Eriatarka's blog: "Writings"

A jungle of concrete grows
throughout the thickest parts of the city,
where tenants of hip hop
find eviction notices
attached to their pumas.

The rent money is due
and we only have drumbeats to sell.

The record stops,
screeching against the blacktop
where a dancer drops to the floor.

His black band is strapped
around his forearm,
cutting the circulation
to his wax arteries,
as spray paint drips
from his wrists,
coating the concrete surface.

The verbal sedatives
spill out the sides
of his mouth
and fall face-first
onto a canvas of ink.

Beside him,
a poetic flow of footsteps
crackle like a strand of hair
caught in the wax's needle.

Track marks of track shoes
swipe across the floor
as ciphers echo
revolutionary chants
of supply and demand,
"And Yes Yes Y'all,
And Ya Don't Stop!"

This heroin of culture
is too good to resist.

But its scars surface
as it seems
the beat box martyrs
are losing their faith.

We found kamikaze pilots
bombing windmills
on the ground
and wrapped their bodies
in linoleum mats,
so their ascension
into heaven
would be thwarted
and channeled
toward a more convenient place.

Lyricists
laugh at the idea
and try to resist.

536 angle changes
in a three-minute song.
Like gas tanks on Empty-
V necks of rock stars.
Big houses and fast cars.

They're working their way
out of freedom
and into change.
Like the coins in your pockets,
picked with blind direction.

They're buying their way
out of freedom
and into chains.
Gold and Platinum
chains.
Strangling their necks.

It's an attack on the subconscious.

A battle verse
and a top rock
brings their caution
flares into full swing.

An elbow to the stomach;
An elbow to the hip;
An elbow to the knee;
Freeze.