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  • the_fox 1d

    petty humans

    I had to, I had to,
    replace this heart of mine
    with metal parts, and pray
    that it's designed to be bullet proof;
    my throat is slit in two,
    so you could see the money coming out,
    and, you shouldn't have to pay any mind,
    just count it up, it's all for you.

    you heard right, it is true
    that I am starting to turn
    into an animal;
    I had to, I had to,
    spill blood to build this home,
    but, now that's all gone
    into this thin will;
    could you tell me
    whose mother I have to kill ?

    I talk to the television,
    the microwave and the refrigerator
    in my room,
    and I am forced to think
    that I am turning into one of them :
    a machine, created to breathe,
    weep and oftentimes - kill.

    maybe it is you, who could tell me,
    where is it that I belong;
    is it on the moon, or the Mars,
    or just beneath your doormat,
    but, never by your bedside,
    never by your bedside.

    maybe it is only you,
    who could tell me, help me
    decide your future;
    whether are you to be killed,
    or not,
    only you could tell me.


  • the_fox 1d

    tacos and burritos

    incomprehensible vagueness
    is what you've left him in;
    he is half a man, and half
    a derogatory, decaying monster
    from the penultimate depths of hell.
    oh, the Mexican witch,
    she has made lovely voodoo dolls
    whilst spelling his name into life
    upon these pretty, black and miserable dolls.

    he euthanizes himself in his sleep,
    the rooftop has fallen down
    to the tip of his penis;
    as cryptic as it gets :
    what a creature the almighty is,
    to give birth to a creature
    like the Mexican witch,
    spelling curses as she gulps down,
    yet another batch of tacos and burritos.

    bleeding from the neck-down
    and from his crotch,
    he cries down a Nile into existence
    on his bathroom floor;
    he wishes for the Russians to nuke him,
    before he wages a war against the God,
    for the Mexican witch and the loneliness
    the almighty has casted upon him.

    captured in the big gloom,
    he walks the streets of Armageddon.
    the witch said
    that his warcry is the whine of a crybaby;
    begging to be released
    from this helical system of misery,
    he is struck down to death
    by hundreds of witches
    and thousand arrowheads.


  • the_fox 2d

    i talking to i

    do you rest your head
    when the reality is worse,
    and infinitely more terrifying
    than your nightmares;
    or, do you just stay awake,
    with your eyes peeled
    and just successfully manage
    to lose your mind ?

    is your heart in the right place,
    in the right cavity ?
    or, maybe it is floating across,
    left to right, like an astronaut
    between the pretty shackles
    of your ribcage.
    how could you still breathe,
    with a pair of squashed lungs,
    a broken spine, and mutilated eyeballs ?

    why couldn't you kill yourself,
    when the pleasure started hurting
    your head,
    when the degausser wouldn't kill the remnants
    inside your throat;
    why couldn't you kill yourself,
    when the noose was onboard with you
    and your shattered dreams,
    and, nobody ever showed up
    to stick out a hand of help ?

    how were you asleep
    on an incline,
    when you should have been dead
    under a rock, with some rotten flowers,
    a pretentious eulogy, and curses
    from your friends
    who laughed out of the misery
    that you were in ?

    how could you still breathe ?
    how couldn't you kill yourself ?
    how could you resist the temptation
    of burning yourself alive ?


  • the_fox 3d

    Martian Remembrance

    god's lonely man,
    slendering through the woods,
    teeth sinking
    by the bloodshot marble flooring,
    seething within;
    and every poem is only a repetition
    of the previous one,
    because the manic identities are sporadic.

    the door has been closed
    since the January of this year,
    alienated myself from the world
    long before the quarantine.
    bad acid doing damage to my mental,
    poetry isn't relief anymore,
    nullified joy, there's no happiness for rental.

    it's comfortable to think
    that my life is in control,
    but, everyday is a dying reminder
    of the fact that there's no home
    for me to belong to;
    burning pictures on the mantle,
    drinking every night to settle the bets,
    praying that the diseases don't eat away
    my grandmother, and when it's time
    to put her burnt body in the case,
    she would know
    that she was the only friend of mine.

    my life's on the line,
    meeting the horizon,
    ending, one second at a time;
    shattered dreams and shattered friends
    often give birth to new nightmares
    and strangers;
    isolated, alienated and asphyxiating,
    familiar faces pushed me out
    and into the atmosphere of Mars.


  • the_fox 1w


    it is true that time
    flows through my fingertips,
    faster than a charlatan
    changing professions.
    red water territory, washing
    these swollen hands,
    bitter liver, leaking glands;
    nicotine has sued my breathing habits,
    pale, stand-offish and anaemic.

    seven spliffs on a weekday
    had my wings clipped,
    muffle the pain, and muzzle my brain,
    stuck in the hangar,
    leave the noose hanging around my neck.
    negligible incidence of light
    under my bed, it's a total eclipse,
    farewell to my shine, that my mother
    has grown to miss.

    another day spent,
    in the totality, not many
    of my friends are left;
    severe myself from the pavement
    and brush the dirt off my psyche,
    Hennessy in my iced tea.
    drinking and missing my grandmother,
    pouring some cold white wine
    with the Colt .45 in it; and hell
    meets where Elm Street is,
    jotting this quick, because these demons
    wouldn't let me focus so well.


  • the_fox 1w


    Read More

    'tis a pity she was a whore

    man, she punched him like a dude,
    fractured his jaw in two,
    teeth sunk deep into the sand.
    her name is Sue, and she sued him
    until that hysterical cry
    from his toothless mouth came out.

    nevertheless, he was looking
    for her ass
    in La-La Land, amongst the confetti
    and the Hollywood sign;
    by this time, her ass belonged
    to the man who bought her a new one -
    an inside job for her gluteus maximus.

    although, she still kept his cock,
    for the sake of swallowing his babies.
    Sue loves the rush of semen,
    be it him, or any other man;
    going about her day, by murdering
    the liability inside her womb,
    and then, she visits every orgy,
    to host more liabilities,
    or, twin-liabilities after nine months.

    she has now broken his vertebrae,
    he rests wide awake, in his deathbed,
    giving her the gazeless gaze;
    while she goes about her way,
    to her brand-new friends,
    who would do anything, to get their syringes
    to pump inside her shaft.
    man, she gave him a deathless death,
    at the end of the day, she has no guilt,
    or shame,
    but, the pleasure that she acquires
    after sleeping with every man in the valley.


  • the_fox 2w


    Read More


    this one's from the God's son
    guardian of the entire garrison,
    entitled to the Bible, got more verses than the Vatican,
    hit a scan, double x-ray vision,
    heavy as a bishop, leave them smaller than a local lobby - LAN,
    squeezing the piece through a two-door sedan,
    ganglands come with the heat, gangsters put the chopper
    to the head like a hairdresser.
    shoot 3k rounds like André, outcasted,
    growing up in a world that always told me I was lesser,
    breather on my mouth like a gas mask,
    chopping and screwing, as a driver,
    they say it's an Akai MPC,
    never about a HOC,
    meet your murderer, over your name like an apostrophe.

    drinking to my accomplishments,
    happiness doesn't matter when you have everything,
    my forefather's devilment, by my side.
    jotting down from a dark place,
    no grace and only humility;
    severe mood change from the flex,
    keep the piece around, for there's no peace with me.
    the pen has given way to greater negativity,
    constantly second guessing every rhyme, verses fail to save me from insanity,
    poetry used to fill me with joy,
    now, it's nothing but pain.
    stuck between doors and not windows,
    trying to get back to the place from where I came,
    stuff myself with drugs
    just to seal my confidence back again,
    maybe it has been longer than
    it was meant to be,
    cleaning the slate has gotten me dirtier,
    dismissed by the people who meant something to me,
    pouring my heart out on the paper isn't worth it
    on my mental state
    my poetry's living its last breath.
    farewell, my friend,
    time to give up the pen,
    so that I wouldn't have the urge
    to kill myself.


  • the_fox 4w

    a commentary on my reality

    coming from the cloud nine
    with my thoughts in the basement,
    all my feelings are miseducated,
    sublimated heart, the days are improportionate
    and there's no escape
    when the cries for help are braggadocious,
    arrogant and unsedated.

    wish there was some time left
    for me to save myself.
    drug addiction is the chip on my shoulder,
    bartered my soul for materialistic desires;
    fear of a seizure, or a cardiac arrest
    while walking the stairs of my apartment;
    or, probably ending up as a convict,
    in a courtroom, getting a lifelong prison statement.

    allies switch to foes,
    darkness has turned to an enemy.
    trying to be a better version of myself,
    trying not to play eeny-meeny-miny-moe
    with the medical shelf;
    state-of-the-art pistol to my head,
    muzzle to my face, it hurts to spell "A-M-E-N",
    because if there's a God,
    he's only helped me suffer,
    every tragedy to him is an oops- accident;
    there's no leap of faith, taking shots
    of nitroglycerin to my chest,
    hoping this piece qualifies as a cry for help.


  • the_fox 4w

    super negative
    super sad
    super angry
    super delusional
    super irrational

    eyes on fire, futuristic pyrotechnics,
    built houses with imaginary friends
    with cocaine-white bricks;
    snort more than a whore,
    snoring the verses of nihilism,
    the messiah, the pharoah in a black prism,
    contemplating to sleep with my lids peeled,
    coroner on the call,
    blue Franklins - money or my mind
    what's the first to fall ?

    dissect my achievements
    until there's no happiness left;
    death in tongues, verses like Hades
    and my pills are crimson,
    sexually abusing every syllable,
    never intersecting diagonally
    because my sides are never equal,
    stole the Oracle, intricate with the purple,
    my life's not a bitch, but an extraterrestrial animal,
    multi-storied thinking, a criminal
    of the highest level, setting records,
    hitting lowest of the lows,
    cosmic addict, my mind's lost like Mickey's Pluto.

    aggressive to the power infinity,
    toxins make me sweat
    more than a racist white kid;
    might smoke on a vial of Covid-19,
    never keeping my vitals on check,
    actavis blacker than George Floyd's neck,
    asphyxiation, before the ribcage breaks,
    wear the lungs on my sleeves
    because my heart has leaked
    through the wormholes of my commode,
    set my brain on a green, burning stove,
    and talk to myself in a language that's foreign.


  • the_fox 5w


    atrocious addiction, drugs in my kernel,
    braggadocious, syllables to swim
    and switch these canals;
    marijuana handling, dissect white girls
    with the same black gloves on,
    ex-con, chew cannabis like cannibalism.
    nightmare on Elm Street, time to pick
    my brain apart,
    snapping midway, iron on me, that's a Tony Stark;
    my heart by the gallows,
    Harry Potter clip with deadly hollows.

    this bizarre empire, flexible nights,
    mould into the darkness like vampires;
    if lyricism is a tooth, then this monster
    is a pair of pliers.
    toxic canisters, smoke is the antidote,
    bricks of the White God,
    articulate hate off the coke;
    soaked in alcohol, spitting raw ethanol,
    smell the meth and the adderall
    through a bleeding nose.

    my birth was an accident,
    manic to the point
    where there's no point of incidence;
    art in verses, only the lead makes sense,
    be it in the paper, or the skull;
    never crawling in the crawlspace,
    triggering headshots with broken lenses.
    cross the middleman with an X,
    no Malcolm, but a psychopathic activist,
    hellbent on slaughtering the pink heaven
    because even the devil was godsent.