Tuesday, April 05, 2005

Etan Thomas: Slam Poet

Wizznutzz Poetry


I am a King of one, subject to none but
and I
Eyes pregnant with visages of players to a throne
Pretenders who have shown, their souls turn like a basketball

A revolution.

I am the last left standing, the original prophet
I am so perfect so divine so ethereal so surreal
I cannot be comprehended except by my permission
My mons pubis is braided like Anubis before me
And now nobody can ignore me, score on me
I fill the lane with brains,
Reading futures in the stains
On my game worns.

Now I look upon my culture,
I see ballers, sure I do
Hard corers in Haute Couture, in furs
Enough to make my ancestry - stir

My brothers among me,
Kwame a black walnut tree,
Lorenzo in his Benzo, give Stevie Blake his Vitamin D
Gheorghe, the Great White Way,
My endocrine Giant is dying on the parquet

My soldier in hardwood war, Haywood
I ask: "What sound is made from the clapping of one small hand?"
A heart bigger that the prostate gland
of Abe
Honest, Master Pollin, an ego so kingly swollen, let me go,
Because the Foggy Bottom Metro is still an underground railroad

A time now of No kings,
No bling bling, a dawn for champions

Upon a time I was the first born here
In a time when King Hidi had
a taste for rookie cockery and chocolate fleece,
he held the locker room lease. Then in a day
to Phoenix, his reign nixed,
I showered for the first time in peace.

And then the King of Kings came to town
Riding on devils pacts, the backs of mules.
He brought his Airs(tm),
his nostalgic cloths, he filled arenas with the moths
Of decay
With a lady of white at his side
comma, K.

Now they gave Mike a motor bike. "Ride away ride away"
But no ride can hold old men's pride
So with a wince, The Frog fired the Prince.

It was once wrote that
Of this traveler from an antique land
Two vast and balky legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Grand, half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,

"My name is Michael, King of Kings:
Look upon my works, ye Faggots, and despair!"

Nothing beside remains.
Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

But the devil, the King, he is not a man.
Its an Association
That cuts the checks,
So I kneel and look this devil in the eye.

And say:
I will honor my ancestors, for I am the hiphop poet,
the last poet,
And there will be
Another last poet
After me

And as I drop my knowledge, my backpack rap
At a Republic Gardens slam, it is your soft white daughters
who swallow it all
At what price?
A two drink minimum and I think:

Now who are you calling slave?

Who is King
And who the Knave?

No comments: