1. |
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{“Basquiat”.}
the animal’s back.
mandible no longer in tangible tact.
a mannequin mechanically zapped. yo my sanity snapped.
so i panicked, went manic,
broke through that outlandish contraption, then vanished at last.
i’m Basquiat at a carnival slinging
OxyContin crushed to particles. the snorting sound is audible.
sophisticated gypsy wandering the winter snow.
sip, but save the whiskey, pondering what if you don’t.
life is filled with dirty secrets often kept in Vegas,
so really if you’re getting sloppy seconds, take it.
dark boulevards that aren’t full of cars.
instead filled with stray, but smart wolves & dogs.
i’m talking mad jagged teeth on these savage beasts.
i’m drafting dreams on the back of Mad Magazine.
car sitting still, smoking artistic filth,
while i carve rhythms in the stars with a quill. having
delirium in my Delorean. i’m bored again,
forming forgeries, snorting glass, smashing porcelain.
brain stir crazy, blazing with The First Lady,
cursing at the blood moon, angry ’til the herb sways me.
Danny scribbles mad dope, that’s a fact, ain’t it?
as i craft, painting raps on the black pavement,
half baked & grubbing shrooms, lounging ass naked,
trashed, spacing out to jazz in my dad’s basement.
my music is this: fluid liquid eucalyptus
you dudes can use to trip with,
lucid visions influenced by hallucinogens,
…psychedelically infusing luminousness.
Illuminati got me paranoid & doing business
with the wrong people, now i face crucifixion,
so i’m scarily manic, pacing, with Marilyn
Manson playing, dizzied by these aerosol cans i’m
spraying… my brain disappeared at youth.
…my parents knew but it’s hard the bare the truth.
smokejumping into fires without a parachute,
& barefoot cuz i forgot the right pair of shoes.
what the fuck is wrong with me? hell if i know.
tears turn to curdled blood flooding swelling eyeballs.
fucked up dreams with demons in Gene Simmons’ jacket.
reliving tragic scenes, screaming in madness.
i protect myself how i feel i best can,
but the pressure builds & truthfully i’m stressed, man.
so i kamikaze with the paparazzi peeping
while i flow fury following the Fibonacci Sequence.
i’m off the deep end, dawg, for real, my head is gone.
…i’m thinking prolly by now it’s descended dawn or
stomped to death by the echelon of Genghis Khan, so
finding alive ain’t something that i’d bet upon. i’ve got
leather bondage beneath my fleece sweater on, with my
jaw locked in a muzzle at my favorite restaurant.
i’m half renaissance-man / other half Devil’s spawn.
hexagon splitting when i’m spitting lexicon.
so i’m running faster & faster from the
coming thumbing chapters & not becoming clung to rafters,
but unfortunately due to my attention deficit,
i forgot to finish mapping out the plans for exodus.
so i’m running faster & faster from the
coming thumbing chapters & not becoming clung to rafters,
but unfortunately due to my attention deficit,
i forgot to fi
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2. |
Hypomanic Carnival
04:16
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{“Hypomanic Carnival”.}
come with me…
yo,
i blazed out Shiva, then i sipped ayahuasca.
made my way to my apartment via flying saucer.
spilled paint on my silk, suede garment,
as the blacklight lit the milk-stained carpet.
…so now my human instinct got me
moving in sync while i’m doodling ink.
…loose cannon. spew random raps
dressed fresh in polkadot Snuggies. dude, fancy that.
come with me to the Hypomanic Carnival.
we can smash dreams into subatomic particles.
now & then we get crushed by an obstacle.
life aint no pot of gold.
come with me to the Hypomanic Carnival.
we can smash dreams into subatomic particles.
now & then we get crushed by an obstacle.
life aint no pot of gold, but you’re not alone.
…mentally, i’m medically a mystery, a
pedigree. i was raised a Big Pharm guinea pig.
& shit i’m growing old now. i got these grey hairs &
dark rings sunk beneath the eyes of a blank stare.
plus there’s dead roses rotting on my window sill.
& there’s vengeance felt to a sick extent. it kills.
…so doctor when’s my re-up on these mental pills?
there’s venom in my veins and i can’t assess what’s real.
come with me to the Hypomanic Carnival.
we can smash dreams into subatomic particles.
now & then we get crushed by an obstacle.
life aint no pot of gold, but you’re not alone.
come with me to the Hypomanic Carnival.
we can smash dreams into subatomic particles.
now & then we get crushed by an obstacle.
life aint no pot of gold, but you’re not alone.
come with me to the Hypomanic Carnival.
we can smash dreams into subatomic particles.
now & then we get crushed by an obstacle.
life aint no pot of gold, but you’re not alone.
come with me to the Hypomanic Carnival.
we can smash dreams into subatomic particles.
now & then we get crushed by an obstacle.
life aint no pot of gold, but you’re not alone.
…hit up the bodega for breakfast.
digestive diet of Backwoods & Chex Mix,
Prilosec, Prosseco, & some Lexapro to help let go of
all the side effects that come included with the Depakote.
magnetic maniacal molar mechanism.
brain rocket launched on a solar expedition.
now my essential sequential pencil flies.
so pop some X & vibe. let the tempo ride.
my cybernetic mind electrified
by florescent dialect i direct every time.
you lurking leeches can’t suck my venom dry,
since i’m technically composed of circuitry my flesh can hide.
the narcoleptic architect of sweat & grime,
straight spacing out as the darkness then sets the sky.
so once i’ve sparked then yes my heart confesses crimes.
& i start to sketch & carve & etch & rhyme…
…my sliced hand’s dripping from this blood oath.
bottle rocket back to Saturn. neck bolted. cutthroat.
molotov cocktail sipping, i spit Listerine.
crystal clean star systems seen. palms wrinkling.
pineal’s developing. i’m Yelping where to find truth.
so i hired several private eyes & a blind sleuth, while
slinging blackmarket beats built by carpentry
as sirens in the night sniff my scripts from the pharmacy.
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3. |
Pills & Spilt Milk
02:56
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{“Pills & Spilt Milk”.}
…pills & spilt milk fill acrylic fabric.
real bad habits trapped in a filthy mattress.
drills & hatchets to build quills to draft with.
now i kill bills, slashing skilled assassins.
five-part palm exploding-heart technique, as i
come through samurai-style, slow but steady.
messy, grubbing cookie crumbs off the basement floor
while i’m huffing glue hopped up on some agent orange.
& when it rains it pours, so shit i’m eating shrooms
’til i’m playing peek-a-boo with Pikachu & Beetlejuice,
zenning out with weed, nicotine, & greasy food,
leaving room in the belly, though, for emcees to chew.
..this is whipped cream topped butterscotch pudding,
steak, potatoes, summer squash cooking,
smoke rings ringing bells bout Saturn’s rings.
frequently these thought frequencies keep scattering.
yo,
fanny pack stuffed with candy wrappers & Danny’s raps,
so i couldn’t find my Xannie stash in it & can’t relax.
bloodshot green eyes mean-grilling mirrored
back images of myself made it clearer.
dank blends of indica-sativa in the AM,
since cannabinoids battle noise in my brain stem.
eyes dilated, hydrated chugging gasoline,
’til my battery’s fully back to its capacity.
pot smoke tingling my fucking nostrils;
finger-licking White Widow grown in Colorado.
my past fucked my ass up. had to let go,
now i find sacramental value in a pad & pencil.
feel the aura of the epileptic sorcerer.
they say i’m fucking weird & severely bipolar,
deformed since i was born or before then.
but y’all are far too normal for importance, so
forfeit.
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4. |
Bad Fetish
03:11
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{“Bad Fetish”.}
blast off in this tiny little spaceship
flying me to Vegas so i can be famous.
i got grudges, now my doctor calls it dark vengeance.
she tells me when i’m angry i should start penning.
marksman, i’m starving, so i carve venom
out of stars, grinning. now my heart’s rhythm stops ticking.
lost in this babbling. i’m a strange one.
talk a lotta bullshit. make your fucking brain cum.
tastefully text twining, i’m sick, sizzling;
swift scribbling penmanship, spit dribbling…
i can’t help it’s obvious i’m hot as tits, so i
skip showers now, hawking spit to wash the grit.
smidgen in my stubble, truffle sauce on my lobster bib.
kibbles of some dolphin meat caught in my esophagus.
shark guts, the carcass of an octopus;
tentacles robotically programmed to feel consciousness.
cats sweating my raps, yet i’m crash-testing.
fact-checking what i last said in past tension.
a tad phlegmish, as i laugh like a mad chemist.
filthy tongue twisters. it’s a bad fetish.
…monthly visits to the local drug store.
doctor maxed my dosage, yet i’d limitlessly love more.
the subject of mixed Benzos & Tegretol,
now my head is all fucked up & i can’t rest at all.
heads spinning while i flex writtens, got your sweat dripping.
insane asylum bed-ridden ’til the meds kick in.
ashy black punctured lungs blowing smoke rings;
lonely, hoping that they’ll know i’m not only joking:
think they got something wrong with my diagnosis.
spy kaleidoscopes in my eyes while they’re open.
doc’s got her science focused on my decoding,
as she tries to identify these spikes in voltage.
i try minding my own, but my mind
has a mind of its own with its own phone-line;
voicemailbox met its max cap in ’09;
sucked every moaned sigh from me, left me bone-dry.
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5. |
The Dissertation
03:16
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{“The Dissertation”.}
hovercraft hot-boxing, i’m Johnny Rotten
cozied up in bubble baths & strung out from the OxyContin.
a fucking handful. i’m a walking, breathing dissertation
pixelated by my therapist’s notes cuz she mixed up patients.
…fixed in place with duct tape & gorilla glue,
Depakote, Lamotrigine, & Klonopin when feeling blue.
the list goes on & on with an infinite ellipsis…………………………
fists clenched, bleeding, binging; this is sickness.
oops, forgot my meds again. it’s fucking with my dopamine.
it exploded at the seams revealing all my broken dreams.
clouds standing over me. i’m staring at the solar beams. they
found me by the river channel, channeling its poetry.
they say i’ve gone crazy. they began to think this
when my doctor left a voicemail handing me my pink slip.
dreams become reality. reality is virtual.
virtue is a fallacy, but not until the curtains close…
i been
spoon-fed lab-created sugarcoated chemicals with
doctors sneaking looks at my notebooks in hopes they’re legible.
…so, yes i do attempt to find my pulse
every time they’re mesmerized by my MRI results.
…Pfizer’s favorite client funding mass production,
but my past consumption of these pills tear up my abs & stomach.
siphoning the sap of salvia for turpentine
to turbulently turn on my turbine for turbo drive.
speak in tongue, spelling alphabets in halogen;
a talent i developed in my youth to use for balancing while
sitting by my lonesome in the psyche ward for my christmas supper
at the age of fourteen, since i lost my shit that summer.
violent motions, followed by crying oceans. i
victimized myself, which then led to my neurosis.
brain dripping ooze, flipping through manic channel static
while i handle matchsticks & flick ‘em into cans of gasses.
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6. |
Noir
04:03
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|
{“Noir”.}
futuristic. psychoactive. psychedelic. psychiatric.
psychotropic. psychopathic. embryonic. chain reaction.
futuristic. psychoactive. psychedelic. psychiatric.
psychotropic. psychopathic. embryonic. chain reaction.
futuristic. psychoactive. psychedelic. psychiatric.
psychotropic. psychopathic. embryonic. chain reaction.
futuristic. psychoactive. psychedelic. psychiatric.
psychotropic. psychopathic. embryonic. chain reaction.
futuristic… as i calculate computer glitches,
algorithmic alchemy amalgamates into a system.
Satan summons & the full moon eclipses.
psilocybin steaming on the kettle as i do the dishes.
…shooting eucharistic juices through syringes.
moody dimwit in gloomy dim lit rooms
glueing broomsticks to create my crucifix with.
so burn me at the stake. here, use this lit wick.
unsuccessful exorcisms left me less than humanistic.
fire filled my eyes. i was soon a vicious, superstitious
lunatic with a tendency to lose my shit quick…
now you can feel the weather change with my looming sickness.
…Brattleboro Psychiatric Unit visits
rudely woke me from my slumber in the padded room i lived in.
schizophrenic clues were given doctors would pursue incision
using only toothpicks driven into my two pupils with ‘em.
nothing seems to soothe the symptoms…. the noose is gripped &
i can hear the rooster’s risen… the view is vivid
as i weigh the pros & cons of jumping off the roof. i’m slipping;
chewing on my lip until it bleeds & causes mucus dripping…
..now gooey crimson goop is sticking to my linens,
which parasitic colonies assume is cool to live in.
they crawl in through my cuticles & move into my thick skin,
make their way inside my skull, planting tumors within.
medulla bit into, then split in two divisions, but the
neurosurgeons couldn’t loop the stitches back into position,
so maggots ate my brain & spiderwebs then grew within it,
& now they’re telling me there’s nothing they can do to fix it.
every month, Dr. Gaev gave me new prescriptions;
a pharmaceutic script list of therapeutic biscuits
numerously multiplying, just accruing digits.
they never seem to help, yet i continue to enlist ‘em.
twenty years ago i shoulda just refused permission,
withdrew admission from the loony bin & blew it kisses.
but i blew it since i never followed through & did this,
& now i find myself much too addicted. but
simple things like spoonerism doodling in pseudonym &
scribbling in unison with Univision euphemisms
to assist when scrutinous my screws are spinning loose again is
ludicrously useful in eluding from the truth that’s hidden.
futuristic. psychoactive. psychedelic. psychiatric.
psychotropic. psychopathic. embryonic. chain reaction.
futuristic. psychoactive. psychedelic. psychiatric.
psychotropic. psychopathic. embryonic. chain reaction.
futuristic. psychoactive. psychedelic. psychiatric.
psychotropic. psychopathic. embryonic. chain reaction.
futuristic. psychoactive. psychedelic. psychiatric.
psychotropic. psychopathic. embryonic. chain reaction.
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7. |
||||
|
{“Detonate The Serotonin”.}
padlock Scatterboxx in a strap jacket.
i’m a lab rat tripping on some bad acid.
…lucid black magic got me flash-backing
to custom crafted cabinets to stash tablets.
…nap sack packed with fat hash spliffs,
backpacking even with these bad back spasms.
electric epileptic bipolar. print-
pressing rhyme flower, son, have a crack at this.
EEG stat graphics not looking good,
CPU machine crashed. screen glass cracked quick.
off the charts balderdash mathematic
results got these technicians going spazmatic.
…got a few too many bad habits,
excessively crass when my Absinthe is absent
has it time to undergo added malpractice:
non-FDA approved detonated serotonin.
detonate the serotonin.
detonate the serotonin.
detonate the serotonin.
detonate the serotonin.
clogged arteries tangled in a bob & weave.
i’m shot, popping poppy seeds, lost cosmically.
late night rendezvous with the oddities
while you sleep soundly, yo, i set sail for odyssey.
snap high-definition pineal photography:
Dimethyltryptamine dreams seen consciously.
…everyone by now knows obviously
age bit its fangs, hit the veins of my artistry.
biologically, i am a robotic beast
that methodically was built on canvas in Picasso's dreams.
cough & wheeze; snot dripping while i cause a scene;
see me vexed at the CVS Pharmacy.
…it’s gotten me in constant animosity &
neurologically, i probably could use lobotomy.
self medicating fear & loathing irresponsibly
led to improperly detonating serotonin.
detonate the serotonin.
detonate the serotonin.
detonate the serotonin.
detonate the serotonin.
detonate the serotonin.
detonate the serotonin.
detonate the serotonin.
detonate the serotonin.
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8. |
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9. |
Paroxysm
04:42
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10. |
The Right Flux
05:35
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11. |
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12. |
Side FX
02:48
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13. |
The Comedown
03:08
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14. |
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Scatterboxx Norwalk, Connecticut
writer, producer, sound designer, audio engineer.
1/2 of sidestep complex.
founder/owner of noodlebake records.
Scatterboxx recommends:
The Diamond Eyes of Saturn
by Sidestep Complex
an ethereal journey through the sonic netherworld that is every bit as thought-provoking as it is head nod-inducing
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