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The Dead Emcee Scrolls

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Highlights

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To program a drumbeat is to align an external rhythmic device to an individual’s biorhythm. ^ref-19092

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Trigger sound. Trigger gun. Drum machine. Machine gun. ^ref-52402

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The wind plays the world like an instrument. Blows through trees like flutes. But trees won’t grow in cement. And as heart beats bring percussion fallen trees bring repercussions. Cities play upon our souls like broken drums. ^ref-5228

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Slaves to city streets. Where hearts get broken when heartbeats stop. Broken heartbeats become break-beats for NGHs to rhyme on top. ^ref-50923

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NGH WHT, I represent the truth you claim to be. The hero of the eastern sky, the storm’s eye, westerly. Rough, rugged, raw, eternal law recited over beats. Some poetry to oversee the dance floor and the streets. ^ref-48845

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I am no earthling. I drink moonshine on Mars and mistake meteors for stars ’cause I can’t hold my liquor. But I can hold my breath and ascend like wind to the black hole and play galaxophones on the fire escape of your soul. ^ref-43771

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As is the science of the aroma of sleeping women.” ^ref-43683

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In the beginning her tears were the long awaited rains of a parched Somali village. Red dusted children danced shadows in the newfound mounds of mascara that eclipsed her face, reflected in the smogged glass of Carlos’ East Street bodega. ^ref-15019

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Beneath the surface of our purpose lies rumor of ancient rain. Dressed in cloud-face, minstrels the sky. The moon’s my mammy. The storm holds my eye. ^ref-31213

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Metadata

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