Poems and Lyrics from Phnom Penh (Part 6)

To be honest, I am getting sick of all the sarcasm at my work place. Simple questions turn into arguments so quickly when my managers have been drinking too much the night before. I’m just waiting patiently for a position to become vacant at another school. I may even have an interview tomorrow. So this song, I guess is just letting all the anger go. Letting it all flow onto the page and out of my head. I also have good days with my managers. Sometimes they can crack a joke and we can all be ourselves. It’s not all awful but sometimes it can get corrosive. ---

#WHO WOULD DIE FOR YOU?
“I find it baffling.” Said my boss, to me the slave
“How did you survive? You can barely even behave.”
Hmm, His savage rage fits
My slave wages
Ravaged vain wit
An actor that don’t quite fit
Who knows who got hit?
Heart failure, rabbit hole
Lie down for a bit
I will keep owing all of you tricks
Ten percent tips
Suck on a clip
I will reload for the next lethal sip
Suck it and slip
Rot in the shit
Don’t bey for blood
Don’t contest hotly
I’ll reach over and end
All you nobodies
Tickets for a tasked hit
Ya’ll are born half wits
Sometimes prides is a hazard
Can’t be carved swift
You don’t like my style
Or cloud scarped habits
I formulate a dream then
With my claws I grab it
So who would die for you?
It begs the question
Forget all past suggestions
Bow and take confession
Who would die for ya?
Where they live at?
I prove a nasty point,
This is not your habitat
I don’t give a fuck if you like me/ah not
I cut frames from the stock
Slice ya veins and get you chopped
I’ll leave you shocked
And shucked at the dock down
At Old Clam Rock
Put you on a boat
In a box with a lock
Drop you off from the top
At the drop off spot
A thousand feet below
What beat you there?
Your feet and torso
It proves it’s who you know
Who you help and what they owe
Who would die for ya?
You got steady stats?
You got a Tapout shirt
What you packin now, Jack?
Who would die for ya?
Lets make it shorter
Who would snitch?
You first that’s for sure son
I can tell on your face
You’re a scared little bitch
I can tell in a twitch
I'll cut you deep to stitch

I think the key message in it is “Indica”. A song about physiological drug tolerance.

A STRONGER KIND OF LIMIT

Sanguine squeezed of juices
A tale of what’s left
The cave-in of the ceiling
The highest gate to chase some theft
You know me so well
Cut up drafted heaven crafted
You do it as I say it
Such strange permission when I can’t die at any rate
I may not make the night
But I feel alright when taking stock of things
I may just lose my sight
But I can fight the dark with gold, as a boy I grew too old
The things I’ve seen, you can’t imagine
I live the dream, I made it happen
Just a dumb dweeb
A rumored inbreed
An old boy curse
And whittled wit
Down to the penny
A day off sick
A hushed word
A fuck you too
A pork chop boss
His shame just grew
Head hollow
Heart of darkness
No respect
No power to harness
Nothings perfect and if it was I don’t deserve it
I just count myself lucky to observe it
The secret, Nah I haven’t heard it
You seem down guess that’s the verdict
Poison pen to paper, get down to raw nature
The human animal moving like a laser
Cut, copy, delete, truth like meat, stitched up a treat
“Aww, you’re sweet.”