I have recently realized that of all the music genres to listen to while writing tired, rap is the best. And of all rap, Biggie Smalls are Tupac Shakur are number one. And between Biggie and Tupac, Biggie is king. So, having realized this, at 7:30 in morning, two days ago, tired as a dick, I walked to the deec, set Ready to Die to repeat and buckled down for five hours of coffee-foggy work on my lit non-fiction portfolio, due that afternoon on the floor in front of my teacher's office.
For five full hours Biggie's voice pulsed in my head, throbbing like a heavy syruppy heartbeat. The continuous pounding beats matched with Biggie's thick muffled verses
marched relentlessly around my brain, leaving me lost in a cocktail of confused shifting moods directly linked to the disturbed and disjointed emotional architecture of the album. Biggie's personality, in all it's self-loathing, schizophrenic complexity, rung in my head for the rest of the day. And I got really into all the contradicting thoughts and feelings that had settled themselves in my mind and realized once again how amazing and weirdly complex this album is. In light of that, I decided to try to make a nice map of all it's parts. Here is what I came up with:Tech 9. Mach 10. .22's, .45, glocks, shotties.
Fuck bitches. Party. Fuck bitches. Girls are objects for my pleasure.
I'm going to kill everyone. Get more money.
Clothes, party, money, prostitutes.
Get high. Rob. Steal.
I love being a gangster, I love toting guns, I love fucking.
I hate myself. My mom hates me. I'm a piece of shit.
Girls all want me. Make love, make love.
I'm rich but I still pack gats and I'll kill anyone.
I have a big dick. I want a piece of steak. Get High get your dick sucked.
People want to rob me, I'll shoot them all, dog eat dog, dog eat dog.
My mom wishes she had a motherfucking abortion.
My mom is dying.
I hate my mom.
I love my mom.
I hate women.
I love women.
I love myself.
I hate myself.
I'm ready to die.
I deserve to die.
I hate this life.
I love this life.
Get high, fuck bitches.
Shoot them down. Get Money Get money.
Fuck heaven and fuck me.
I'll kill anyone.
I'm a piece of shit.
I'm ready to die.
I can't take the stress,
I'm ready to die.
I deserve to die.
I can't take it.
put your guns in the air.
2 comments:
they're making a movie about him, have you heard? you prolly read it in the new yorker already...anyway sick poem dude (that's what im gonna call it)
haha yo i was listening to that same album across the country while i was finishing my final portfolio! crazy!
Post a Comment