Name's Allen.
I got a passion for the fashion of slang and poems.

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8 bit
that’s the shit
that makes my 
spine quiver
to you niggas

X-men action figures
don’t figure but
I know 
B-men make figures
exploit me
'cause I wanted their
and I still be wanting
their figures
Got 3 and they got 6
fuckers’ luck with the 7

Still a little fuck
forbidden to climb a ladder
even though I already
learned to control my bladder

Forgot how to feel good
Cranium is simmering,
thanks for selling me
back my memories

Transformers and
Ninja turtles
Toss me into
monetary hurtles

Had the
Ash Ketchum wallet
open up
to try and Ketchum in my wallet

I Marveled the hero
whenever DC me
'cause they taught me
that men without 
born talent
always own a mansion
and got the passion
and money to
help them stop the lashin’

Power Rangers
put my momma’s
credit in danger
and put me in
the frame of mind
that it’s 
grown up Morphing Time

Give kids toys
to own some property
and abuse it improperly
on the ones in poverty.

Thanks for the day,
Michael Bay.

But yo, I got one last thing:
fuck yo fake joy
I hate these
motherfucking movie-based toys.

People will admire, but they will not help.

                                           Don’t come then.

Keep your insecurities at home


Girl got me mad
that shit is bubonic
but tender lips and saliva
Man, that shit is my tonic
We got our legs over another
like Criss-Cross Apple Sauce
Held hands turn, verbal dukes
this fluke, she gave my heart a verbal pause
Love high,
Placid, I passed it
Gut dirt, throat hurt
chucking up stomach acid
Burnt up,
I give you all my residue
you came back
I see my life with you

My favorite song from Chance the Rapper’s Acid Rap album. The riff pulled straight from Brother’s Work it Out really plucks the heart strings.

The main catch for me in this beautiful piece is the language that practically lays itself out just for you to get habituated to. Love in this sad tale is just an addiction to empty affection like a line of coke. 

    Damn I’m in so deep
    Probably cause you’re empty

And the hook rolls right off the tongue:

    My druggy
    Love me
    When I’m ugly
    Hug me
    When I’m bummy, scummy
    I’m your hubby

That childish “y” sound at the end of each line makes these negative words sound so gentle—a contrast that makes the drab atmosphere of a house of druggies slumped on substances seem relaxingly compassionate.

What’s even better, Noname Gypsy completes this broken picture with a gift of its missing half—the side and thoughts of the female that fell into this pothole with her “lost” lover:

    I blessed myself inside your arms one day
    Swear to God there I was when the dress
    And the Silver buttons fade away
    Miss Mary Mattress, geriatrics
    Fuck me into open caskets, I wanna die with this
    I wanna stop seeing my psychiatrist
    She said “pill pop, baby girl cause I promise you, you tweaked
    The empty bottled loneliness, this happiness you seek”
    The masochism that you preach
    Practice back flips, tragic actress
    On a movie with no screen
   When the only time he loves me is naked in my dreams

This theme, this title of being “Lost" is definitely being lost in it all: an addiction to a mind and heart numbing drug, an on-and-off desire for affection in a wilted marriage, and being slammed in an utter deadlock of oppressive depression. 

These perfect cuts of diction and sound passes the slopped emotional wreck of a drug encased love to you like its your turn to take a line yourself. That’s when you’re pulled in and lost on a drawl that is the endorphin-drooping genius of Chance and Noname.

For me, Lost gets a 10 out of 10—Pure perfection from imperfection

(I can dismiss Chance’s voice because he claims that it is his artistic difference so he can stray away from literally “sounding” like his influential artists, a choice I respect and have actually grown to find pleasant to the ear.)

I can wash her body
I can run shampoo-lined finger tips
    between her hair


I can’t wash her face.
I can’t get my hands to align
              between dripping mascara lines
I can’t remove these black trails
               from her crying eyes

So I pour her her wash

because that’s all I can do

And I watch as she tries


to clear her blemishes
with hands that are not mine.

And she turns and asks me

    “Did I get it all?”

I can only respond with a simple

    "Yes" or "No"

Words to each their own double entendre 

And as she rinses herself
shes asks me if what she’s done is good enough,
    relying on my word
    to let her know she is beautiful
    to let her know that she is now clean
    to let her know she is now a blank slate
                            ripe for another day
                            to tear it all down again?

Who am I

to tell her when it is?