACHINGS OF HIP HOPĪnd so it came to pass that every prayer was granted and every dream fulfilled.
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