the MC the producer this ecstasy, and this stupor the red sea and these blue words in pleasancy as in Vancouver reading the pages of Ovid in their critique of the way his lover holds him discreet, the egg conductor Fallopian meaning made, this soul embryonic nascent as the maker sedulous in his perfection of the poem—as you wish a babe decked in naphthol yellow the maker getting his raps all muddled the symposiarch descending in his spitfire spitting fire, firebombing Grub Street his desire an ironic puzzle piece carefully placed in the song as a puddle he steps upon in a boot halieutic fishing for bacterial truth in this splish splashing verbal kirschwasser withstanding the search of the birdwatcher who fell to Hell, that random black sea LOL, you can't capture me leaping careless over the parapet a flock caught and carried the critic over the dead names as St Thomas into desperation rasorial resisting the temptation to vomit over these essays of those horrible, the MC the producer this ecstasy, and this stupor the red sea and these blue words in pleasancy as in Vancouver using cannabis . . . or cocaine to neurotransmit this foreboding these black clouds so deliciously rapping aloud or surreptitiously going together after the truth, Old English feathers, Latinate plumes these winged flocking fairies in Spring forgotten, this airy breeze the wrinkled pond's hilarity skipping a stone over this weird rap deer tracks arguing for confusion leading Sherlock toward a seclusion niggling as the memory of fairyland giggling as the yeti, her furry hands holding the headless Holofernes a poet collecting a lot of Furbies the MC the producer this ecstasy, and this stupor the red sea and these blue words in pleasancy as in Vancouver

this black death in Low Latin this bad sex and romancin' so mad at this slow rappin' crashing his set holding a handgun you wanna joust with me, you Lou Reed? screw on the mouthpiece, a new reed . . . practising scales alone as they dance a pink trail of cold candy like hailstones in this fantasy maelstrom, as the blue ocean inherently wet j'ai perdu le do de ma clarinette as Franzen on Oprah baring his flesh as controlled as the hair on his head these corrections on his copy of The Corrections awkwardly the great American novel suspenseful— will that boy ever eat his vegetables? fencing against the temptation to hate tempting the Fates, & sentenced to eight years of forced labour in the Yukon hear this orange flavour of a new dawn as the maker moves his pawn surreal as the blue swans, groovy figures singing in the rain and moving as the Numidian crane the hybrid flying fish this mindless like the lips smiling with unkindness deriding kids with the simple fire in this style legit as the winter tires he gets, a fire lit, the dream behind his eyelids Dido the widow queen on the pyre lit inquire within for greenest limes delicious choiring sinners relieved to rise again dividing winter in pieces to survive it wild as the grin of a Jesus Christ within the mind thinner than a sheet of ice, the skin hiding the deepest sky akin to lies hidden as a freezing Leviathan hibernating as the dream in cryogenic style amazing as the really fly pimp violating our agreement, driving them wild, debating the meaning of science while awaiting the repeating rhyme pattern broken as the dreams behind his laughter a poet making meaning of idle chatter.

better than Logic Because he's better than logic collecting the plaudits in his dress pockets an idiot simpleton sewing words noisily into this diligent goldwork embroidery leaving a message before leaving town in speech unedited as your evening gown, ekphrastic of the gloom the dark entails, a basket (as the hoops of farthingales) hoop earrings, this circular logic better than logic because better than logic this bodice restrictive as the corset a prophet reading scripture for the form of it. Making his own alterations pages of a poem tall and courageous, a Day-Lewis, this phantom thread haunting the nudist laughing in bed better than Logic Because he's better than logic collecting the plaudits in his dress pockets as the cohort unbuttons his dress knowing war the cousin of death, that golden form, the muslin weft woven through the warp of his regress infinite, this primitive needlework. Livid as sinners in evil were sick with it, as grinning on his T-shirt this Christmas . . the film from Dreamworks advertising truth as the G string and A line, this moonman speaking who moonwalked as no human being before this date, perfumed with meaning vomiting his eau de toilette wafting as the souls of the dead better than Logic Because he's better than logic collecting the plaudits in his dress pockets in strophes valid as the weave he wore he goes back to the weed store stopping first perhaps for a manicure ignorant of his balance—he's that sure of himself sung as the red Versace dress well hung as the dead analyst posing for the Polaroid holding a parasol bucking rhyme conventions as Akai Solo posing in slashed sleeves blasphemy, bold as the black trees squiggly in the representation an elegant painting. Ever the pale king Socratic, he pesters, “Are you so sure?” zapping with zest avant garde their haute couture. better than logic Because he's better than logic collecting the plaudits in his dress pockets fashionable as the tunic torn too radical to ignore as you record this Too Short, as records of the Punic Wars he's perfect in a pink turtleneck— or even in a pink dirndl yet imperfect as the past he's lost as the wordless letters fastened to his frock mnemonic, as you learn your lesson dressed in dissent, his verbal peplum— better than Logic Because he's better than logic collecting the plaudits in his dress pockets

dividing the fascist family these bright as the lapis lazuli this Midas who raps with accuracy imbibing the cannabis Andrew seized I could smoke weed professionally despite my poetry propensity I'm only partly alone I'm lonely as Darby and Joan this John Donne held by Calypso the longrunning televised shitshow the sophist opening the sluice gate awash in this poem crudely made arise and strike the tam tam describing the plight of Caliban dividing the white hatchet man this shining knife in his black hand observed by these yellow as the scaramouch tap tap tapping in a red pair of shoes beside himself as the holy tract divided in twelve as the Zodiac his favourites were Matthew, Mark and Luke insane as an Andrew Mbaruk author of the simoom we penetrate under a moon green as everglades a sight to see as the blackbird lighting on the tree, as a flannel shirt ignites tall beliefs, inflammable words I'd like to speak to the manager or whoever it is prints this money whether it's Prince or Kid Cudi those little poems, little poets those shrill notes of a piccoloist twinkling in the nugatory night bling bling, this new form of vice ice, in truth more polite than Christ, this furor of the whites replaced as the great Chuck Berry replaced as the great Chuck Berry replaced as the great Chuck Berry replaced as the great Chuck Berry am I as black as Post Malone? throwing his axes close to home old as the magnet holding his phone old as the gravity towing this poem away from my truck tarrying this Chuck Berryman, this Post Malone lonesome tonight so alone wholesome and white his devotion to Rome slinging his one shot thrown, the stone. said David to Goliath. enraged as the giant I hated as life and death and the wavy lines of his breath garlic the lady flying on a red carpet the lady flying on a red carpet the lady flying on a red carpet the lady flying on a red carpet

holy night holy night so close to the sea tonight such an old, deep night we've got a lotta really really hard work to do I gotta rap for the UN headquarters hitch the unicorn my famulus get the new war crimes analyst dancing as the merry Douglas firs black as the berry, in other words a foggy gloom for these Vancouver Lights in God's Hebrew these Andrews were right walking nearer to truth than to wisdom in the mirror with quadruple vision polymorphous the understanding orange and delicious the sun crashing into the sea with a balladeer's violence strumming the guitar like a madman the white phantom the Icelandic one. still the strange black Canadian infiltrating Scandinavia in white-face as the mime in mimicry as letters to the sign's illiteracy these humans dance upon the planet doomed as chattel caught in Spanish or Portuguese, some foreign speech holy night holy night ghosts don't dream at night they've known the oldest deepest night

I'll rap some Byronic raps cultural appropriation of Byron's style terrible of versing, as Childe Harold Pouring his rum and fizzy liquid moribund the bitter critic under the words of a Mister Ilyich; alas, we must learn to live within it, his raps the fall of rain and birdshit— after all, their aim is perfect zapped by an alternating current raps involved in the shade of firs in the wind this approach to versing with no rehearsing it. This turban a ghost verbally, vivid in person this post-absurdity gift of myrrh and frankincense, and a golden Buddha strange and dense as no computer the taste of Gouda, this playful humorist making humour of his fateful Tuesday with nonchalance personified. We're talking an autumn of long knives the "useless" consigned to ghetto lives dude—why did you specialize in literature, a “useless” discipline because in the future truth is immanent in speech, this phono=textual . . . as the G is for homosexual was it for this, this SARS-CoV-2 this infinite art only we knew? until even the stars agleam knew these syllogisms and math equations ancient as Rothko's black paintings valued as white privilege— I refer to the artist's ideal in words as a heart in ice congealed. this cold blooded old dinosaur this soul brother stoned behind the boards the road under the golden sky, an orange literary orb, the poem I adore rising as the random verses fall upon the pages of black, urban sprawl travelled by one couch-surfing Paul who'd seen it all, the green and the tall the tree-tips of his gall, these disseminations . . . . . . . . of the imagination, random images as porcupines attacking critics with his pointed lines a man specific to these pointless times in that he wishes he could join minds in this metaversal public house a network for the lovers of doubt the scientists of religion, these zebras who fly in a glittery green dust denying the mission of Jesus till I give the system a free hug. I wander with raccoons under the stars softer than Andrew at one with his art the fragile permanence of an infinitesimal person within this little spectral infinity, a shimmering corner of the sea.

grapes wild as the pyromaniac surviving the hydroplane crash in a style white as coke and Ajax and smiling like I don't hate that in honest faith I'm a grey black God exchanging his Maybach harvesting the grapes of wrath this bubble bath in summertime plucking wrath from the vine I'm drunk this time for glossolalia the sun shining on genitalia extending as the rows of a vineyard reddening the rose in his picture and inventing the poet's elixir descending from the boat in a whisper wandering the coast in the moonlight not a single soul in human sight is this thing on am I doing this right probably not Your Old Droog on the mic lynx-eyed and lion-hearted this sculptor carving his head a bust of Macbeth the Scottish player the water he treads fraught with danger stingrays evil in his unconscious King Jay-Z sitting atop his knowledge, the life of the mind Beyoncé, his wife undermined making lemonade of limes painting in pen a page of pride. From the Vedic to the slave ship walked his dogged consciousness vomiting Eliotic verities in sundry languages the colours of money and the unheard muttering sea The death of Mbaruk and Mbarukism the cult’s evaporation in illiteracy The great instead a shameless red in dark indigo indignity In English clear as fingers tickle the ears those dark nipples these dark ripples unclear in the ink black oceanic mirror mirroring things back stringing facts together Trapped together in a formal sentence his letter to inform the peasants

lost as Abu Bakr the Second lost as Andrew in the fossil record this flagship christened Eric's trip sailing in these arid shifting sands of mirage, his careless glyphs cut in stone this veritable myth iconoclasts gather and slander my podcast for rappers, as Saturn to Sun Ra, these gravid bladders to an ungodly splash of water dashes and commas ebony black in the tract calling his melody flat a cat's collar the pledge we recant common as the century plant anti-paralysis cerebrospinal scratching his Devo vinyl hammering the marimba golden echoing in the wind favonian as confetti from flaming lips manspreading ungainly limbs these giants of the past below in iambs as the status quo useless to this Afro futurist, black as those tulips rather than moping morbific he'd rather try voting for the physicist religious in old forms literate spitting through the blowhorn at his critics undress the blue green earthly and step from the ledge into eternity cooling the reptile's heat as iced tea, this style in a time of peace the colonizer's psyche as psychiatry . . . investigates mindlessly this elegant plate of food for eight denarii peppermint taste, toothpaste artistry featherweights who'd paint Vasari dead as they plume the brave safari, guided by voices through the Serengeti pointless to those who barely get me spoiled souls, their liminal incisions cloistral their critical positions asexual as the radiation illuminating these stray fragments of the day's ancient grave cadence strange to the layman laywoman laypersonality disordered as the family this black Greek stethoscopic I'm Afrique, this French knowledge of the dark maples marking the table his elbows how one marvel among the Marvells rose atop the papacy the taste of free cyanide wide eyed the mouth of horror, their fear of words as we outpour our complex interiors evolved as silver mirrors an evil ghost as he unfolds his superficial with the neutered symbols and pitched it through the window as if the truth were simple

Lust in the pages of Flaubert . . . I want to stay in this nowhere . . . Pages of phrases annoying, his novel. Gaze through his ancient and Freudian monocle. This idler, his cider bubbling in the bottle. Exotic psychotic AWOL from the hospital. Following truth as the Fruit Loop toucan. Caught in a loop as the music of Sufjan and Schumann, their circle games, these Europeans, their murderous rage for order, love, and testy apartheid. Standing on guard for death, from far and wide, to fare as the soul fares in atheism. Escaping into Flaubert’s realism melting as senile minds into poetry; welcome to Freestyle Design and Upholstery, anacoluthon unsavoury in the free verse. Quarks and gluons crazy as the knee jerk rejection embedded in the text. See me work my medicine, an Edison/Tesla sea creature, catachresis and anacoluthon my weapons. But the ocean swallowed the proof of my invention. Lost in the pages of Flaubert, this hip hop tape in the cold air so rare . . . I want to stay in the snow where (no fair) I lost my way reading Flaubert . . . Fro hair growing from the soul bare. Afrological, this Poe-etic Baudelaire going there, the “lecteur” “hypocrite” complicating his Hegel through Hyppolite and Kojève, this Frisbee thrown ahead of golden death, as Disney’s frozen head. These unchanging thoughts arranged in a knot, this ugly grey fog that plays over the bog. Dreaming as the Dragon Rules Everything Around Me, the mounties riding through the town, these cowardly minds who drown in the sea of poetry scorpioid, these curvy points stonery, these early joints at 4:20 AM. Lost in the pages of Flaubert, this hip hop tape in the cold air so rare . . . I want to stay in this nowhere; no fair . . . I lost my way reading Flaubert . . .

In the shade of your leaves I mused oft. This crazy tree so confused and lost. Made to believe you’re the new Kant, chased by police over rooftops. This old name lost in sleep cokesplaining his cocaine odyssey. This CD the beautifullest as deep sea oozes, this music, these U of T students imprudent as the green leaves humourless. Launching his mind beyond the very zenith, lofty his idea shone there in secret random and formless as apples and oranges, the black hole’s origin, and the babble of the source, of his unalloyed hutzpah. The unemployed butcher for Good Burger turning from the book burners’ savage misconduct, and looking for cannabis products. Using the grass for glaucoma, these rooting for radical poetry, the cure for a shallow soul in these shallow times. These candles arise. These irony-fraught flagons of beer made shiny blobs of the chandeliers as the blind bard performs a prayer in Old English accentual metre. The cold penguins of never and neither showing the depth of the clever speaker, his opus red and bereft of evil, honourable as graffiti, the fall of old leaves through me, my poetry conical as the tipi, vortical, comical as Nietzsche, and floral. Stop to sniff these gynoecia wishful as the genie, sharp as the shears of love, incisive, her purple deconstruction of cognition. Dreamed words from sleep’s cousin muttering to his vernal green these eternal meanings, these external unseen things. Yeah— shout out to things in themselves; reach out, outside the blindfold; speak out, and shout the mind’s rhyme flow flickering amid the clouds as a kite amid things roundly enshrouding its delight. Despite the cloudy critic proudly specific, counting the dactyls. This careless precision.

Yeah . . . Notwithstanding Lacan’s mathemes, this flock of passerine gods blasphemes, ignorant of Hegel, quick over the meadow, liquid metal, subliminal-mental. My doves neglect the current fashion, in love with sex ‘til the terminus ad quem. Holy night, the dark hostess. Smoke from my pipe, this narcosis billowing, as the schooner sails. Middle fingers to the haters magnifying Satan’s fingerprints. Sanctified, his strange predicament— poetry, madame, the supreme fiction. Knowing Eve and Adam, their green division. Falling from grace, this rock in space evolving a taste for implausible tapes, a hip hop so dreamlike it begs the question. Is it for the children like YA fiction? Is it for the psychonauts while they’re trippin’ or the psychopomps, in divine intervention? Whether wild or elegant we’re rhyme-envenomed whether plying direct or defying intelligence confusing ofays and others alike with truths opaque as the blood of Christ. Yeah . . . In the blue sky, that man tuning his harp among the cumuli was Andrew Mbaruk, a human mind attracted to the dark where the truth lies, stabbed through the heart. This postmodern blade’s terrible glow as photons, waves, or the marriage of both, as yoked oxen dragging a carriage of hope through the cold autumn day’s hilarious joke. These rhymes convey the corpse through Chinatown, rhymes profound as the horseshoe shining loud, luckily—I’m a seasoned poet puffing weed, wine and beer in the cold of his fridge. This flying trapeze or golden bridge. Lyrical ballads—as Wordsworth and Coleridge this flow of tears from His eyes. As the ocean mirrors the sky, so the moment mirrors time connoting infinity. Yeah . . . As outside of time, God holds the key locking us inside this odd poetry.

Shout out to God, the infinite. And His God infinite. And His God, the infinite. And His God, the infinite. Gramercy! The world imperfectly before me in the rock opera in Portuguese with the sockdolager . . . Or stopping the show in Glascow, controversial, unnatural. Swantological words as Picasso. He’s not perfect, you’ll be glad to know. Tearing the charts of the astrologist, that bureaucratic Pontius, his megalosaurian silhouette. Navel orange and mildew red. Spewing his bricolage, the hornswoggler in queue for the triage, his forward posture— this human sea monster born with no father, as God the infinite. And His God, the infinite. And His God, the infinite. And His God infinite. And His God the infinite. And His God infinite. As His God, the infinite. And God’s God infinite. And that God’s God also infinite as His God, the infinite. And His God infinite. And His God the infinite ‘til the fog lifted—as the phallus with a little asterisk. “Nota bene . . .” These grogshop hieroglyphs provoking many to swallow Popeye’s spinach. So ready, the strongest mind in the west ready to rap as the blue whale, ready to rap his obtuse angle, ready to rap these confusing rainbows, ready to rap for the few makers who dig it. Those recalcitrant greasers spitting legit through the loudspeakers, these sound reasoners. His underhanded punchlines under the facts undefined. Plucking wrath from the vine. This bubble bath in summertime.

Driving his Lexus . . . Flying as Pegasus, the feminist . . . In rhyming text messages . . . So inviting, the deathly sepulchre. Amid the lightning, this heavy metal bird through an ivory gate, the universal master lying in state. So his iPad breaks, bleeding text messages, our triadic fates in threes as the heads of this Cerberus gnawing the perfect, murmurous, these flaws in his verbiage this bug in the beak of a blue finch this Sarah, the Hebrew prince S—standing for salamanders, sex, savage as the sax standard in a sentimental mood, these giant steps in his mind as he rests drunk on the blood of his enemies this huffy Henry sleepwalking or running on empty autopilot poetry. This death and decay and entropy his rejection of male supremacy, respecting the cave or cavity, the crest of a wave that's rapidly arising from Shakespeare's deconstruction. Shakespeare’s deconstruction the medusa's laughter, the grief of the husband. Driving his Lexus . . . Flying as Pegasus, the feminist . . . In rhyming text messages withstanding the blues in red revision. Gathering truth in repetition becoming becoming becoming becoming becoming becoming something under the sun deconstructing none other than cunning the lover of nothing, that lunar deceptor holding the sceptre as Vancouver letters devoted to pleasure. Golden his soul, and crystal his path, as posing in the chromolithograph melodious, euphoniously so-norous copious, his poetry the holiest of opiates . . the solo of the vocalist. This ornate cool man, the shape of rap to be. This Orphean blues, as the taste of candy. Pass the peas. I'm rapping on the beat as the MC on Vancouver streets driving his Lexus . . . Flying as Pegasus, the feminist . . . In rhyming text messages . . .

Crying a threnody slicing his enemy's primal levity in the mind running, these boots empty running for centuries vile synecdoches signifying nothing. Surviving these gownsmen agnostic alive in a 3000 pantoscopic. Afrological afrofuturism, black hospitals, black humourism neologistic, his phrases purple. Near perfect, his cadence vertical ascending in a byzantine sentence defending his nicotine dependence and self harm, the poem as a grindstone going hard, his poetic style of poem. The tricorn hat Napoleonic mimetic as the Homer logic. Crying a threnody slicing his enemy's primal levity in the mind running, these boots empty running for centuries vile synecdoches signifying nothing. Be proud of your simian ancestry, the sea turbid in Hindustani. Human in the window, the malady these hymnists and mystics, delicious amid the mist of business, the mystery a ship ridiculous amid the sea. Tripping as wolves in the moonlight simple as the wool in his toque white. A winter as full as the moon at night. The freedom to fool is a human right. To fool around rolling in ecstasy. These canine souls, their high melody Août, their august message to these human gods electrically styling speech in careful waves, a style as free and fair as Fate. To see the UFO dance across the sky. To be or not to philosophize. This Socrates grotesque in his desire to know reality in its purity rare. Crying a threnody slicing his enemy's primal levity in the mind running, these boots empty running for centuries vile synecdoches signifying nothing.

"The difficulty of meta-," said Sidney to Stella, "lives in these letters, and gives me pleasure." His critique of imagination in sixteen numbered stanzas tasting deliciously fun and black as the pavement. Auto-affection and masturbation as the phonocentrist in his composition holds the red brick and drops it into him, the cavernous. Professor-sapid, this university of meta-rap he spits projecting onto reality these images... The settler's stolen land's suspicious bliss... The brain is an imagist and syllogist skilled as the Clipse. You know, I also placed a jar in Tennessee. "The closer we gather around the phono=text, the holier this chatter sounds," the pope confessed. Perfect as the fall of dead leaves. A service as the pallbearers lead the personage into his long rest he needs. And as we bury the patriarch we so urgently, wordily make art as the Carpenters or Star Wars, displaying his heart for the heartless photographers.