PS3VD0-1NT3LL3CTV4L...

pseudo-intellectual 
industrial god complex 
of mankind’s complications 

B0RN H34TH3N, S0 S3RV3 MYS3LF...

born heathen, so serve myself 
from buffet of religious 
texts, trying to find some peace 

SONG OF THE DAY: Godless

 

Been in need of new hip hop. Not new releases that are known, because that shit is always the same. Somehow we have this entire big ass world with hip hop having reached every far flung culture there is, and yet it’s the same little slices of shit we get served and everybody is talking about. I don’t know at this point if popular culture influences the filter bubble or the filter bubble influences pop culture – that post-digital chicken and egg dilemma. But I know if I say “tell me some new shit” nobody tells me new shit. You gotta go excavating and digging and tapping on shit outside of your filter bubble you wouldn’t expect but you might like, hoping to see the recommended shit beneath that to link a second skipped stone across the algorithms of maybe that. I want that whole fucking scene, whole genre, bubbling up somewhere like Mongolia or Malaysia or Madagascar or Montana, who the fuck knows? Shit, it might be an hour away in Carolina, but nobody heard of it yet, even though all of a sudden it's 7 new artists who have like 20 releases over the past decade. That’s what I need.

I’ve fiended through Bambu’s catalog the past few years, even though he’d been around forever. I think I might’ve remembered him from his old days as freestyle-ish rapper West Coast version during the Rawkus uprising period, but I might just be making that memory up in my own head to act like I was always down. Whiteboys into hip hop do that shit. But I do know I seen this Baton Rouge rapper Marcel P. Black play at a local hip hop festival I was part of organizing for, and I loved Marcel, so followed his ass on social medias. And as he was hyping up a bandcamp project he was about to release, he hyped up Bambu as a must-hear favorite. So I went to go hear it. That shit blew me away, whatever first album I went to. And he had a whole fuckin’ catalog. Sharpest Tool In The Shed came out last year, felt like a tease because I was fiendin’ for like a triple album, but artists ain’t artists full-time, and they’ve got jobs and families and lives and bills and the crushing immensity of living in late capitalist era America (if they’re from here). Shit was great though. I love some fuckin’ Bambu, and in the long line of rappers whose words have had thick influences on my brain thinkings, Bambu’s probably held that title belt (made of pyrite and cardboard) the past few years.

C0MMVN4L H0M3S 0F PR4Y3R...

 

communal homes of prayer 
have become abandoned for 
big box store salvation chores 

PR4Y1NG T0 TH3 S4M3 D34F G0DS...

praying to the same deaf gods

who ain't been listening for

at least four generations

1D3NT1T13S PVRCH4S3D FR0M...

identities purchased from

giant brick boxes, both retail

and religious, yet hollow

S1LH0V3TT3S 0F 1NDVSTRY...

silhouettes of industry

casting ominous shadows

over collective future

W1SH1NG 1 H4D F41TH 1N G0DS...

wishing I had faith in gods

or science or these other

people surrounding my daze

PR4CT1C1NG MY 4LPH4B3T...

practicing my alphabet

at Sunday morning siding

with no cops, gods, or master

SVRV31LL4NC3 3Y3B4LLS 3ND3D...

surveillance eyeballs ended

up not being like sci-fi

flicks threatened; the future sucks

CH3M1C4L 1NFR4STRVCTVR3...

chemical infrastructure

hovering menacingly

over collective future

ST41RW4YS T0 H34V3NS 4LW4YS...

stairways to heaven always

seem to end before the trip

feels complete; crash back to norms

F0RC1NG G4M3 S3V3N 1N MY...

forcing game seven in my

own head between deities

who have formed loose collectives

4M3R1C4N 0B3L1SK...

American obelisk

in honor of the great white

penis, prodding at heaven

ST0P M0TH3RFVCK3RS 4 TR41N...

"STOP MOTHERFUCKERS A TRAIN

IS COMING" the soothsayer

warned us, but we listened not

fallen messiahs honored

with gaudy capitalist

displays of Earth gluttony

futuristic emoji

of old 1994

Toyota truck’s parking brake

still life of constant motion;

real life of non-devotion

to man’s manufactured myths

double yellow reflections

in rear view mirror; double

yellow horizon pending

we was praying to them gods

they'd been telling us about

on the tvs - the white ones