Blicky to Blicky to Blicky
When the waters reached the shores, the shores chuckled
Cans on, tunes flowing, bodies encroached by bullets. That’s the story. Most of it, at least. The Crotalus sitting atop, pretty much my Medusa, has nothing to do with the attitude. Bang, bang, bang. It’s the thing these days among drillers and transferred Londoners.
Brooklynites masquerading as Kingdomers, only oceans away from the OG market. Hard to argue about the passion when mothers are involved, honored, painted in colorful lines opposite to the darkness that sits at the end of the line, in the underlying rhymes. Mothers that won’t recognize faces, that won’t serve an identifying purpose in acknowledging and spotting identities.
Three-hole balaclavas, not so drilled as the now paused bodies, forever, in the cold ground of these blocks, masks on, unloaded Glocks. The tones are far from tenor-like, more like bass-laden. Pretty bold statements when it comes to rhymes and lifestyles, yet that’s the Suburban way, I guess.
We gotta assume the lines just draw a picture, a fictional tale, a Hollywood-esque production of top-tier budget, and monster return on investment. Or so the charts say. And the courts, sadly, still deny. Who’s living in science fiction, then? Waterguns making plastic look as real as frozen metal, waterjets looking sharper than red-tinted lasers, wounded bodies in the place, and, make no mistake, leaking the true substance of life in buckets. No one is wrong at the end of the day, though the relationships to great extents.
The late Pop was smoked — rest in peace; news hurt as fuck. This ain’t no shitty diss. This was a murder. Murder, it was, strong as it sounds. North and south, east and west, this crap is everywhere. The fuel that keeps on giving. Imagination be fostered, stories be written, raps be talked.
I can watch Montana a million times and still fall short of words. I’m not even that good at it, I have to say, but that background wouldn’t be enough to help. Either way. Nothing like experiencing it to describe it, even on the slimmest of possible avenues there. But when rounds are discussed to pinpoint accuracy, there is something to it. Creative writing at its best, God bless.
Imagine living in perennial darkness, moving places in the black — in and out — teleporting in stealth mode, Tom Clancy’s heritage. Or say cheese. Up to you. Live long, or fest on the swiss cheese roll.
There is this thing when you watch a rather wild and weird and high-voltage film or read a stupidly vibrant and touchy and gory book that makes your brain melt. You never pictured those figures, you never got close to those thoughts. But once the match is light on fire, it just keeps on burning until it’s fully consumed. Hourglass on the table, not a long time, minimal effort. And shit keeps piling up. Case handed to the judge.
The homie Alan either stole the piñata vibes or brought them to the equation. I would lean toward the former, but my heart aligns with the latter. No joke, as the rubber band would be hyper-flexing. Māthā, Māthā, bust your piñata. A party vibe. Yikes. If I’m willing to concede, I have to go the full distance and picture that. Suburbans arriving in the middle of a hella dark night, beats booming, bass dropping, colorful piñata hanging from a tree. Take that for what you want, but rest assured it will be bashed open. Bashed open it will be, the piñata, I mean.
Rent cribs held parties, have kids’ fun. Never thought of that, but I can stop finding open doors now. This is no usual windows closing, holes opening. Nah. It’s way beyond it. False step, click. Wrong move, click. Aggressive motion, click. End of the story. But we’re here promoting peace, keeping hail at bay, that’s the Brooklyn way. Only, you know, you gotta respect the game.
Jeffrey Mark is 22 in name and just past that in age. 90s kid. BKN born and bred. Drill honcho since the last time the West lifted the O’B and the gold moved East — not that much to the right, though, staying in Buckeye Land. Stuff doesn’t get much more packed than zooming out from the cradle to Flatbush, Brooklyn, New York, United States, the World, and the Universe.
Can’t string many stronger lines than that one, if you ask me. So it’s reasonable and easy to enter 22Gz’s brain realm and to acknowledge his leading role and original pioneer proclamation, Sheff be damned. At the end of the day, when you get blatantly copied-not-imitated, you’ve already won.
Far from the first — shout-out Pac Man — and far from the hotbed — windy skies — this kid made his mark. Keeps on doing. The rock is way carved by now, and ain’t nobody denying that. The cap flew high, never came back. Bobby surely turned the flashlight on, though he didn’t point in any sound direction. Tutu bought himself an AXL, jumped into it, transformed the body, built a Suburban splitting in parts, and by twenty twenty-one he was the leading man — Pop allowing.
Charges dropped, acts banned. Vols. 1 & 2 in the books, broken piñatas on the sand.
