milo: so the flies don't come.
Dark danky droopy beats draw in the listener on the first track while bouncy lyrics of the rabblerouser keep the hearer tripping up moving escalators of irrational unpredictability.
It's the lazy theologian, the clumsiest poet sad-rapping over fuzzy 8-track cassette tape & singing through the most important hole in his universe-shaped brain-head. It flicks its tongue over itself, tasting all the racism, issues and pain of being itself, being stuck in itself, stuck being a thing at all. The boy companion follows milo powerfully and the track continues its lackadaisical psychedelic slip-n-sliding accompaniment to dense, impenetrable impregnable pregnant-with-near-infinite-possibilities lyrics.
The zen scientist is barbed and stabbed with sticking words. Mad milo flits his subjective point of view to make strong statements and declare his declarations in rhyming verse. Existential existing is all we can do, reminds the sultry soul song of Myka 9. A historian miserably musing on his place in history, flying too close to the sun, dying, then letting his soul continue the body's work.
In reply the life-giver, faster than cognition-neurons then slower than absolute zero, a mad milo yells his blacknessssses to the audience who give their white masks a polishing, noticing them the first time as the n-word rips their shame like puppy's tooth through slipper; rappers are assaulted; cross-references sunder across subject; then nothing. The song is done.
"...the Latin names of the ugliest parts of my insides... No one taught me the language of rap song; I was born speaking it." The grating harshness now muted with oscillating repeating milos synthesizing, then the drums. Paranoid claustrophobic phonetic assonance and dissonance guide the hobbits down the path. Death is a strange thing but a known thing. Schizophrenic frenetic fanatic milo can't be pinned down to a single idea, theme, voice, splicing 1,000,000,000,000 of them together to form a single book. "And yours?"
Warm echoes across silver otherworldly canyons. "They filthy fucks" (it should be noted this stream-of-conscious was interrupted September 26th & restarted September 28th) they are broken, hollow men, described in lilting literature and now in poetries. I was lost. I'm drifting. Your pitched down voice guided me home. Now I am found touched, licked clean by your subjective truths; thanks for the bath; a tip of 20%. Violence. "Too wise for sandcastles" & now too wise as a serpent to be an innocent dove. Little sister lips sic me & tastes of nonsense babbling brooks. I am who am, like Elucid. I can't be hurt. Listen to the meditate. Let God's dead son take over.
Trip hopping beep bopping sing-rap silly slick slimy rhymes. True Nen. Hear humor. Laugh. Hilarious. "Black aesthetic gospel." I called it rap wrong. Vocoder piano-keys-synth tricks and glitches. Hell song in a hallway down to heaven. Open Mike Eagle bounces off the Earth on his way to Planet Smurf and now floats in the stratosphere, powering our superheroes with his patented gamma radiation.
"Sliz... (laugh)" Trickle down my spine, Reagan. The vibe is.... the room isis....... Slow down to the speed of an unmoving black hole with a name that starts with m; let your mind race like a light-speed light-ray flying into that infinite dark which crushes and mutilates and lies inescapable. The soul flies beyond. Lives beyond. Whatever this is. Hurled at 1 trillion per hour escape velocity in to. Whatever. The next. "Soul-power. Soul powers. Soul-powered. This is the green horse for rap..." I'm now dead. "Listen, the beginning is the illusion." I was never born. "It is the iron veil concealing the origin, but here I am with the key." I can never be killed. I can never be lost. I am orbiting all there ever was, rippling through all space time, seeing it all in the 4th dimension. "I wasted my life microwaving jalapeño poppers." And now I am uselessly floating in the here-after, beyond it all. My soul drips in the miasma outside of the known universe and smells something never known.
Hard, fast. Let's go. Yo milo, do I exist? To you even? I'm like an internet baby child with no meaning, drafting up meanings in blog posts and vlogs and journals and sketch books and bandcamp artist pages. I have no thing. Yo milo, are you enlightened? Are you real? I construct you and you are a confluence of projections and jazz and sililoquys I can't reread. Yo milo, what is life? Death? Are you a nigger? Am I? Why are there words with pain? And joy? The phonetic sounds represented by Arabic symbols can hurt and kill and offend? Am I powerful?
"You are at the top of a short list." Flurry fury furry afro hiding a black bear of unbearable schisms and paradigms of phlegm and inexplicable being and existing without understanding is surely a short grave and how does he rap, does he rap? I am electrified. I am unscared to die. I feel inclined to rhyme, to write free verse. Art for art's sake. What matters is the placeprocessplaceprocessplace and I liquefied, squeezed through the tube, capitalist and socialist and I can no longer follow you. I am just a construct of my own mind. I'm now dead. I'm now reborn. I can never die. I only ever die. I slip in and out of enlightenment. I slip in and out of existence. Wink and I'm gone. Blink and I'm just not here. Dedicated to Regan. Or the busdriver. I forget the name. I forgot the reason.
An art piece inspired by milo's album that was released (3) yesterday(s ago).