Pull Your Ears Back

“ me it’s putting an equal sign between the opressed and the oppressor; ‘it’s all the same’ and that’s why it’s so problematic. Because there is no equal sign between the defensive violence of the oppressed and the agressive violence of the oppressor. One has nothing to do with the other.”

Joyce Chediac

As the warring words in the 45 flipside of scratched Fuchxtique throat bomb once spoke; “got a wall at vic making taggz into music/aerosol as needles/strikes can become addictive/hittin bricks with wacks.”

Pull yuh ears back and come see where we left off….I once saw a guy on a bus once stab himself in the kneck. I guess it didn’t phase him none cuz he did it again 5 more times. He lived. Perminant nerve damage, though — lives life on a tilt. His name was Assassin. He had held his protest to demonstrate the loss of his son to his woman. His star’s name = Hakim.

Assassin considered his star a little blessing. You can’t get phet wrong. Hakim, he his likkle man. He is his special/special. Same as thought Løcel. For every person there is a driver and a witness. Assassin had hooked onto the meds they piled him with for the twisted pain of his tilt. His disability checks kinda wore him out cuz they felt he could, and he wanted to, but nadabody would hire him and his sad/sads made him mad/mean and so he grew farther from seeing his star cuz the wisdom said so — the ministry made it so, cuz they said so, and so his wisdom became their wifey and naw he felt he had no life.

So Assassin started walking around with a compressed copy of the New Testament in his breast pocket and took to watching feggits give head in parks to Gay Cop Bob.

He’d sit off on tree hump and crank some criz and yai till he spunked and cried at the thought of the possibility of feggitry and world gone crazy.

I wanna make you feel the pain that I experience.

Bus rides and suicide — attempted recovery and reviews for disability.

H8’s daddy had heart stoppage one day when he got into a shout off with a worker who had to take the loser cruiser cuz their car was in the shop. That was the same worker who had cut him off just after last xmas. He wanted to know where his star was. He wanted to let the mofo know that he had worked all his life. That he had pulled his welly fam through food banks at the St Vince de Paul and family shelters and worked at pizza joints and garages since he was 16… dealt with feggit cokeheads and wolves. He saw his lil cousin walk around in phat gear and a ball cap with a big “P” on it and a bitch by his side. He hear about him later got setup inna apt by two crackers who claimed to be scrappin over the betty and they clipt him in the head and lil cuz never woke up from a premamant daydream, woh. Assassin had been avoiding giving jobs {π} but had been working every job imaginable = ol buildings, tearin, painting, dry wallin, lifting rocks and slangin math, attending Aryan meetings, chompin on pain killers and chuggin cheap whiskey, pretending to be a str8 up cracker, in hopes for an everlasting handout in this new construction colonial + unskilled workers = the big product;

-Am i My slavERY, MUFFAFOOKCA?!!!. My struggle-


…and now he got a star of his own — a lil boy — he call him Hakim — Listen to Assassin’s heart sing;

Coo yah. Coo yah. Look there.

Hey yaeh

My lil boy he can jump

he can run/he can run

he can jump/he can run

he can run

he can jump

Coo yah. Coo yah

Hey yaeh


Watché la.

he can jump/he can run

he can run

Coo yah

My lil boy

Hey yaeh


he can jump

he can run

he can jump

he can run

he can jump

he can run

he can jump

he can run

he my lil one

…and they take him and call Asssassin lazy? Get a job? He a bum? Junkie fookcah? Get to work? Yuh friggin cock suckah? His striking of his days for his ismah.


So he had issues. …and this lil wigga at the food bank, day before last, was hassling him for 60¢ for a likkle fake point of uppertunity that he had alledged to have fronted him. He waited every lunch hour on the lawn inna ramble of garbage bags, sleeping bags and karate kicking prison toned grads who had made it from the juvi to the pensive state higher learning institutes — tummies as tight as a ripple chip practicing the fußball kicks — aiming their strikes at the street corner cams, they would knock out for the common wealth, while hoping to hook up or peddle their trade with a bwai pimp who went by the name of Jimmy the K. It was Jummy the K who walked around with a pimp cup, woht he got at a micky ds, which he had glued shellacked gummy bears, polished glass, bamma rubies and latino figurines he all got from the gumball machines at the mall.

…and it was Jimmy the K woht was giving Assassin hassles for the .60¢. Jimmy the K approached him as Assassin did his dance wave, bending his ankles side to sway, dipping his hands into his empty pockets for change that was long gone, since last xmas, and swept My tar with his peepers, and the edges of the sidewalk beneath him, for a dropped fatty butt to roll a slut with.


…and he said ‘where’s my money b@tch’ or something like that woht you’re suppose to say from a downloaded skit and he cackled something bout Assassin being a ‘rip off artist’ or something and Assassin said this and that and that he didn’t ‘owe him shit’ after sayin “woh” or something and questioned the entire integrity if the issue and the credibility of the dastardly wigger — which Jimmy the K feeled that he had to now defend, and all that street cred sitiation, which seemed a lot more important than what a media hooper would give a fookc about on any given channel or press.

So was it time to swang? a woh/woh? Woht time was it? was it time for a knuckle up? awo, wanna juggle, wigga? too early to handle your liquar?


b.u.t. nada, the chins kept their wiggle and the hands remained untransformed into knuckles and the crowd never really gathered and the street reverands never came out to settle. All woht got done was a crizkid, who use to be a sk8er, who made graf typos all over the downtown core, come running up to the Jimmy/Assassin with two triple “A” batteries in his hand and says;

-Don’t make me restrain you… Pphhzzzzt!-

which the horse throat bettys with broken pagers pointed and chuckled at that.

-I come get my shit tomorrow…you’re my fookcin bitch-

says Jimmy and stroles back to the garbage bag fortress under the tree and chats it up with bearded chick with a dick.

-WOh/WOh!!! Am I foockin Citizen!!!!!?-

The chase was to fly the bird to the mystery god. Woht’s the lesson of the day? Calculate. What does the math say of the bolts of energy to the ratio of the falling body subdued. The bus stopped and so did Assassin’s heart after the jakes came with the 8th 50,000ths’volt to the corpus = …and the coroners report read, “oh well”.

{8 cops} 〈 Heart stop x the 8th blast?

Do the math…hakim

Naw, H8 got his wisdom. He hears helali spit writs and he pounds his chests in unison…hussaynhussaynhussaynhussaynhussaynhussaynhussaynhussaynhussayn hussaynhussaynhussaynhussaynhussaynhussaynhussaynhussaynhussaynhus saynhussaynhussaynhussaynhussaynhussaynhussaynhussaynhussaynhussaynhussayn hussaynhussaynhussaynhussaynhussaynhussaynhussaynhussaynhussayn hussaynhussaynhussaynhussayn in his livingroom with his bruhs come to sit a spell for their culture; puts rings on his childrens fingers and love them like a commander to his offspring. He controls his collection of stars by working every job imaginable = ol buildings, tearin, building hizs, lifting rocks and slangin math, refurnishing outsides of white trash cycelpathic condos, new construction colonial + unskilled workers, the working poor, line the job, the devoted jazzies = woht’s the price of a ticket?!Ya! comeon homey, tell me.

H8 he’s gonna get 1.


Evacuation of nuff balling immoral flats empty with blood left on the ceiling. They gone shopping for bathtubs in Hillside – bigga/betta. Runnin. Missions woh/woh ? wohtever.

Even the one’s woht come from a an illdope plan. Bruthaman.

Commission a mission perhaps of cyclepathic collusions and Løcel and H8 wait inna ride peepin the arrival of More approaching. The potholes. Pallo was long gone, naw. H8 attempted to overstand his collusion with Løcel akward cousins akin to rugby and feggotry. Løcel, he still had his scrotes — cook and construction — pushing Indonesians and running game all over the city for cackheads on cane and dealing for coconut popstars who open up to him in phone calls from Norway trying to hook up with his homeboy’s roomie. She got dug out at a party when she was 14 on [e] when she her girlfriend split on her and

the dawgs had had a ride. Looky/looky another fookced up Barbie. Party/party. Golly/golly, Løcel still had his scrotes; otherwise H8 would not have given him a 2nd thought.

Woh Wiggy?



Woh the diff in this mix is phet view — yute//

Peacekeepers pictures and Somali kids on digi getting fucked

while they are stripped dead in angle lust, kid.

Beauty bubble butts with jelly on his back. Photos, posing and prizes. Draggin nagas along for cutting contest ride. A virtual lynch crew. Jumpin dick/phat lips basin the melody of the connection when they kissed. Service providers. Told us and sold us. Each one together on the riding plain. Stake it. Ill dope plans. Woht would uplift each one from schism to the jiz in the feelings. Virtual. Lyrical. Overstanding the collusion of commrads lonely/tourists/bosie/yänkee/workers and ministries/loopypimp gaurds and juvi/rough twinky/cavemen holocaustic mental killer tactricks/

Load up/laptops


Digital. Tracks laying. Tying chicas up and training. Gunpowder art work. Pop. Sculpt another whole. Whitebwais and buttons. the mystery of two champs. The emulation of shelf top negowphiles. Pulling on nobs and dials. Come put on and down in the load. A generation fearless and so dying. Roll the cam slowy. Wiggy. The fleshy with modified energy. How could this move them. See the slender of your maybe lover and groove the space twn the breathing with fever – for each other. A busted rubber or raw dealing jammer -- more fool the sucka

MILK and dIapAs

this is not a mic

A dolla

A dup

A giggle from a duppy

A dolla to 50.

50 to dolla

Fookcen up an element and mixture

Come holla

Says Løcel,

-Woht’s poppin More-

Says More,

-Nothin, just chillin-

Says Løcel,

-Ready to roll, ya-

H8, he kissed his teet and looked straight dead on… for every person… hit the stereo to bump a tune to make the window bounce like a betty getting spanked. Only a vision of of lips in mobility. H8 lived his life straight. His daddy, he only saw H8 on a tilt in his arms maybe twice a week after that and then nada. Beating human breathes into boxes to flexes and sonics, H8 thought the saw his daddy next to him once while pounding his chest, in crowd of bruhs, imaging ezra busting a flow with helali chanting songs of war for his children. B.u.t. he knew it was only a jinn phet he could wrestle for impersonating a memory of energy. Clearity. He stroked his faces and wiped the sweat. The deceptive. Fiddle with the dial yuh sets. Focus the flow through the mess of ecstatic static. He was gone. He was going to listen as Løcel told him of ways to do the rebellion/feed the chillum. Give life to the dawa. A swift calculation. For a father and all the fallen bruthas for all the young fathers. The stars and zoozoos in the kitchen. The addition. All in More; with H8, summed = compliance.

Says More,