Tyler Durden's blog: "Brass Knuckle Poets Society"

I wrote this in honor of my Fams... I wanted to put a piece together, written from my whole Team's perspectives, or voices, individually...

Much Love, Fella's...

 

Each1 Teach1 (Drow1):

All I need is one word - I'll flip it around,

poison you with my pen, and tag you while you're down.

Scar you with the scalpel: carve "Drow One" on your brow.

The Town laughs at you, now - no more smiles, and it hurts to frown,

crucial like thorns and crown; your master comes to mind, every time you

furrow your brow. 

Crimson shines in my honor, and drips trickle to the ground.

I’ll Teach Each One the power of the palindrome… phonetics and vowels,

Learn you how to bow - how does that sound?

You see me in the mirror - Make you catch your breath, like I covered

your mouth. 

No more up-side, tha's how it's goin' down - the Admiral on the prow. 

All my chieftains together, gathered around – scimitars to the center of

the Table, ready to row;

You pale in comparison to the prowess of the war hounds on the prowl:

Thrones pulled back, helmets take the place of the crowns, and hearts

pound as the war drums resound.

 

Ant The Rant:

I’m Armada – I’ll turn your glorious fleet into the dullest.  My ballast is

armored; war sales unfurled are the fullest. 

My brass Knuckle Wind has evolved quick. I’ll throw the Rubix Cube at

you, after I solve it. 

I see through the bullshit. It’s been my gift since semen in the cervix. 

20-15, I’m the sniper on the culprit.  I’m locked and loaded, search and

seizure when I serve spit. 

I’m the Reverend on the pulpit – I’ll scold you like a cold whip; you a

bold bitch.  I’ll reframe your thought process – redefine what you know

it’s…

A cold Cali life, and this kid is not sullen, handy wit’ the trigger,

aggravation instigates the pullin’…

Down to get gully, go goblin, make you gobble the bullets.  I could give

you gospel, or rip out your gullet.    

I’ll Rant at you, laugh at you… hand you a grenade, manipulate your

mind state, make you pinch the pin and pull it...

Sculpt you like Michaelangelo, or scalp your mullet,

Al Bundy you in some cement shoes, stuff you in the Subaru, and it’s

Laker’s to the fullest.

Crush you like an Ant, exterminate, extinguish… go Vercingetorix on the

Caesar – I’ll dominate your culture, I mean this… subvert you into

subservience, and prima nocte on your cleanest.

 

Archetype:

One man’s ceilin’ is a warrior’s floor; The Protoype, wingspan larger than

any that came before; Predator, The Griffin’ with talons galore.

My vision scans the basin, as I soar, I see my prey as vulnerable as a

baby mole. 

I drop into my death dive, there’s no need to roar – silent flying panther,

weapons extended, as they beg for gore.

I caress the cirrus, while these simps trick to whores; I’m the yin and

yang, in a world of world wars.

My mindstate’s like your grandfather’s predecess-or; I tax my core, my

spirit, my temple, elevate the weight, and beg for more.

The war hammer feels like a toy; an extension of myself, like the tusks

on a boar.

I’m a theologian: I could bless you, or meditate over your corpse.  I’m

the First Form – my style can’t be taught, sold, traded or told…

Inherently bold.  I was born and Hephaestus smashed the mold; I’m the

Archetype, and I’ll cave in your door, with my Brass Knuckle sword.

I abhor your soul, I throw bolts at you – no self-awareness equals no

remorse, when I dismantle your form.

You’re a parasite, a cold sore, viewed through the eyes of Thor – I could

deny knew you your weapon, as you die – no Valkyries arrive to escort

you to the Source..

Snatch the coins from your orbital bones, no fee for the Boatman, you

can’t cross the Ford.

You sit in ignorance, on Bliss’ plateau – no desire to ask why, or what

for… you couldn’t walk in my shoes – Hades is just too cold.

 S-A-double-V:

I write wit’ an orange pen – I dip it in blood and burn the tip, until it’s

smolderin’.

I flip my hat to the back, yeah the one wit’ the orange brim – I write a

sin, and then I write a prayer, commence to look into the future, like a

soothsayer.

I’m like Sun Tzu Kavorkian.  I’m colder than… the peaks of Mount

Olympus and older than… the Book of Life. 

I’m a Capricorn, which means I’ve lived more than twice… an old soul with

an urge to rise; ambidextrous with the knives – unorthodox, switches to

right.

A Savv wit’ refined canines and an urge to bite.  I could mentor you, or

ride like a rogue assassin in the night…

Ronin Samurai – convince you to commit seppuku, or take out your whole

crew;

You can see it in my Brass Knuckle Eyes – Aurora Borealis, or Blue Death

– you decide.

I’ve made all the styles mine; I strain my frame, and grind my Einstein

mind, supplement my temple wit’ protein and nitric oxide.

My aura rubs you the wrong way, you can feel it inside.  The war drum is

my heart beat, that’s why I grin when I fight.

I’m like Brian Boru: I make chaos unite… cloud your vision, and blight

your insight, scout out your whole pride and take advantage of your

team, like a rip-tide…

Disciple you and teach you how to ride, change your name from Saul to

Paul, and let you fight to die on my side.