Basquiat spins music for his friends.
Trendsetting while people pleasing.

Prince - The Future plays in his brain while
David Byrne - Psycho Killer plays from the turn table.  

(Source: vrijbuiter)

Tears of a poetic clown - IL. Subliminal  5/21/12

Now I have holes inside my soul,
That are only filled from clapping

So I came to the open mic show,
To hear some poetry, singing or rapping.
Somebody on stage is wasting cliché spit.
Bragging about how good their sex is and shit

And I’m depressed again.
This person up here advertising.
I’ve fuckin’ heard this before.
Don’t wanna hear it no more…

Now there’s nothing more entertaining than
A man who wants people to understand
The tears of a poetic clown,
Which is really just a frown,
Cuz we’re stereotypically always down
Whether or not anyone is around

Now if there’s a frown on my face
I’m tryna keep it real in public
But why I’m actin’ a fool on stage
For applause is a different subject
Please don’t let my sad expression
Take away from this song’s impression

I’m really mad,
at the world that I have
I’ve gone to my pad (and my pen)
To complain and feel bad (again)

Now there’s nothing more entertaining than
A man who wants people to understand
The tears of a poetic clown,
Which is really just a frown,
Cuz we’re always down
Whether or not anyone is around

Just like Taylor Mali did
Bein’ all satirical and facetious. 
While tryna to sound smart in public,
But in real life, all I do is dumb shit.

Tears of a poetic clown
Whether or not anyone is around,
I have holes inside my soul, 
That are only filled from clapping.

Please don’t let my sad expression
Give you the wrong impression

Oh yeah baby…

Jean Michelle creates early work. 
He has yet to realize his full potential.  
Prince’s first album begin to play in his tapedeck. 

(Source: the-a-nn-ex)

Jean Michelle listens to the voices in his head. 
Prince’s “All the critics love u in New York” plays in the background.  

For those who like putting their name on shit.

by il. subliminal 2/25/12 4:40pm

“First rule of … (blah, blah, blah), 
 is that we never talk about …(blah, blah, blah)…” - Tyler Durden

Hey, you, Brainwashed Mr. 
self important stenciler, 
you ever really ran from death before? 

Mr. Take it in your own hands and jack it, 
so that you can brag about it to your friends
over a round of PBR.

You’re a hepititis laced dildo, with no batteries. 

You are not apart of the discourse of importance. 

You simply like to waste fluid. 

Saliva, Semen, Spray Paint. 

Why you know no history? 

Or maybe you’ve paid for history classes
Or better yet, 
maybe your parents paid for your history classes, 
where you sat with a grouped majority 
who look like you. 

And You don’t like 
going out alone, do you? 

You do it though. 
Cause you need the cred. 

You own no latch keys. 
You’ve never had to 
invent an after school activity for yourself, 
have you? 

At most, 
you’ve had parents too caught up in their bullshit, 
to notice you crying for help by vandalizing the neighbors 
garage door down the street. 

I pity you. 

And you, 
mr. “I like to brag about back in the day”.

Those who did truly important shit, 
don’t talk about it, 
because evidence of incrimination 
has no statute of limitation, 
in city of Chicago. 

Where CPD likes to blast real muthafuckas, 
off walls, 
off roads, 
off lakeside cliffs until they drown, 
off rails until they split spit-rome shock twist. 

This risk… 
is not a big thing, 
beyond writing your name. 

What’s your name, again? 

This is not something you become famous for, 
except to your haters and contemporaries.

What’s your name, again? 

Even if you do risk your well being for your art, 
people will still ask, 

What’s your name again? 

The ones who become legend, 
do so after they disintegrate, 
into paint fumes, 
or into a parents basement, 
or a county cell, 
or a desk job, 
or an art school, 
to a bar stool, 
to a back room, 
to an uninterested ear…

Attempting to live out the good ol’ daze. 

Our Future is Odd

by IL. Subliminal 2/21/12 9:45pm

Epigram - “Earl puts the ass in assassin, put the pieces of decomposing bodies

in plastic, puts them in a bag and mixes them up with scath, feeds it
to niggas like fat chicks eatin’ catfish.”

One of my students said that the only reason he goes to Church is
because of “The Lord” and all the other Females who be there.

Charlie Sheen now smokes some spanking new drug called Tiger Blood.
And brags about 7 gram rock banging.

Charles Hamilton is a man child preserved pubescent by pink lava
lampoons of youtube tomfollery.
Oh, last month he was someone’s girlfriend in Cleveland County Penn.

Earl, I like you. So homo. No pause.
Tyler, I would LOVE to slide into your kelidescope and underdig
why you hate yourself so…
Undertake where you made your mephistopile deal.
Delve into your dark hate self loathingness.

I’ll Wait to watch
while you danced alone
in the pale moonlight of your shadow.

Oh fly lord children.

Didn’t y’all study VH1 behind the music?
Didn’t y’all see Basquiat with Jeffrey Wright?

Oh, I forgot, art movies with David Bowie are too faggotty for your
pubecent palate to swallow.

Earl,
because your mother cared enough to send you 2 boarding school,
you MIGHT get off easy.

Don’t you know that NO ONE loves the Genius child?

Tyler, I know you witnessed
Michael - first hand,

pause,

Every Man’s dream is Never Never…
really possible.

Bells tinker away from the clapping sound.

Panned Peters piper in pies too hot for a young man like you to injest, sweety.

The shadow yo’re slowdancing with is
piloting you to the masses,
masking you as gyro meat (lamb).

Nailing you up on billboard charts and
drain your penned fountains
for his own youth sirum.

That’s all the hyenaed hipsters want, something to laugh at,
Something to milkbone manage,
Someone to make plastic,
mass produce,
Make parody.

Imitation
Is the greatest form of mockery,

the best trick the media mogels ever did was make everyone believe that
the vaudevillien tar n red lipstick
No longer exists.

What will you do when
the next Vanilla-Elvis-Timber-Bieber
cuts your head and
Uses it as a soupbowl?

What happens Earl,
when he passes around your
Mother’s C cup around
at the Superbowl?

Getting paid billions more than you to
Scare blackpeople into
skinhead sayonce slurred shock.

What happens when his quirky cousin gets signed by spitting your lyrics
wit popcorn porcupine proficiency.

What happens if when they
get awarded grammy
n your black n blue music isn’t even
Jailhouse rockin’ thru the
payphone to your mammy?

What happens when your doomed to repeat someone elses miscalculation?

What happens when ur crazy enough to expect a different result?

Hopefully, you’re real giddy go lucky.
Hopefully, this is all a dream during boyhood, meaning momentary.

One of my students said that the only reason he goes to Church is
because of “The Lord” and all the other Females
who be there every week.

Our Future is Odd.

“Brought to you by the letter P
 And the number 12.” by IL. Subliminal 2/16/12 11:06am 

Pussy,
Pubic,
Pubescent,
play 12,
public announcement songs,
people born in the 90s know,
penis,
perverted
pedofilia,
possession,
Perfection on Cta
Platform

Philistinistic meaning illiterate
Pimpologic Uncle Dirty Rob,
Posted infront of the white building,
Parnell made hunned and seventh wild,
Piano wonder at a talent show,
Panties thrown on a stage.
Piper pied with a mask on.
Phallacious charges.
Photo and video.

Picture autograph carried by my sixteen year old classmate,
Proudly showing him damn near naked.
Producer of Aaliyah’s 1st album
Paternally aging his number’d Jerry Lee Lewis.

Playing “Seems like you’re ready” on my cd
Player, I lost my virginity by
Putting the headphones on a girl I liked and
Pulling the chord with her connected in to the laundry closet, while ditching school.

Periodically sited outside of Kenwood waiting for the bell to let out.
1995 to 2001.

Posterized
Pin’t up to be maimed back into fame,
Playful fool castrated in a closet on the downlow.

Pressing download or play made
pedophiles of us all.

Plus he’s on his 12th album now.
Panned his way out of serving atleast 12 years for
Pissing on a 12 year old.  

Performing Publicly still, 

Pussy,
Pubic,
Pubescent,
play 12,
public announcement songs,
people born in the 90s know…

Elegy to Rihanna’s “S&M”
by IL. Subliminal 2/13/12 11:48pm

(Source: jamesbadgedale)

Devilish Jesus

by IL. Subliminal 1/15/12 10:55am

1.
Jehovah loves me,
Every night when I prostrate
and wait to be filled with spired-in lifting breath,
Spirits sing in me.

(Source: mistakemybiology)

The Last Temptation of James Yancey
by IL. Subliminal 1/14/2012 10:30am

Dionne Warwick - “You’re gonna need me”
plays in the headphones of a patient dying from lupus.
The television in his room plays Martin reruns, but is silent.

The patient has an Akai MPC 3000 on his lap.
He ignores the weight that sinks into his
malnourished legs like barbells into wet sand.

He presses the buttons in order to remold the song into what
plagues his mind, what he hears in between his ears.

He stops it, chops it, repeats it, stops it, chops it, repeats it,
as if entranced by mantra.
as if meditating,
as if attempting to leave his body,
and put himself into the machine,
into the rhythm of the pressing.

He has a stack of records sitting in the corner of his room,
next to 3 pairs of his favorite kicks,
next to a bag with his very expensive street clothing,
clothing made for hustlers, ballers, kings of industry,
and artists who create their soundtrack.

He sits in his hospital bed when a man appears by his side,
who looks alot like him but a bit more sickly,
a bit more pail.
He can only hear him at first,
in between the crackle of the Dionne Warwick recording,
In between the tttsss snap tap of the hyatt/kick he manipulates.

He looks at his reflection in the window to see if he’s crazy,
and thats when he sees this person.
This person tells him,

“Why don’t you take a break?
Why do you keep doing that?

Nigga, you are dying.
Those people don’t care about you.

To them, you are a chatroom message board myth.
They don’t know all you’ve done. They don’t care to know.

They only want you to Slum with them.
They only want you’re Tribe sounding shit.

They don’t even know you produced Tribe.
They don’t even know the blueprint you laid
for these so called “Rapper/Producers”

Why can’t you just fit into the category they want you in?
Fold your beats up and put them into the drawer, James.

You’re bus is on its way. Get on the red one.

Why don’t you take a break?
Why do you keep rearranging the song?

Who the fuck are you suppose to be, Picasso, Matisse, or Pollack or somebody?
You are not suppose to do that with a song.
This is melody, harmony, base, not fuscha, lavender, and olive.

You’re suppose to only sample 14 seconds at the most, James.
What the fuck is wrong with you?

Why don’t you take a break?
Why don’t you write a rhyme?
Why do you keep making beats?
Take a break.

Are you gonna sell these beat cd’s you keep giving away for free, James?
Who’s gonna take care of Ja’Mya and Paige, James?
Not these beat CD’s, you keep givin’ away for free,
to your so called “friends” who haven’t come to see you.
The ones who keep bootlegging them
and posting them on messages boards for free download.

And what the fuck is a donut?
Are you fixing a flat tire?
Are you some fat ass pig sittin’ in the squad car?

And while I’m on the subject,
NWA’s version of Fuck The Police was way more rebellious, dangerous.

Why you always gotta add that soul shit into it?

Why can’t you just make some party shit for the club?

Clear channel would fuck with you if you did.

Jay-z might stop payin’ cheap clones of you,
if you did.

The magazines might give you better PR,
if you did.

But YOU wanna be an artist.

What are you trying to do, find your voice?
You need to find these greenbacks before you can’t anymore.

Take a break.
Quit mixing the song up like cake batter and calling it a new beat.

Just take a break.
Quit trying to recycle the whole song.

Just take a break,
make beats for rappers again.
People want to hear you rhyme.
They never appreciate what you’re doing.
They only want to rap over your shit.

Just take a break.
Get ready to ride the bus thats coming for you.
If anyone tells you to get on the white bus, ignore that shit,
trust me man.

Have I ever lied to you?
Have I ever abandoned you?
Still to this day, you don’t trust. me

Just take a break, James.
Damn.

James, JAMES…James….
Damn it.

Just take a break James. ”

James decides he needs more than a break.

He stops it, chops it, repeats it, stops it, chops it, repeats it,
as if entranced by mantra.
As if meditating,
as if attempting to leave his body,
and put himself into the machine,
into the rhythm of the pressing.

Jean-Michelle entering the other dimension.
Prince’s “When Doves Cry” is playing in his head right now.
This is when everything changed…

Jean-Michelle winning an award while in the other dimension.
Prince “Pop Life” is playing in his head right now.

(Source: artismyhustle)

The Young Man who Knew Too Much…
(An imaginary letter from a poet to his unrequited one)

written by IL. Subliminal {written 1/8/12 - 1am}

Dear Jada,

I swear to God
(if She even cares enough to listen to my bullshit)
that I have a love for you
that only rivals how I feel about my
mother and sister.

Its like,
we got the fuck out of Baltimore,
we still in the Ghetto.
LA, NY, Atlanta,
the Ghetto don’t go nowhere,

Its all on our clothes like some dank ass Reefa or something,
you know? I know you know what I mean.
Ain’t like we can blend in out in the suburbs…

I swear I love you cause you don’t be frontin’.

I hate when niggas try to act like they know.

I know you heard about Quincy
givin’ this nigga a TV show.
Why can’t I get a TV show?

They should let me get a Talk Show.
Yeah, that shit wouldn’t last more that 3 episodes.
I’d send that bitch up.

They kickin’ Arsenio off the air for havin’ Farrakhan on.
Thats some straight racist bullshit.

Grand Dragon Crackas be on Geraldo all the time,
they ain’t kicked him off TV.
Donahue had Farrakhan AND The Grand Dragon on the Same Show,
they ain’t kick him off.

You know thats some racist bullshit, Jada.

And this high yella house nigga got a TV show.
I know I use to hate on his lil’ goofy ass back at the academy.
That soft ass “Mike Tyson” song.
Mike was like [sqeeky voice]

“I didn’t know that muthafucka,
and he payed me 10,000 to basically playfight with him.
He didn’t even let me hear the song.
I thought it was kinda ludercris and I get a very afiminite vibe from him,
but still, I don’t turn down easy money, Pac.
I’m from NYC, that shit don’t come easy”.

“West Philedelphia, Born and Raised”
I ain’t never seen that nigga in Philly.
I know he got the fuck out.
Thats what everybody do. They get the fuck out.

They always rise above the bullshit,
then run. They never try to stay and change the bullshit.
They always wanna run, Jada.

Heard the muthafucka turned down a free ride to MIT.
That nigga must be crazy.
Who the fuck chooses this shit over a regular life?
You think if I wasn’t already fucked up in the head,
I’d be doin’ this?

Rappin’ for a livin’?

Seriously Jada,
If my shit wasn’t fucked up since I was born.
If I wasn’t grandfathered onto a fuckin’ Cointel Pro list,
I wouldn’t be on stage.

This shit here…is a risk.
I hear niggas talkin’ like they gotta start wearin’
Bullet Proof Vests on stage.

I’m like
“Nigga this is Hip Hop.
Love, Peace and Nappiness.”
“La Di, Da Di, We likes to Party…”
Do the muthafuckin’ Humpty Hump
This shit ain’t suppose that to be complicated.

Why can’t Quincy give me a show?

Sheeeiiit, You smart Jada,
for fuckin’ wit Cosby while you had the chance.
I atleast respect him for lettin’ me on,
no strings attached.

I respect that man
and I fucks wit Jello Puddin’ too,
no lie.

Quincy act like he got a nigga back,
more like want a nigga backside.

But whatever.
If that house nigga can get down like that,
more power to him.

They better not never give me a TV show tho.

They’ll have to shoot me on PrimeTime.
Highest ratings since J.R. got popped.
I’ll be the Black J.R., Jada.

You know,
I don’t know what I would do without you.
You never judge me for my craziness.

Promise me one thing.
If something ever happens to me,
find a nigga, no fuck that,
find a man that loves you,
unconditionally.

Find a man that will protect you,
find a man that won’t disrespect you.
Find a man that respects himself.
Find a man that knows how to navigate this bullshit,
These white folks, but most important,
find a man who will help you rebuild the community,
I know that shit sound corny.
But I love Ozzie and Ruby Dee.

That should be us, Jada,
but I know you ain’t tryna vibe wit my craziness.
I don’t wanna put that burden on you.
I wish I could, but I ain’t gon’ do that.

You keep fuckin’ wit Cosby,
stay off the casting couch,
and get yours girl.
Cuz ain’t nobody gon’ get it for you.
I don’t have to tell you that.

I love you, Girl. One day you’ll understand.

(Source: versusall)

Clapping (4 Michael) by IL. Subliminal



1) 
When two hands clasp, embrace, 
the friction secretes energy, 
Ki’s of heat opening potential 
we might have historically harnessed 
in ancient sands of 
Imhotep mastery, 
but now we, 
people Black camped 
concentrate on consumption,
constipating in reverse. 
We hardly know no trade. 
We hardly trade no barter. 
We mostly wait on couches, 
potato baked,
suckling a tubes glass gland, 
milking maternal materialism. 

2) 
Michael was an angel, 
with Genitalia, 
that he pulled, a lot, 
while performing. 
Possessed by the spotlight.
Stripping revolutionary, 
rotate walking on satellites police only waxed
wanting weeded transmutation 
they will never wave- 
winged like he 
held households, 
waning. 

3) 
Energy never disappears, 
never dissipates, 
only diverts direction, 
even inadvertedly inverse. 
Vacuums, 
holed hurricanes, 
tornado eyes all excrete 
extreme implosive circumstance 
because of 
negatively enforced inertia. 

4) 
Michael was an angel, 
with clipped wings.
The only blues man to ever have his soul 
cross-roaded 
without his say so. 
There is always a reason, 
a carrot string, 
pulling toward the third railroading 
6 train
tracking the ultimate con. 
What if the confidence was placed
by 
a child’s love, 
a child’s need for acceptance, 
belonging, 
to a family heroine syringe roped to the sound of 
audience appreciation? 


5) 
“Childhood has become the great casualty of modern living, 
all around us we are producing scores of kids, 
who have not had the joy, 
who have not been afforded the right, 
who have not been allowed the freedom 
of knowing what its like to be a kid.” 

In 2001, 
Michael Jackson said this to a very quiet 
and attentive Oxford audience 
after which of course, 
they clapped. 

#wrongadventure

Strange Relationship by
Prince is playing in Jean-Michelle’s
head right now…

(Source: nevver)