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Larristotle x RX
The Alchemist Leagues of the Ocean (Lot0) Lawrence's interlude (skit) Black December by RX Straitjacket Revelations 23:1 by Larristotle Tripolar Papa Sacrifice by RX Bitch is the only colour I see 36th Chamber RX talks (skit) Starbucker
The world has a soulthe heavens can vouch for this, they assembled translators of periodic calculus; one step from forever, the slave to his own wisdom twenty-five years later stands history’s depiction, nursing self-inflicted wounds left on the right fist, clutching his fiction. All mind hope lost through a quest for stone contradiction. I was the Alchemist, Say it with conviction. * Mason in the flesh, he weaves reality; a smith with a quill and a left death-grip on sanity while the right grips a limp member with a golden stream and minimal backsplash, he's Holden Caulfield on Chinese baritone whispers but doesn't reject the crude form of the real London couldn't perfectrather he chips filthy dripping masses for gold and distills his own from values new and old. Alche-alche... The bourbon dripped empty, fuelled Mason's craft and the automated semi that lingers in his right as he grips for creativity but fails to balance the wit and intoxication his head was pivotingfaeces hit the fan, the walls are blotched. Scribbling a foundation and a false deed to the plot, in the parchment the Alchemist carves a moat to separate the cold of the world's real from what he constructs within, the ideal.
Leagues of the 0cean (Lot0)
You know what deep is? An Atlantic calm resting over ether. You know what deep is? Innate poison brewing within a foetus. Sperm to an egg, prisoner in a shell chained by the feet to original sin, not conceived free as Mary, mother of Jesus. Shallow innocence, lips upon thine sweetness as the goblet professes the fruit of thine wine seedless. You know what deep is? Six feet with no idea where the heat is, Icarus' waxen chronicles or deep with the demons. Doubt with reason death and the following season, a harsh winter or cruelest of summers: Make your bed with the fish, lay without freedom. Submerging my thoughts inside a vault in my mind. I stood alone under fluorescent moonlight. The gaze of the unknown shadowing my cloned ideology of perfection against the reflection of my left hand, as it glides along my insanity spectrum. You don’t know what deep is. If only you knew, you would drag drown and stab the fence hopping clan, and have the blood of the lambs replace your tears whilst you weep for higher forgiveness again, again and again. Reading literal classics under chestnut trees in the rain, textbook definition of an imagination slain. Ten leagues deep, contextually defeating all you could ever be. Atlantis in nineteen eighty-four, The climax of your constituent dreams. You know where deeper is? Run the faucet, lay face in the sink, take a breath and you'll know it. You know where deeper is? Trapped in other side of the Closet, snowy enclosures, ice queens, satyrs, grey hearts and plain faces; Deeper than seven, the love of hatred.
I hate you all, that's no secret. The real secret is a pain, I'm struggling to keep it. I love you like white people love The Beatles. What the fuck? I love you like George W loves negros, like the Amish love iPads and C notes. I crave your acceptance, but fuck it thoughI don't want the fame that comes with it so it's a non starter, my relationship with you is a hell of an affair, before it took a breath it was through. Teenage tendencies, look upon it with mood swings, I tell my bitch all I really want is groupies to jump on me when I stroll Westfield on my jack jones so I can confirm function in my sex appeal. Then it's “who's phoney, who's fake and who's real? It's shit like that with which I have to deal when I sound like Carlton's royal cousin with a meal plan involving silver teaspoons and a maid who's Puerto Ricanthose black folks with self hate programmed, I see them. They who think niggers belong on the block are yielding to a worldly grip and probably shouldn't be breathing, because when they breathe, a really nigga chokes from a poison thick in the air disguised as jokes. It's all good though because I hate you all the same: black, white, brown, yellow and that funny shade of greyhumanitarian hatred, I do it because you dobecause Frank's mediocre since he's into dudes. I hate you all as much as you'll hate this interlude.
I don’t much recall the rainy bass of December or her magnitude of touch, though I’m drawn towards slender. The pillow I now call home leaves me wishing to be sedated, just to have the chance to remember her touch so slender, nursing me through the rainy bass of December. White coat pretender, where did you go? They replaced you with placebos and slight petticoats, meanwhile rocking back and forth chanting in hope, wearing a ghost on the ghost of my vacated soul, rocking in rhythm to the bass on my window: White coat pretender, where did you go? Despite all your oaths, I still yearned for your kiss, the lust left imprinted, a small crack for new bliss. I paid close attention to the cracks in your lips, and the way you’d dismiss visual attacks on your hips. But it was the smile that accompanied the smacks on the wrist, the way our eyes would connect when you locked me back in. Then the princess retracts from her kingdom of schiz, prompted to look back and yearn for your kiss. But my hands are still tied, yearning is for pricks. I’m going to take what is mine, take your lips right from your face with this 15” blade. I am no longer detained so you are my new game, how dare you smile in my face whilst I was fucking sedated. My blurry translation, my angelic probation was merely you toying with yet another mental health patient. You were forewarned by all, including the matron. I am not to be fucked with, “He’s consciously vacant.” Two months pass, Now immune to eclipse, pull up to the corner of 3rd&6th, Yes it's premeditated, I wore buttons: no zip. Knife in the glove box, my hand totes a spliff, black shirt black shades, long black dick: no way to identify this long black kid. I See you park up and start to fiddle with your gear stick, you were forewarned of this. I’m coming for my kiss.
You would think that having to hold myself 24/7 would eventually leave me somewhat warm. Failure to regard reflections I think I can see being murdered on my cloudy prison door. Bodily fluids drip onto the floor, or at least that’s what I thought I saw. No windows, no feelings, so this might just be deprivation speaking. Unsettling demonic slumber parties with my atrium’s beating, a whole room bedecked with only a pearly white ceiling soon to be red. Re-Re-Rebooting the sector designated to dreaming. * I'm back at it, frantic as I rifle through the attic, gazing at the stars in my technicolor straitjacket. What's worse is these antics I've adorned are pedantic and part of the me the world ramps with. I skip past the crazy nights, codeine, alcoholic tendencies and Kesha's listerine to glare it right in the face, the monogamous beast with it's phantom grip and that ghostly leash that binds my tongue to these desires and dons behind my eyelids snow white attire. Shift gears in a rusty, we won't have much cash, be dirt poor aside from the poetry we have, the thump of the art from the sub in the back is all we nurture as we smoke past the ash, tar in my lungs, disable my arteries, vibrate palpitations so I know you're a part of mechoke me, slit me, take a dagger to the heart of me. Take my life.
Green leather seats and leather bound perverse tongues align two evils, a royal blue with a gold one. Uncodified creeds and democratic dreams exclusive to wigs buying freedom of speech on auction, bid with gavel to the oak machine; free market, hurry right on it, buy stocks in backroom politics, clink sherry with powerholics and make life decisions anonymous. For the life of me, I can't see wrong in it: to lord it for the fun of it and when it bleeds progress tie up a tourniquet? Behold the Palpate and his clutch as he salivates upon the empire, generates a nation and his pocket becomes the sum of it. Winter burning, don't gaze directly at the sun of it but the smoulder reveals the older, one hundred pink smirks in his pocket. Upon his chest, against his heart? A locket and within lays his own pale face, the love of his life, the bitch in his pocket is but the object of his lust but she does it well, she grips him by his cusp, really on her job, thus becomes lady luck; she spins the wheel with not a care for their politics, blindly points at an economy and topples it. Sips a gin, no tonic- calm as they're panicking, a manicured grip on the world and she's on top of it, straddled for a fuck, she walks away when she's done with itcredit crunched, down on luck, they fell in love with it, she with her callous ways, a stranger to monogamy.
“My Fragility leaves me alone, but I am never alone I wish I was alone” “I feel it too, the fear that lays dormant 'til it creeps up on impulse, hellbent to torment mind, body and remnants of a soul. The shell that was Lawrence.” “What am I actually staring at? Lose myself in sex, drugs and poignant alcoholPerception is the reality I seek, after all.” “Shell? Piss off. See the dimes Larry got puss off? Ingenious, sipping Kristov, create on Monday take the other six off Poetic Clash? Only nang 'cos the rookies you expect less of.” “I chose to become an astronomer of my eyelids because my reflection can never exist. Shades of Gray compliment gazes of black, this pen is the only cure to my venomous fingertips.” “Larristotle's prophetic falsehoods, depth in the shallows of a pond, wade in and tread the heat of one sun with three shadows. Forced mediocrity, alas it appeases the panel.”
Dear son, How are you? I really hope you're well, that you're having a little fun as you spend time in that 'cell'well, as much as you possibly could, but let's not dwell on it, you're there of your own accord, your own promise to heal, to banish them and come back from it. You've got four months to return, things aren't the same, I've got a young girl on my doorstep, after your name, after your name, she speaks of innocence and claims you tore it. Well, son she's gorgeous, there's no way I can ignore it, the bird is a garden tool, a hoe for the soil and soul so sordid but what she holds in her womb will torment for the next eigh- You've sired. I love you, Dad Dear Dad, I’m good, I’m great, I can’t really complain, First and foremost they have now deemed me sane which is such a relief, it wasn’t a label I was willing to hold for the rest of my days. How are things with you? Everything cool? Did you lay flowers for mum on my behalf as I asked? Every time I think of her I get brain aches and I begin to feel lost again. I miss her. Oh, I see you met Tess. She says she’s going to marry me, maybe we can raise a family. Maybe we’ll be alright.. it’s a small sacrifice, its my responsibility now to treat her right. I told her about Xavier and she didn’t seem to be bothered by the medical facts, But don’t worry I have a plan for that.. I might need your help but I have a plan. Four months isn’t too long. I will be home in a flash. Love you forever and always, Mr Smith,
not Mr Ash.
My dear Son, I thought we'd agreed that you would stop this, mail is checked backwards, it's also checked forwards. I thought this 'Ash' was removed, you are excused. It's time to grow, you've got a son on the wayyour girl Tess, she's here most days, she's pleasant enough but I can't say if there's an ulterior motive, I've noticed that she's rather savvy for a girl of her age, is that her true age? This is no environment for a child to grow in, turbulent sanity- a young lifestyle. What would your mother say? She's well, by the wayI laid tulips for her yesterday, in your honour. She hopes you won't speak to them any longer, she wants you home dealing with your child's mother. I've got to go now, it's movie nightit's Rom coms for your mother and I. All the best and much love, Dad
Hey Dad, I need your help Dad, please be strong. You have to focus, don’t get consumed again, it’s nearly your time. PLEASE do not relapse, leave mum to rest, in peace. I get what you say but you especially should understand, The growth you speak of, the growth that we seek? It is not obtainable by just a choice or a blink. It’s much more than that. life…
I am dancing on the brink of self-realisation, anticipation of my son and the chance for a new With every intention of Tess being my wife. I know it’s a sin but please, before you judge me
let me stress that when I met Tess, she was the definition of a ringer. By the time I had seen her for what she truly was, I had been lustfully overcome. An Aquarian vocalist in 6-inch heels, a devil in a dress, I had danced a sweet tango with a diamante white glove on. Again, I digress.
She treats you with respect I hope?
As I said, it is now my duty to take care of this mess. I will almost be sad to leave this haven, If you could only see just how good they’ve been treating would see me through. Love you Dude,
me you’d wonder why you gave me the first turn. Only a few weeks now, one more letter from you
The son in the room.
Son, It just happened, I don't know how. I promise, I didn't mean for any of it to- for her to go down the way she did, can I plead the fifth? I'm with them now. The child was abominable, not of the clan- too frail, son of a harlot, of a mad man. Your mother will post bail, won't she? You won't find me when you're back, we'll have traded places, probably. I always did have a knack for retracing your footsteps. I hope she doesn't despise me, I hope you won't when you find this, I hope you still write me. I love you. Ps. Don't forget to feed your mother, she can't stand loud noises and every other day she feeds the squirrels.
She holds the baby just two days old, her flesh. her blood. her tears. Captivated by the stigma of the gift in lap, she forgets the nature of the conception, the trap. Fear of insanity soon to appear at the unbearable task of abandoning her spawn, forced to adorn the man in the walls, the echo of the man expelling his flaw. But the elder’s have spoken. And your words transform into the language of the wretch. Because Tess you have sinned, and Karma’s a bitch.
Bitch is the only colour I see
Pull up to the platform, its 07:53. In-between a blur of black and white's the parting of sea, grind to a halt amidst a busy 07:55this bitch is the only thing that I see with my eyes. How is it my eyes are no longer mine? Retinal vines intertwined with hazelnut lies. Me in Realm 6 and her in Realm 5 and I’m dangerously close to a suicide dive. I am ahead of myself. Look out to the Shard on a quest to escape, my corners become spheres flooding my emotional state, my heart escalates to a weighty palpitate and I’m drawn back to the gaze, again heavily sedated. * A noisy screen, there's defect in my spectrum for all I see is the poison, the infection between those legs, uncrossed, chromosome exed and laced with the bane of man, shears to an erection. Auschwitz incubated, seeking the rectum but rather liberated from hades by C section; ghost of affection, it's umbilical shackles bind Mars, making a cynic with branding on his cheek in the guise of lipstick. Stink of the essence, the fatal oestrogenimmigrated from Venus to claim citizen, a cage with it's legs wrapped on the neck of society, whispering quietly “Come inside of me”. Blue be a temptress, devil in a red dress, tiara of bone upon the Scarlett empress, progesterone flow, her heart is the blackest. Blame it on the model broad with the Hollywood smile Blame it on the model broad with the Hollywood smile. Transfixed by her hips and her Hollywood style. 08:02. 9 minutes have passed, neither party has moved. Occasional interruptions of the montage voiceover “The train approaching platform 5 is the service to Dover”. Subtle but evident change in your stare, this will soon be over. Intentions have changed, overcome by forecasts of Shakespearian rage, completely still but for the occasional shift in weight and flick of your hair to cater to the wind,
ever so careful not to alter our gaze. The haze remains. The train creeps to the platform contrasting disparity between my lungs my veins. My excitement escapes, but you break the gaze. Ensuing heartbreak My make-believe fate dies at 08:08 in the morning. I refuse to mourn alone, pacing from my realm to enter your zone, enter your realm and my pace starts to quicken Lift you off your feet, Take you in my stride beneath the train, time of death 08:09. Bitch was the only colour I could see in my eye. A Hollywood smile is what the Model had, the paper claims they found her dead on the tracksthe gaol broken on the rails, freedom is black.
I'm on my third six, I'm on my third six, I'm on my third six, I'm on my third six: He with common sense kills all those who wrong him, his left shoulder is a devil, the right wields a goblin, strains as the weight of the world rests upon him to the sound of the Throne's rise- it's the wrong hymn. Spread of the pollen to dirty faced wrong'ens, the crowds raise their arms and applaud the son of Odinfalse gods' illegitimate kids with groupies that believe, tell me what the truth be? Land of milk and honey, God bless the queen rests the sterling on altar to praise the most supreme, celestial excalibur 'pon the shoulders of power fiends to define good, evil and what lays in between. The crown bearing mind, the root of these evils, the gold it brings be the fruit it bore, eaten by old Eton. He with common sense bears sin in his freedom, freedom to think recklessly, to open his eyes and see Them. Those sixes? Repeat them. I'm on my third six, I'm on my third six, I'm on my third six, I'm on my third six: Realm rotations and paedophiliac tendencies, the product of JFK dreams. Thoughts of a nomad and the mind of a felon: Three winks later a knife in your face and tears on my sleeve. Four leafed clover behind me but I am no sinner-man, Jazz handed tantrums, it takes but a wink to invade your sleep. Marching backwards, double-time to an offbeat Nordic anthem One Two, two Three. But with Negro spiritual feet. Bloodshot eyes, snorting dreams and defeat,
booked, bagged and tagged, all those Negros spiritually beat. Hansel & Gretel, the template for a perfect fix, booked, bagged & tagged, re-bought my soul from the corner of Third & Sixth. I'm on my third six. Dark side of the sun, enlightenment and obscurity forth as one, one forth as none, Ten rich before become thorns rich as none. Ten square up, they who listen back down: triangulated visions build prisms to the one, I am crowned, as planned, the red Wizards son.
I'm not gonna lie, I fucking hate people. (Also not a big fan of a broken silence or the silence that precedes emotional violence. My emotions are mine and to understand them is science so the right is not yours to upset or inspire them... Either way it doesn't matter. On close inspection of my mirrored ((self's)) reflection, My strive for perfection was merely a cry for my squirrel to come back, and show me the affection I believe I deserved. Sometimes it feels like my mind is a bottomless forest and I'm just a lost boy. But in saying that, if a forest has no bottom, how can you plant trees? I believe that one was a meta-flaw. (((Actually, even if you burn down my forest.. I still have a floor full of branches and leaves, a fertile breeding ground in which my conscious will undoubtedly ((((and successfully)))) massacre my dreams.))) Incredibly frustrating. Nothing I say seems to hold the same weight as the original thought. So when the internal retorts three seconds after speaking, It is always one of those face palm moments; best believe my forehead is sore.) "It is nothing but collected chaos I project into your eyes, the only reason I shine is to cast direct shadows around you." … I think I'm done now. Yeah, I'm done.
Buck up, we've got to run through this while the sun's up, sixteen bars to a stanza but that's only the run up, the unedited piece, don't worry though- it'll soon be done up. Been a long day paying bills, d'you want to one up? Frappuccino and a green shroom, it's how to sum up the fruits of this dungeon of a room as we try to come up with a joint they can't smoke, a blunt they can't ash down: one for non-believers, may their bitch arses crash down from their baked horses, crippled and stacked down. Leaky on the roof, I should probably go back down and sketch those red labels, dream up the fables to jot on that damn pad but I'm beat from that last job. Eks, see those dimes right behind me? Skin like coffee, that's the rattle of coins, that handbag is costly, that Louis purse moos, I can smell the cow pies and the cake to her name from the crest on her thigh. I hear the Northern rumble down here, can you? Hard to believe we're right next to John Lou, harder still to write the trill when I see through, when life is so clear, perhaps it should be faded: imagine living in this postcode, imagine we had made it, imagine yellow paper bag life, shit would be amazingVietnam Black with the other B listed, sparklers, champagne and Arabian bitches. My heart exists with it's lips to life's udder, Duskdreaming one thing whilst living another? Perhaps I'm fated to be none but a Starbucker. You are far too blatant Lawrence, avert your eyes. Chances are they're just white lies, hiding behind prosthetic aesthetics chances are it’s a loaned high life. Though I see the allure of novelty bueno thighs, a contrast in tastewanna see what I like? Quick, your eleven, Macbook, white dress, brown hair all elegant, sat under the stairs opposite the shadow wearing celibates. Yeah her. My memory often fails but I now wish to embody an elephant, if I remember next dawn I will file for embezzlement. Once Again, irrelevant; I trusted this place to enhance my intelligence, instead fertilising ground for unwanted ambivalence.
I need to go home. Soul traffic regularly halting my train’s emergence, replaced with resurgence of instinctive perversion. I need go home. Been awake from before the sun turned on. It's now 7pm. Feet aching, And we achieved very little through visual procrastinating. Here is the plan. We finish this off, we both kick off. Fuck paying the cost of overpriced froth, in the queue to obtain a quenching sub-plot. Fuck the frappuccino, Let's bang these labels out. So I can get home before nine and maybe flush these demons down ao I can awake before six & catch the tail end of rhythm nine to five awaits, this daydream won't glisten. Grinding for escape from metaphysical life imprisonment Powered by momentary glimpses of a Starbucker’s wisdom. Are we done? Come on, are we ever done? I'm still on one, my eleven is prestige but she's the wrong one, she's your five but she's not quite my type, stop catching feelings, Dwyte- that's that shit I don't like. Don't like? It's like when I say I don't lie, I just did, this smoky cellar's making my dome try spin itself, spin your verse, spin theirs, lost within itself starstruck by snowflakes and- QUICK! A free sofa! After the relocation it's all lost, we need to start over and try to catch the flow we almost had- I say we call it 'Tripolar', but I'm telling you it'll be dead if it goes over their heads, so many heads, low set heads: should we dumb it down instead? I hate myself for suggesting it, for showing interest in it, but we need to get paid and though we're blessed in it, they're not and bitches want fifty shades, *SWERVE* talks of 'ass quakes', blind flow, and Nicki stoning high grade, Weeknd bars on highs and lows. We could flow for days, reference rhymezoneI'm not saying we should, but let's not make it final, it's a possibility, a saddening reality that could break our credibility past any revival.
Send for the senzu beans, less effective than a Harlem lean? Crip shake? Douglas tuition and withdrawal from methamphetamines. Maybe not, fuck 'em. Two bit motherfuckers, should I care if they get it or not, I'm wasting summer writing for hipster scum smoking granddad pipes laced with cannabis. Eks, it's getting late, let's wrap this up, list them and close it, even the Starbucker in his habitat becomes claustrophobic. We shall do no such thing, even lyrical gods like Lupe repent this. My five just left leaving your eleven empty, unpleasant. Fucking at it again, procrastinating presidents. Though the points you made hold incredible relevance I will never dumb down to those lower than Lupe intelligencethey probably won't even get every beautiful reference you made. Let's slump back to our studied silent gazes and gather our belongings, Bond St. station? I'm headed down Regent, It's soul searching season. The headless well-seasoned need to know that we need them, Need to know what they’re reading. Two red labeled demons. Demons reedemed, flow consecrated endless, Benedict's blessing, the scribes have repented now the Starbucker's relentless, douchebags toting Macs and leopards causing a menace: relish the condiment nature of these Goodfellas' Italianated flow, let's call this joint 'Niggas in Venice'. I think we're done here, man. Yeah, we're done.
A special thanks to everyone that made this shit possible.
Dwyte. Lawrence. Xavier. Larry. Remi. Larristotle.
Artwork Anastasia Jourrou Erisa Ghodratzadeh Larristotle
Copyright MMXII Larristotle & RX. This collection is for promotional purposes only.
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